_Dr. Johnson._ Sir, you are right. Sir, I have here found the people so kind-hearted, the city so handsome, and the scenery so magnificent, that I confess it would give me infinite satisfaction were I able to call the town in which I was born the place (as the Highlanders have it) of my _Perth_! “A pun, sir!” exclaimed our excellent host, and I could not help noticing that he seemed greatly surprised. The Doctor made no reply, but I could see by the working of his countenance that he was suffering pain. We came to our journey’s end at Wick. “What do you think of this place, sir,” I asked. _Dr. Johnson._ Sir, I think that the title of “The Modern Athens” should be conferred upon Wick rather than upon Edinburgh. _Mr. Boswell._ Indeed, sir! May I ask why? [Illustration: Q. E. D. _Professor McPhairrson._ “No, Mrs. Brown, it’s not that we Scots are dull; but you English see a joke in _anything_! Why, the other day I was in a room with four Englishmen, one of whom told a story, and, would you believe it, I was the only man that didn’t laugh!”] _Dr. Johnson._ Why, sir? Sir, you must be very dull. I say, sir, that Wick should be called “The Modern Athens.” _Mr. Boswell._ I confess, sir, that I am dull, and yet I cannot perceive why Wick should be called “The Modern Athens” rather than Edinburgh. _Dr. Johnson._ Sir, you indeed must be dull if you do not associate Wick with the centre of _Greece_! I was silent for a few minutes, and then I ventured to make a remark. “Sir,” said I, “you once expressed a very strong opinion about pun-makers. Sir, you asserted your belief that a man who would make a pun would be capable of picking a pocket.” _Dr. Johnson._ Sir, I believe so still. _Mr. Boswell._ And yet, sir, during the course of our tour, you have made a large number of puns. _Dr. Johnson._ Sir, you have good grounds for what you assert. I admit, sir, with a feeling of sorrow, that I have made many puns during our tour. _Mr. Boswell._ Sir, may I venture to ask you why you have made so many puns? [Illustration: “DIRECTIONS” _Scottish Village Practitioner (to Northern Farmer)._ “Eff the Lunnon doacter”--(_his patient had been south to consult a great specialist_)--“’ll no allow ye whusky, an’ ye can tak’ nowt but reed wine, theer just twa ’ll dae ye ony guid--an’ ye’ll mind o’ them, for they’re baith monoseelawbic!--po-or-r-t an’ clair-r-t!!”] “Sir,” said Dr. Johnson, “the puns you have noticed are symptoms of a painful disease, known to men of letters as ‘the Silly Fever.’ I attribute the commencement of this melancholy malady to the depressing effects of a Scottish climate upon a Londoner in September!” * * * * *