The peculiar humour of a friend, whom I lost some years ago, is the only one I recollect, which jumps precisely with the reasoning of the Chancellor of the Exchequer. My friend was an old Scottish laird, a bachelor and a humorist--wealthy, convivial, and hospitable, and of course having always plenty of company about him. He had a regular custom of swallowing every night in the world one of Dr. Anderson's pills, for which reasons may be readily imagined. But it is not so easy to account for his insisting on every one of his guests taking the same medicine, and whether it was by way of patronising the medicine, which is in some sense a national receipt, or whether the mischievous old wag amused himself with anticipating the scenes of delicate embarrassment, which the dispensation sometimes produced in the course of the night, I really cannot even guess. What is equally strange, he pressed the request with a sort of eloquence which succeeded with every guest. No man escaped, though there were few who did not make resistance. His powers of persuasion would have been invaluable to a minister of state. 'What! not one _Leetle Anderson_, to oblige your friend, your host, your entertainer! He had taken one himself--he would take another, if you pleased--surely what was good for his complaint must of course be beneficial to yours?' It was in vain you pleaded your being perfectly well,--your detesting the medicine,--your being certain it would not agree with you--none of the apologies were received as valid. You might be warm, pathetic or sulky, fretful or patient, grave or serious in testifying your repugnance, but you were equally a doomed man; escape was impossible. Your host was in his turn eloquent,--authoritative,--facetious, --argumentative,--precatory,--pathetic, above all, pertinacious. No guest was known to escape the _Leetle Anderson_. The last time I experienced the laird's hospitality there were present at the evening meal the following catalogue of guests:--a Bond-street dandy, of the most brilliant water, drawn thither by the temptation of grouse-shooting--a writer from the neighbouring borough (the lairds _doer_, I believe),--two country lairds, men of reserved and stiff habits--three sheep-farmers, as stiff-necked and stubborn as their own haltered rams--and I, Malachi Malagrowther, not facile or obvious to persuasion. There was also the Esculapius of the vicinity--one who gave, but elsewhere was never known to _take_ medicine. All succumbed--each took, after various degrees of resistance according to his peculiar fashion, his own _Leetle Anderson_. The doer took a brace. On the event I am silent. None had reason to congratulate himself on his complaisance. The laird has slept with his ancestors for some years, remembered sometimes with a smile on account of his humorous eccentricities, always with a sigh when his surviving friends and neighbours reflect on his kindliness and genuine beneficence. I have only to add that I hope he