the restoration received a large glass quaintly called a jeroboam. This, you do not doubt, they quaffed with solemn satisfaction in memory of the deceased. Pitcairne was far from “sound,” according to the standard of the time; he was deist or perhaps even atheist, it was opined, and one was as bad as the other, but he must have his joke at whatever price. At a sale of books a copy of Holy Writ could find no purchaser. “Was it not written,” sniggered Pitcairne, “_Verbum Deimanetin æternum_?” The crowd had Latin enough to see the point. There was a mighty pother, strong remarks were freely interchanged, an action for defamation was the result, but it was compromised. I tell elsewhere of a trick played by Pitcairne on the tryers. Dr. Black, of the police establishment, played one even more mischievous on Archibald Campbell, the city officer. Black had a shop in the High Street, the taxes on which were much in arrear, and the irascible Highlander threatened to seize his “cattinary (ipecacuanha) pottles.” Black connected the handle of his door with an electric battery and awaited developments. First came a clerk, who got nothing more than a good fright. He appeared before his master, who asked him what he meant by being “trunk like a peast” at that time of day? He set off for the doctor’s himself, but when he seized the door handle he received a shock that sent him reeling into the gutter. “Ah,” said one of the bystanders, who no doubt was in the secret, “you sometimes accuse me of liking a _glass_, but I think the doctor has given you a _tumbler_!” “No, sir,” cried Archie as soon as he had recovered his speech. “He shot me through the shoulder with a horse-pistol. I heard the report by —— Laddie, do you see any plood?” An attempt was made to communicate with the doctor next day through the clerk, but the latter promptly refused. “You and the doctor may paith go to the tevil; do you want me to be murdered, sir?”