After all, the most instructive views are Glasgow on a Saturday night and the same place (but so changed that you ask yourself, _Can_ it be the same?) on Sunday. At midnight on Saturday, Glasgow is roaring drunk and the neighbourhoods of the Trongate and the Central Station are veritable pandemoniums: but on Sunday those not thoughtful enough to have laid in a private store of alcoholic liquor must needs go thirsty, for Scotland is the land of rigorous Sunday closing. The only way to circumvent this barbarous observance is to arm one’s self with a prescription from a complaisant medical practitioner, indicating the following: Sp. Vini. Gall. oz. i Aqua Sodæ Effervesc. oz. iv Misce. Presented at any chemist’s, this results, strange to say, in a preparation not to be distinguished from what is sold on week-days across the public bars as “whiskey and soda.” It is along the Great Western Road, and in the park at Kelvingrove, that Sunday finds Glasgow at its best: for there you are in the residential districts, and the finest feathers are then assumed for church-parade. It is the picturesque made more picturesque by the stately group of the University buildings, erected between 1866 and 1870. [Sidenote: _GEORGE SQUARE_] Glasgow having the reputation of being the “best-governed city in Great Britain,” it behoves the stranger, if not to pry into its great tramways, gas and water and electric-lighting undertakings, and the like municipal activities, at least to see the civic centre of the place. This is George Square. A citizen of Glasgow—I think he was a Lord Provost, or at the very least of it a bailie—has written a history of George Square, from whose pages you may learn how (like Britain arising at Heaven’s command from the azure main) George Square came into being from some pitiful malebolge, at the august will of the city council. It is a story touched to great issues, and if it does not make my heart beat to a quicker rate, that is my own insufficiency.