CHAPTER XLI.
"Hillo, bantam!" exclaimed Mr Cupples, to Alec entering his garret
within an hour of his arrival in his old quarters, and finding the soul
of the librarian still hovering in the steam of his tumbler, like one
of Swedenborg's damned over the odour of his peculiar hell. As he spoke
he emptied the glass, the custom of drinking from which, instead of
from the tumbler itself--rendering it impossible to get drunk all at
once--is one of the atonements offered by the Scotch to their tutelar
god--Propriety.--"Come awa'. What are ye stan'in' there for, as gin ye
warna at hame," he added, seeing that Alec lingered on the threshold.
"Sit doon. I'm nae a'thegither sorry to see ye."
"Have you been to the country, Mr Cupples?" asked Alec, as he took a
chair.
"The country! Na, I haena been i' the country. I'm a toon-snail. The
country's for calves and geese. It's ower green for me. I like the gray
stanes--weel biggit, to haud oot the cauld. I jist reverse the opingon
o' the auld duke in Mr Shackspere;--for this my life
'Find trees in tongues, its running brooks in books,
Stones in sermons,---'
and I canna gang on ony farther wi' 't.
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