THE FLOSHEND INN.

About the middle of the last century, and previous to it, the truly national trade of carrying the pack was, as doubtless many of our readers know, both much more general and respectable than it now is. It did not then, by any means, occupy the low place in the scale of traffic to which modern pride, and perhaps modern improvement, have reduced it. At the period to which we allude, those engaged in this trade were for the most part men of good substance and of unimpeachable character, trustworthy, and, in their humble sphere, highly respectable—circumstances which, doubtless, imparted to their calling the consideration which it then enjoyed. The reason lies on the surface: the trade was then both a more extensive and a more important one than it is now, and required a much greater capital; for there being then none of those rapid and commodious conveyances for transporting merchandise from place to place which are now everywhere to be met with, the greater part of this business was then done by the packmen, who combined the two characters of merchants and carriers; and in this double capacity supplied many of the shops of Edinburgh and Glasgow, and other large towns, with English manufactures. Those, therefore, who would conceive of the packman of old, an indifferently-clad and equivocal-looking fellow, with a wooden box on his back, containing his whole stock, would form a very erroneous idea of the peripatetic merchant. Their conception would not, in truth, represent the man at all. The packman of yore kept two or three horses, and these he loaded with his merchandise, to the value often of several thousand pounds; and thus he perambulated the country, passing between Scotland and England, conveying the goods of the one to the other; and thus maintaining the commercial intercourse of the two kingdoms.

About the year 1746, this trade had arrived at so great a height, that the high-road to England by Gretna Green was thronged with those engaged in it, going to and returning from the sister kingdom with their loaded ponies; and a merry and bustling time of it they kept at the Floshend Inn. This hostelry, now extinct, was long a favourite resort of these packmen, or pack-carriers, as they were more generally or more properly called. It was situated on the Scottish side of the Borders, near to Gretna Green, and was kept by a very civil and obliging person, of the luminous name of John Gas—a little, fat, good-humoured, landlord-looking body, with a countenance strongly expressive of his comfortable condition, having a capital business, and being very much at his ease, both in mind and body. His house was a favourite resort of the pack-carriers; and for good reasons. It was the last inn of any note on the Scottish side, and was, of consequence, the first they came to on re-entering their native country from their expeditions into England. The quarters, besides, were in themselves excellent; the accommodations were good, and the fare abundant, reasonable, and of the first quality—especially the liquor, that great sine qua non of good cheer. In addition to all this, John Gas himself was the very pink of landlords; humorous, kind, attentive, and obliging; possessing that valuable quality of being able to stand almost any given quantity of drink, which enabled him to distribute his presence and his company over any number of successive guests. Fresh as a bedewed daisy, and steady as a wave-beaten rock, he was always forthcoming, whatever might have been the amount of previous duty he had performed; and what might remain yet to do he always overtook, and executed with credit to himself, and satisfaction to his customers—no instance having been known of his having been placed hors de combat, either by ale-cup or brandy-bottle. With such claims on public patronage, it was no wonder that his house secured so large a share of the custom of the itinerant merchants of the time; who, so much did they appreciate the comforts of the Floshend Inn, and so much were they alive to the merits of its host, that they would not rest, foul or fair, dark or light, anywhere within ten miles of it. A dozen of them were thus frequently assembled together at the same time under the hospitable roof; and, being all known to each other, they formed, on such occasions, a merry corps—spending freely, and sitting down all together at the same table. A more amusing or more entertaining company could, perhaps, nowhere be found; for they were all shrewd, intelligent men—their profession and their wandering lives putting them in possession of a vast store of curious adventure and anecdote, and throwing many sights in their way which escape the local fixtures of the human race. Naturally of a gossiping turn—a propensity made particularly evident when they chanced to meet together in such a way as we have described—they were in the habit of amusing each other with narratives of what they had seen and heard that was strange, and enlivening the evening with merry tale and jest.

It was somewhere about the month of March, in the year 1750, that a knot of these worthies, consisting of seven or eight, was assembled in the cheerful kitchen of the Floshend Inn—an apartment they preferred for its superior comfort, its blazing fire, and its freedom from all restraint. Some of the guests present on this occasion were on their way to England; others had just returned from it, with packs of Manchester goods, and large bales of Kendal leather. These last, and all other descriptions of merchandise which his pack-carrier customers brought, were stowed in a large room in the inn, which the landlord had very judiciously and very properly appropriated for this purpose; while the horses that bore them were comfortably quartered in the commodious and well-ordered stables. They were seated on either side of the fire, with a small round table between them, on which stood a circle of glasses; in the centre, a smoking jug, whose contents may be readily guessed; and close by the table was the landlord, doing the honours of the occasion—that is, making the brandy-toddy, and filling the glasses of his guests. The master of ceremonies was in great glee, being precisely in his element, the situation of all others in which he most delighted—a bowl of good liquor before him, a set of merry good friends around him, and the prospect of a neat, snug reckoning in perspective. The conversation amongst the guests was general; but it might have been observed that one of the party had got the ear of the landlord, and was telling him, in an under-tone, some curious story; for the latter, with head inclined towards the facetious narrator, was chuckling and smirking at every turn of the humorous tale. At length a sudden roar of laughter at once announced its consummation, and attracted towards himself the general attention of the company.

"What's that, mine host?" was an inquiry put by three or four at once. "Something guid, I warrant; for that was a hearty ane." The speaker meant Mr Gas's laugh. "What was't?"

"It's a story," replied he, the tears still standing in his eyes, "that Andrew here has been tellin me, aboot the minister o' Kirkfodden and his servant lass—and a very guid ane it is. Andrew, will I tell it?" he added, turning round to the person who had told him the story.

"Surely, surely," replied Andrew; "let it gang to the general guid."

Aweel, freends (said mine host, now confronting his auditors), the minister o' Kirkfodden, ye maun ken, is, though a clergyman, a droll sort o' body, and very fond o' a curious story, and still fonder o' a guid joke—and no a whit the waur is he o' that; for he is a guid, worthy man, as I mysel ken. The minister had a servant lass they ca'd Jenny Waterstone—a young, guid-lookin, decent, active quean; and she had a sweetheart o' the name o' David Widrow—a neighbourin ploughman lad, a very decent chield in his way—wha used to come skulkin aboot the manse at nichts, to get a sicht and a word o' Jenny, withoot ony objection on the part o' the minister, wha believed it to be, as it really was, an honourable courtship on baith sides. Ae nicht, being later in his garden than usual—indeed, until it got pretty dark—the minister's attention was suddenly attracted by a loud whisperin on the ither side o' the garden wa', just opposite to where he stood. He listened a moment, and soon discovered that the whisperers were David Widrow and his servant, and overheard, as the nicht was uncommonly lown, the followin conversation between the lovin pair:—

"I fear, Jenny," said David, "that the minister winna be owre weel pleased to see me comin sae aften aboot the house."

"I dinna think he'll be ill pleased," replied Jenny. "He's no ane o' that kind."

"Still," said David, "I had better let the nicht fa', now and then, before I come; and then he'll no see me mair than four times a-week or sae. He canna count that bein very troublesome."

"Just as ye like, David," said she.

"But how am I to let ye ken I'm here?" inquired the lover.

"Ye can just gie a rap at the kitchen window, and I'll come oot to ye," replied the girl.

"Very weel," said David; "I'll come and rap at the back window the morn's nicht."

"Do sae," replied she; "and, if I canna get oot to ye at the moment, just step into the barn till I come. I'll leave the door open for ye."

This matter arranged, the lovers parted, little suspectin wha had overheard them; and the minister went into the house. On the followin evenin, a little after dark, the doctor, closely wrapped up in a plaid belongin to his servin-man, slipped oot, and, stealin up behind the house, till he cam to the kitchen window, gave the preconcerted signal, by gently tappin on it with his fingers. Jenny, who was employed at the moment in bottlin aff a sma' cask o' choice strong ale, for his ain particular use, immediately answered the ca', raised the window, and put oot her head.

"Is that you, David?" said she.

"Yes," said the minister, in a whisper so gentle as to prevent her recognisin his voice.

"I canna get to ye at present," said Jenny; "for I'm engaged bottlin some ale, and maun put it a' past before I gang oot; the minister's waitin till I tak it up the stair; but love maks clever hands, as they say, and I'll gie ye something to keep ye frae wearyin, in the meantime, till I come." Sayin this she handed him oot a bottle o' the ale, and a basket containin some cakes and cheese. "Now," said she, "tak thae awa to the barn wi' ye, David, and tak a bite and a sowp till I come." And she drew down the window, and resumed her work. The minister, without sayin a word, retired wi' his booty, and placed it in a dark corner at a little distance. In a short time he again returned to the window, and again rapped. The window was promptly thrown up, and Jenny's head thrust oot.

"Can ye gie's anither bottle, Jenny?" said the minister, speakin as low as before, and disguisin his voice as well as he could.

"Anither bottle, David!" exclaimed Jenny, in surprise. "Gude save us frae a' evil! hae ye finished a hail bottle already? My troth, that's clever wark! But I canna gie ye anither the nicht, David. It's a' put past. Besides, ye hae aneugh for ae nicht."

"Weel, weel," said the minister; "come oot as sune as ye can, Jenny." And he again slippit awa.

Thinkin, now, that he couldna carry the joke farther wi' safety, as there was great risk o' the real David appearin, the minister slippit into the house, threw aff his plaid, and went to a little back window that was immediately over the kitchen ane, from which he could, by a little cautious management, both see and overhear, unobserved, all that should pass between Jenny and her lover, when he came on the stage. Nor had he to wait long for this. In a few minutes after he had taken his station, he saw David come round the corner o' the house, and steal, wi' cautious steps, towards the kitchen-window. He rapped. The window was raised, but evidently wi' some impatience.

"Gude bless me, Davie! are ye there again already?" said Jenny, somewhat testily. "Dear me, man, can ye no hae patience a bit? I'll come to ye immediately." And, without waitin for ony answer, she again banged doun the window.

David was confounded at this treatment; but, as Jenny had gien him nae time to mak ony remark for her edification, he made ane or twa for his ain.

"Here again!" he said, mutterin to himself—"here already! Can I no hae patience!" Then, after a pause, "What does the woman mean? What can she mean?"

This was a question, however, which Jenny hersel only could explain; and for this explanation David had to wait wi' what patience he could conveniently spare. But he certainly hadna to tarry lang; for, in twa or three minutes after, a soft, low voice was heard sayin—

"Whar are ye, David?"

"Here," quoth David, in the same cautious voice.

"Dear me, man," said Jenny, "what was a' yer hurry? I'm sure ae rap at the window was as guid as twenty. Ye micht hae been sure I wad come to ye as sune as I could."

"Hurry, Jenny! What do ye mean? I was only ance at the window," replied David. "Ye surely canna ca' that impatience."

"Ye're fou, Davie; that's plain," said Jenny. "The bottle o' ale has gane to your head, and ye've forgotten. Nae wonder; it wasna sma' beer, I warrant ye, but real double stoot. Catch the minister drinkin onything else! Thae black-coats ken what's guid for them." And, without waitin for ony answer, she proceeded—"But whar hae ye left the basket, Davie? Is't in the barn?"

"Jenny," said David, now perfectly bewildered by all this, to him, wholly incomprehensible ravin, "ye say I'm fou; but, if I'm no greatly mistaen, ye're the fouest o' the twa." And he peered into her face, to see how far appearances would confirm his conjectures.

"Awa wi' ye, ye stupid gowk!" said Jenny, pushin him good-naturedly from her. "Ye're just as fou's the Baltic—that's plain. But tell me, man, whar ye put the basket; for it may be missed? I houp ye haena forgotten that tae?"

"Jenny," replied David, now somewhat mair sincerely, "will ye tell me at ance what ye mean? What bottles o' ale and baskets are ye speakin aboot?"

"Ha! ha! Like as ye dinna ken!" said Jenny, lookin archly, and giein her lover anither push. "That's a guid ane! To drink my ale, and eat my bread and cheese, and then deny it!"

I leave you, guid freends (said the narrator here), to conjecture what were David's feelins, and to conceive what were his looks, while Jenny was thus chargin him wi' ingratitude. I'll no attempt a description o' them. A' this time the minister was lookin owre his window, richt abune the lovers, and heard every word o' what they said; but he keepit quiet till the argument should come to a crisis. In the meantime the conversation between the lovers proceeded.

"Jenny," said David, in reply to her last remark, "ye're either daft or fou—and that's the end o't. Sae let us speak aboot something else if ye can."

"Do ye mean to say, David," replied Jenny—now getting somewhat serious too, and a little surprised, in her turn, at seein the perfect composure o' her lover, and the utter unconsciousness expressed on his countenance—"do ye mean to say that I didna gie ye a bottle o' ale and a basket o' bread and cheese oot o' the window there, aboot a quarter-o'-an-hour syne?"

"Never saw them, nor heard o' them," replied David, with great coolness.

"Ta! nonsense, man!" said Jenny, with impatient credulity. "And did ye no come and seek anither? and did ye no come three or four times to the window?"

"Naething o' the kind," replied David, briefly, but with the same calmness and composure as before. "I never got a bottle o' ale and a basket o' bread frae ye oot o' that window; I never sought anither frae ye; and I hae been only ance at that window this blessed nicht."

There was nae resistin belief to a disclaimer sae coolly, sae calmly, and sae pointedly made; and Jenny acknowledged this by immediately exclaimin, in the utmost dismay and alarm—

"Lord preserve me, then! wha was't that got them, and whar are they?"

Her queries were instantly answered.

"It was me that got them, Jenny; and they're owre in yon corner yonder," said the minister, in a loud whisper, and now thrustin his head oot o' the window.

Jenny looked up for an instant in horror, uttered a loud scream, and fled. David looked up, too, for a second, and then set after her as fast as he could birr; leavin the facetious, but worthy minister in convulsions o' laughter.

"And that, my freends," here said the merry landlord, "is the story o' the minister o' Kirkfodden and his servant lass, as tauld to me by my guid freend, Andrew, here"—laying his hand kindly on the shoulder of the person he alluded to. The narrator was rewarded for his story, or rather for his manner of telling it—for in this art he excelled—by a continued roar of laughter from his auditory. When this had subsided—

"Come now," he said, "put in yer glasses. The best story's no the waur o' a weetin. It looks as weel again through a glass o' toddy."

The invitation thus humorously given was at once obeyed. In a twinkling a circle of empty glasses, like a garde du corps, surrounded the bowl, and were soon replenished, with a dexterity and skill which long practice alone could have given the artist. His well-practised hand and arm skimmed the ponderous vessel as lightly over the glasses as if it had been a cream-pot; filling each of the latter as it went along to exactly the same height—not a drop in or over—with a precision that was truly beautiful to behold.

The glasses, which had thus been scientifically filled, having been again emptied, the landlord suddenly fixed his look on another of his guests, who was sitting up in one of the furthest corners, by the fireside, and to whom his attention had been directed, by observing him musing and smiling at intervals, as if tickled by the suggestions of his imagination. He rightly took them for symptoms of a story, and acted upon this impression.

"James," he said, addressing the person alluded to, who was at the moment gazing abstractedly on the fire, "if I'm no mistaen, ye hae something to tell that micht amuse us. Ye're lookin like it, at ony rate, if that smirk at the corner o' yer mouth has ony intelligence in't."

James turned round, and, with a smile that was gradually acquiring breadth, said that he was "thinkin aboot Tam Brodie and the kirn."

"I was sure o't," exclaimed the landlord, triumphantly. "What aboot Tam and the kirn, James?"

"There's little in't," replied the other; "but I'll tell it for the guid o' the company." And he immediately went on:—I daresay the maist o' ye here ken Tam Brodie o' the Broomhouse; and them that dinna may now learn that he's a sma' farmer, as weel as unco sma' man, in a certain part o' Annandale. He is in but very indifferent circumstances, and has, on the whole, a sair struggle wi' the warld; but this is no to hinder him, as how should it, frae haein a maist extraordinar fondness for cream; but it ought to hinder him frae takin every opportunity, which he does, o' his wife's bein oot o' the way, to steal frae his ain kirn, to the serious detriment o' his ain interest. His wife entertains the same opinion; for she's obliged to watch him like a cat; and, when she does catch him at the forbidden vessel, or discovers that it has been there—which she often does, by the ring about his mouth, when she has come so suddenly on him as no to gie him time to remove the evidence—she does pepper him sweetly wi' the first thing that comes to her haun; for she's a trimmer, though a weel-behaved, hard-workin woman. A' her watchfuness, however, and a' the wappins she could gie her husband, could neither cure him o' his propensity, nor prevent him indulgin it whenever he thought he could do it without bein detected.

It happened ae day, that Mrs Brodie had some errand to a neighbourin farmhouse, which she behoved to execute personally. Having dressed hersel a little better than ordinary for this purpose, she cam to her husband, who was at the moment delvin in the kail-yard behind the house, told him where she was gaun, and desired him to look after the weans till her return. This task, Tam, of course, readily undertook, and continued to delve awa as composedly as if his wife's proposed absence had suggested nae ither idea to him. He, in short, looked as innocent of a sinister purpose as a man could do; although at that very moment the cunnin little rascal's mind was fu' o' the idea o' makin a dive at the kirn, the moment the wife's back was turned. And he soon made these evil intentions manifest aneugh. While his wife was speakin to him, leavin the bairns in his charge, Tam never raised his head, but continued delvin awa wi' great assiduity. He was, in fact, afraid to lift his head, for fear that his wife should discover his joy on his countenance, and tak some means o' bafflin his designs. Although, however, he didna raise his head while she was speakin to him, he did it the instant she left him. While continuin bent as if in the act o' workin, he looked after her till she disappeared down a brae, at the distance o' aboot a hundred yards, when he stood erect, stuck his spade in the ground, and went wi' deliberate step into the hoose. This deliberation, however, did not proceed so much from a consciousness o' security, as to prevent excitin suspicion o' his ain weans, whom he did not wish to trust wi' the secret o' his intended depredations on the kirn, for fear they should tell their mother, as, had they known it, they certainly would—perhaps not deliberately, but they would blab it. This risk, therefore, he resolved not to run. On enterin the kitchen whar the weans war, to the number o' three or four—

"What keeps ye a' in the hoose sic a nice bonny day as this?" said he; "awa and play yersels in the yard for a wee; and, as I'm wearied, and gaun to rest mysel, ye can come and tell me whan ye see yer mither comin. Ye can see her, ye ken, frae the tap o' the yard a lang way aff. Now," he said, addressin the last o' the urchins, as they scampered oot, in obedience to their father's commands—"now mind, and let me ken the moment your mither comes in sicht." The boy promised, and rushed out after his brothers and sisters. The coast was now clear; Tam's progress thus far was triumphant. He had never had before sae fair a field for operations, and he felt a' the satisfaction that his happy situation was capable o' affordin.

Havin got the weans oot, he advanced to the door, shut it, and, to prevent any unseasonable intrusion, locked it—at least he thocht he had done so, but the bolt had missed. Unaware o' this circumstance, he proceeded to his operations wi' a feelin o' perfect security. Havin gone into the room where the kirn was, he lifted the large stone by which the lid was kept down, and placed it on the floor. This done, he lifted the lid itsel, and next the clean white cloth which is usually thrown first on the mouth o' the vessel. These a' removed, the glorious substance appeared—thick, rich, and yellow. The glutton gazed on it a moment with a rapturous eye; but there was no time to be lost. He had provided himsel wi' a small tin jug. This he now dipped into the delicious semi-fluid mass, raised it to his lips, and quaffed it aff as fast as its consistency would admit. Again he dipped and again he swilled; and to make everything as comfortable as possible, he next drew a chair to the kirn, sat down on it, stretched out his legs, and in this luxurious and deliberate attitude proceeded wi' his debauch. While in the act o' pourin down his throat the fifth or sixth jug, wi' his head thrown back, his eye—though half closed, from an overpowerin sense o' enjoyment—caught a glimpse o' a castle o' cakes and a plate filled wi' rolls o' fresh butter, that stood on the upper shelf o' a cupboard fastened high upon the wa' in ane o' the corners o' the apartment. The sight was temptin; for he felt at that moment somewhat hungry, and he thocht, besides, the cakes and butter would eat delightfully wi' the cream—and there is little doot they would. Filled wi' this new idea, he rose frae his chair and approached the cupboard wi' the intention o' sackin it; but it was owre high for him. (He was a very little man.) This, however, he was perfectly aware o'. So he took a stool in his hand, placed it, and mounted; but was still several inches from the mark. Findin this, he descended, put anither stool on the top o' the first, and, on again mountin, found himself just barely within reach o' the prize. By seizin, however, a fast hold o' ane o' the shelves o' the cupboard by one hand, he found he could raise himsel up sufficiently high to accomplish the purposed robbery wi' the ither. Discoverin this, he grasped the shelf, and was just in the act o' raisin himsel up by its means, when the stool on which he was standin (he had stood owre near the end o't) suddenly canted up, and left him suspended to the cupboard shelf; for he held on like grim death, kickin and spurrin awa in a vain attempt to recover his footin. This was a state o' things that couldna continue lang; either he must come doun himsel, or the cupboard must come doun alang wi' him—and the latter was the upshot. Doun cam the cupboard; wi' everything that was in it—and it was filled wi' cheeny and crystal—smash on the floor wi' a dreadfu crash, and Tam below it. There wasna a hail glass, cup, or plate left; and the rows o' butter were rollin in a' directions through the floor. Here was a pretty business; and the puir culprit knew it. Cantin awa the cupboard frae aboon him, he slowly rose (for he was not at all much hurt) to his feet, infinitely mair distressed wi' fear for his wife's vengeance than wi' regret for his ain loss. At this instant—that is, just as he had gained his feet, and was lookin ruefully doun on the wreck he had occasioned—ane o' his bairns cam runnin to the door, and bawled out the delightfu intelligence—

"Faither, my mother's comin!"

The horrible announcement roused him from his reverie, and instantly put him on the alert. He had presence o' mind aneugh left to recollect that the cupboard wasna a' he had to answer for. There was the kirn, which, in its present denuded state, told an ugly tale. He flew to remedy this. He snatched up the towel, spread it over the mouth o't, lifted the huge stone with which all had been secured, dashed it down—on what? on the lid? No, in his hurry and confusion he forgot the lid;—on the towel—and doun went towel and stone into the kirn, and the latter with such force as fairly knocked out the bottom, and sent the whole contents streamin owre the floor. At this particularly felicitous moment, his wife entered the outer door, when the first thing she met was the colly dog wi' a row o' the fresh butter in his mouth. In ordinary circumstances, this wad hae been a provokin aneugh sicht to her, but a glimpse at the same instant o' the dreadfu ruin within made it appear but a sma' matter indeed. On enterin on the scene o' devastation, she fand the culprit standin almost senseless and speechless wi' terror and horror, and every other stupifyin feelin that can be named, in the middle o' the ruins he had created, and up to the shoe-mouth in cream.

"An awfu business this, Maggy," he said, in a sepulchral voice. It was a' he got leave to say; for, in the next moment, he was felled wi' the stroke o' a besom; and when he resumed his feet, which he did almost instantly, he took to his heels, and didna venture hame again till wife and weans were a' lang in their beds. Tam ne'er touched the kirn after this.

"And here," said the narrator, "ends my story o' Tam Brodie and the kirn."

"And a very guid ane it is," rejoined the landlord, taking off a cold half-glass of punch that stood before him. "I ken Tam o' the Broomhouse as weel as I ken ony ane here, and it's just as like him as can be. William," added mine host, now turning and addressing another member of the company—a quiet, mild-looking man, whom one could not, à priori, have suspected of being a joker—"that's nearly as guid a ane as the Blue Bonnet. Do ye mind that story? William shook his head and smiled.

"I mind it weel aneugh," he replied; "but it was rather a serious affair—at least it micht hae been sae—and I'm no fond o' recollectin 't."

"Nonsense, man; nae harm cam o't," said the other; "and it was harmlessly meant."

"But it micht hae been a bad business," said William.

"But it wasna," said mine host; "and, as I dinna believe there's ane here that ever heard the story, I wish ye wad let me tell it."

"It's no worth tellin," said the other.

"I'll tak my chance o' that," replied the landlord; "if it's counted worthless, I'll tak the wyte o't. Do ye gie me leave?"

"A wilfu man maun hae his ain way—do as you like," rejoined William Brydon, affectin a chariness he did not altogether feel.

Thus regularly licensed, the narrator began:—

About twa or three years syne, there used to come about this house o' mine a wee bit whupper-snapper body o' an English bagman. An impudent, upsettin brat he was, although no muckle higher than that table. The favourite theme o' this wee ill-tongued rascal—for he had a vile ane—was abusin Scotland, and a' that war in't, for a parcel o' sneakin, hungry, beggarly loons. This was his constant talk wherever he was, and whaever he micht be amang. I didna mind him mysel; for the cratur wasna a bad customer, and he was, besides, such a wretched-lookin body—I mean as to size and figure, for he was aye weel aneugh put on—that puttin a haun to him was oot o' the question. Ye couldna hae blawn upon him, but ye wad hae been in for murder, or culpable homicide at the very least. But, although I keepit a calm sough wi' him, and didna mind his abusive jabberin, it wasna sae wi' everybody; and there was nane bore it waur than oor freend William Brydon here, wha aften forgathered wi' him in this hoose. William couldna endure the cratur, and mony a sair wrangle they had wi' the tongue; but the Englishman's was by far the glibber, though William's was the weightier. It chanced that William and the little gabby Englishman met here, both on their way to England, ae day sune after the execution o' the rebels in Carlisle—a time whan the Scots, as ye a' dootless ken, war in unco bad odour throughoot a' England, and especially in Carlisle, whar the feelin ran sae high that no person wearin ony piece o' dress which smelt in the least o' Scotland was safe in the streets. And wha was sae vindictive against the rascally rebels, as he ca'ed them, as our wee bagman? "Headin and hangin's owre guid for the villains," he wad say. "They should be roasted before a slow fire, like sae mony shouthers o' mutton." Oh, he had a bitter spite at them! It was aboot this time, as I said, that he and our freend here met in my hoose—and, as usual, they had a tremendous yokin; but it was, on this occasion, a' aboot the rebels; for this was the thing uppermost in the wee bagman's mind at the time. It was a grand catch for him, and he made the maist o't. In short, a' his abuse now took this particular direction.

Notwithstandin William and the bagman's constant quarrellin, and their mutual dislike o' each ither, they aye drank thegither whan they met, and whiles took guid scours o't, and lang sederunts; but it wasna for love, ye'll readily believe, they sat thegither: na, na, it was for the purpose o' gettin a guid worryin at ane anither; so that they may be said to hae sought each ither's company oot o' a kind o' lovin hatred to ane anither. In the afternoon o' which I'm speakin, the twa, as usual, drank and quarrelled; but I was surprised to find, towards the end o' their sederunt, that oor freend here, instead o' gettin angrier, as he used to do, as the contest drew towards a close, grew aye the calmer; and, what astonished me still mair, suddenly showed a strong disposition to curry favour wi' his antagonist, and actually so far succeeded, by dint o' soothin words, as to induce the bagman to extend the hand o' friendship and good-fellowship to him—swearin that William was, after all, a devilish good fellow, for a Scotchman. The bagman, however, was by this time pretty weel on by the head; and this micht hae had some share in producin this new-born kindness for the Scotchman. However this may be, being both anxious to get on to Carlisle that nicht, they agreed—such good freends had they thus suddenly become—to travel together. This settled, their horses were brought to the door. William's packs had been sent on before, and he had hired ane o' my horses to carry him unto Carlisle. Just as they were gaun oot the passage there, to the door to mount, William hings back a bit, lettin the bagman gang on before him, and whispers into my ear—

"I'll play that pockpuddin a pliskie yet. Hae ye such a thing as an auld broad bonnet aboot ye, that ye could lend me?"

Little dreamin what he was gaun to do with it, I replied I had; and runnin into the kitchen here, I took down frae a nail, ane that I used to wear when gaun aboot the garden, and gae it to him. William took it, rowed it up, and thrust it in his pocket, without sayin a word, and, in three minutes after, the twa war aff.

On arrivin within aboot a mile o' Carlisle, Willie proposed to the bagman that they should go into a public-house that was on the roadside, and hae something before they entered the toon, as they required to part a wee on this side o't—William having, he said, some sma' business to do aff the road. To this proposal the Englishman readily agreed, and in they gaed, leavin their horses at the door. Here William plied the bagman—nothing loth, for he was a drucken wee rascal—wi' brandy till he began to wink, and no to be perfectly certain which end o' him was uppermost. Havin reduced him to this condition, his freend proposed that they should be movin, when they both got up for that purpose.

"Where's my 'at?" said the bagman, turnin round to look for the article he named.

"Here it's, man," said William, comin behind him, and clappin the bonnet on his head.

"Thank you, freend!" replied the bagman, generously believin that, as he felt something put upon his head, it must be his hat; and thus theekit, he walked to the door, and mounted his horse, as grave and composed as if a' was richt, and rode aff wi' William alangside o' him. They hadna ridden far, however, when his friend, for obvious reasons, desirous o' bein quit o' his companion, said he was sorry that they maun now part, he requirin, as he told him before, to turn aff the road a bit. On this they shook hands and parted. The bagman hadna proceeded far wi' the notorious badge o' Scotland—the broad blue bonnet—on his head, till he found himsel, he could not conceive how, an object of marked attention to a' the passers-by. At length, as he approached the town, this attention became gradually more and more alarmin, and began at the same time to be accompanied by such symptoms as plainly evinced that it was not o' a pleasant character.

Popular notice, the bagman very weel saw, he had attained by some means or other; but he also saw as weel that this by no means meant popular admiration; for in every face that was turned towards him there was an angry scowl. Amazed and confounded at bein thus so strangely and disagreeably marked, the poor little Englishman looked first at his legs, and then at his horse, leanin forward for this purpose, and then examined his own outer man all over, to see if he could discern onything wrang wi' either, that micht account for his sudden elevation in the public mind; but he found nothing—a' was richt, and the little bagman was more perplexed than ever. He rode on, however—as what else could he do?—and at length entered the town. Here the general attention became still more strikingly marked: people stood on the streets and stared broadly at him; and, when he had passed, looked after him, and shook their heads. At length matters came to a crisis. This approached by occasional cries of "Doun wi' the rebel!" "Doun wi' the Scottish cut-throat!" "Hang the robber!" "Head him! head him!" If confounded before, the little bagman was now ten times more so. These terms could never apply to him, and yet they were most palpably directed to him. What on earth could it mean? To be taken, too, for a character which of all others he most abhorred. It was unaccountable—most extraordinary. In the meantime, both the cries and the crowd increased, till the latter at length fairly surrounded the little bagman and his horse, and peremptorily arrested his progress, still shoutin, but with greater ferocity, "Doun wi' the rebel!"

"Good people," said the perplexed and terrified cratur, "what do you mean? Hear me for a moment. I'm no rebel. I detest them as much as you can do. I am an Englishman—a born Englishman."

"Yes, when it suits your purpose, ye cowardly Scottish dog!" exclaimed one of the crowd, advancin towards him, and seizin him by a leg.

"We know you too well by your head-mark," said a second, bustlin forward to hae a share in forcibly dismounting the wee bagman; a measure which was now evidently contemplated, if not determined on, by the crowd.

"Yes, yes!" shouted a third, "he has the mark o' the beast on him. Doun wi' him! doun wi' him! He can't deny the blue bonnet. Doun wi' it, and the head that's in it!" Seein all eyes at this moment directed to that part o' his person where a hat should have been, the wee bagman instinctively clapped his hand on his head. It felt strange! There was no superstructure—all was bare and flat. He pulled aff the mysterious coverin, and beheld with horror and amazement a large, broad, Scottish blue bonnet, the size o' a cart wheel, with a red knob, like an overgrown cherry, in the centre o't.

"Ay, where got ye that? where got ye that?" exclaimed some one frae the crowd. But, though the question was put, no answer was permitted to the questioned. In the next instant he was on his back on the street, kickin and strugglin amongst the feet o' his assailants, who applied the latter to all parts o' his person wi' a rapidity and vigour o' execution that threatened, and certainly would hae extinguished, the wee life o' him, if he hadna been rescued a trifle on this side o't by a guard o' sodgers, whom the alarm had brought to the spot.

Battered, bruised, speechless, and his face streamin wi' blood, the unfortunate bit bagman was now conveyed to the guard-house, and from thence, after he had somewhat recovered, to prison, under the same suspicion which had procured him such rough treatment from the mob. So that, to appearance, as they werena very nice in thae times, he was saved frae a violent death only to be subjected to anither; frae bein kicked into the ither warld to be hanged; and o' this opinion the wee bagman was himsel for some time, for the authorities o' Carlisle war at that period excessively loyal, and wadna cared muckle to hae hanged him on chance. As it was, however, he was kept in jail for a week, when his innocence havin been so clearly established that the most loyal o' his judges couldna deny it, he was set at liberty—though wi' a grudge, for they wad still fain hae hanged him—and a caution never to wear a blue bonnet in Carlisle again.

"The wee bagman," added the landlord, "has never come this way since, and I fancy now never will. Come, freends," continued he, "shute in your glasses—the drink's gettin cauld; and," he said, edging the mouth of the bowl slopingly towards him, so as to afford him a view of its contents, "there's a gey drap in't yet." Then, with that forethought which was a very remarkable and praiseworthy trait in his character—"Betty," he cried out to a servant girl, "keep the kettle boilin."

His call for the glasses of his friends being promptly obeyed, they were as promptly re-filled, and it is but doing justice to the honest men assembled on this occasion to state, were as speedily emptied again. This done—

"Mr Gas," said Walter Gibson, one of the most extensive traders and most respectable men in the company—"Mr Gas," he said—for they all addressed him as their chairman—"these are a' queer aneugh stories in their way that hae been tell't the nicht; but I'm no sure if there's ony o' them better than the story o' Sandy M'Gill and his mither."

The landlord cocked his ears. "And what story's that, Watty?" he said. "I never heard it."

"It's no the waur o' that, however," said Watty, dryly.

"No a grain," replied the other, with one of his good-natured laughs; "but let us judge for oursels."

"I'll do that," quoth Walter; and he immediately began:—"Twa or three years ago, as ye a' ken, Lord Drumlanrig, son o' the Duke o' Queensberry, raised a regiment for what was ca'ed the Holland service. His lordship's headquarters durin the recruitin for the corps was Dumfries, where he used to beat up on the market days. Amongst those who were enlisted on ane o' thae occasions was a young lad o' the name o' Sandy M'Gill—a joiner to trade. Sandy was a handsome, good-lookin young man—very smart and clever, and possessed o' a good education; that is, he wrote and figured weel.

On the regiment being completed, it was embodied at Dunse, and then drilled for some time. It was then marched to Leith, Sandy M'Gill and a', where it was to be embarked for Amsterdam. Two days after the regiment had left Dunse, Lord Drumlanrig, mounted on horseback, and attended by a servant, also mounted, set out from Dumfries, to join his regiment at Leith, whence he meant to sail wi' it for Holland. On approachin the Nether Mill, his lordship was recognised, while yet at some distance, by an auld blacksmith o' the name o' William Thamson.

"There," said he to a bit lively, hardy-lookin auld wifie—it was Widow M'Gill—"there's Lord Drumlanrig comin forrit."

"Is that him?" quoth the auld wife; "feth and I maun speak to him then! He's taen awa my puir Sandy for a sodger."

And she ran into the middle o' the road, and, ere Lord Drumlanrig was aware, she had his horse by the bridle, exclaimin—

"Please yer lordship, ye maun stop and speak to me a wee. I hae something to say to ye."

"What is it, my good woman?" said his lordship, smilin good-naturedly; "but I'm in a great hurry, and you must not detain me a moment."

"What I want to speak to yer lordship aboot," replied Widow M'Gill, taking nae notice o' his lordship's impatience, "is this: ye hae taen awa my puir son, Sandy, for a sodger, and I'm like to brak my heart aboot him."

"There's nae guid reason for that in the world, my honest woman," said his lordship; "as he'll be better wi' me than lyin at hame here, scartin the porridge pots."

"I'm no sure o' that, my lord, unless ye look weel to him, and tak him under yer special care. Ye'll fin' him weel wordy o't; for, although I say it that sudna say it, he's a clever, weel-inclined lad."

"I've nae doot o't, honest woman, nae doot o't," said his lordship, now endeavourin to move on; "and, you may depend on't, I'll see that he gets every justice." And he made another attempt to get on.

"Na, na, my lord," said the widow, perceivin his efforts to get quit o' her, "I winna let ye gang that way—I hae something mair to say to ye yet; but, as I see a' the neebors glowrin at us, ye'll just come doon and step into the house wi' me a minute, and I'll tell ye there a' I hae to say."

"Really, really, my good woman," said his lordship, in great alarm at this threat o' further detention, "it is impossible—I cannot on any account—I am indeed in a great hurry, and exceedinly anxious to get forrit."

"Deil may care, my lord!—the deil a fit ye'll stir till ye come in wi' me a bit—on that I'm determined." And she took a still firmer haud o' the bridle.

"Some ither time, my guid woman," said his lordship, despairinly.

"Na, na, nae time like the present, my lord," replied the widow.

Seein now that, unless he had recourse to some violence—which it was neither his nature nor desire to hae—it was useless to contend wi' the resolute auld wife, his lordship dismounted, though, ye may believe, wi' a very bad grace, gave his horse to his servant to haud, and went in wi' Widow M'Gill to her little cot. On enterin the hoose, his lordship made anither desperate effort to prevail on the widow to shorten his detention.

"Now, my guid woman," he said, "let me beg o' you to say quickly what ye hae to say, for I really will not be detained."

"No twa minutes, no twa minutes, my lord," said the widow, dustin, wi' great activity, wi' her apron, a chair for his lordship to sit doun upon.

"No, no; I really will not sit doun," said his lordship, determinedly. "I'll hear what you hae to say standin."

"But ye maun sit, my lord," replied the widow, wi' equal resolution. "A bonny thing it wad be, you to come into my house, and gang oot again withoot sittin doun. Na, na, that maunna be said. Doun, my lord, ye maun sit." And, seein that he wad only increase his ain delay by resistance, doun, to be sure, his lordship did sit. "Noo, my lord," says the widow, "I'm sure the deil a morsel o' breakfast ye hae gotten the day yet—for it's no aboon seven o'clock; sae ye'll just tak a mouthfu wi' me."

At this horrid proposal, his lordship sprang frae his chair—for he was noo fairly driven at bay—and made for the door; but the widow was as clever in the heels as he was. She sprang after him, and, before he could gain the door, had him fast by the tails o' the coat, exclaimin, as she pu'ed him back—

"Deil a fit o' ye, my lord, 's gaun oot o' this house, till ye taste my bread and cheese. Ise haud ye fast, I warrant."

Regardless o' her threats, his lordship still pressed for the door; but the stieve auld wife held on wi' a determined and nae feckless grip, and he couldna mak it oot, withoot efforts that micht do her an injury. Seein this, and seein, at the same time, the ludicrousness o' the struggle, his lordship at length gied in, and returned to his seat. In a twinklin the active auld wifie had a table before him, covered wi' bread, butter, and cheese, and a large jug o' sweet milk.

"Noo, my lord, see and tak a mouthfu. It's but hamely fare to put before a lord; but it's gien wi' hearty guid-will, and that maun mak amends."

His lordship guid-naturedly took a little o' what was put before him. While doin this, the auld wifie kept up a runnin fire o' sma'-talk.

"Noo, my lord, ye'll be guid to my son. He's an honest man's bairn, but his faither's dead and gane mony a year syne; and mony a lonely seat and sair heart has fa'en to my share sin syne; but I aye looked forward to findin a comforter and supporter in my only son, in my auld age; but noo he's taen frae me too, and a' is desolation and darkness around me."

Here the puir widow, whose maternal feelins, thus excited by the picture she had drawn o' her ain loneliness, had suddenly and totally changed her character, or rather had brocht oot its real qualities, which were, after a', those o' a kind and feelin heart, raised the corner o' her apron to her eyes, and wiped awa an involuntary tear. His lordship, notwithstandin o' the provokin predicament in which he was, feelin much affected by the widow's lamentations, thus simply expressed, took oot a memorandum-book frae his pocket, and havin inquired her son's name, and the name o' the place o' her residence, wrote them doun. He next asked if she knew in whose company he was.

"Captain Dooglas," replied the widow—"Captain Dooglas they ca' him." Then, becomin querist in turn—"Do ye ken what sort o' a man he is, my lord?"

"Oh, an excellent man, my guid woman," said his lordship. "Your son could not be under a better fellow." And his lordship noted doun this circumstance also, wi' the name o' Sandy's captain.

Havin dune this, he replaced his memorandum-book in his pocket, and rose frae his seat, the widow noo offerin nae farther resistance; and havin placed, unperceived, as he thought, a couple o' guineas on the table, was aboot to leave the house, after shakin his hostess kindly by the hand—for his lordship was noo rather tickled wi' the adventure athegither—and promisin to see to the interests o' her son, when the widow, gettin her ee on the coin, snatched it up, and was forcin it back on its original possessor, exclaimin—

"Na, na, my lord—I'll tak nae siller for kindness. A' that I want is, that ye wad be guid to my puir Sandy, whan he's far awa frae his hame and his freends. Be kind till him, my lord, and tak the widow's blessin in return." And she was pressin the money back on his lordship, when he ran frae her, got oot o' the hoose, and was aboot to mount his horse, when, to his unutterable horror, he heard the widow exclaimin, "Gude guide me! I hae a' this time forgotten your servant, my lord; and he'll be hungry aneugh, too, puir fallow, I hae nae doot." And she ran and seized his horse next by the bridle. "Come doun, lad, and come in by a bit, and tak a mouthfu. His lordship, I'm sure, 'll wait twa or three minutes on ye without grudgin't; for the puir maun be fed as weel as the rich, the man as weel as his maister."

"No, no, no. For God's sake, my guid woman, let us be gone!" exclaimed his lordship, in an implorin voice, and now beginnin to think he wad never get oot o' the auld wife's hands.

"Na, troth, my lord, I'll no let him go. The lad maun hae a mouthfu o' meat."

"Then, in Heaven's name," said his lordship, "if ye will hae him tak something, bring't oot till him here, and dinna tak him aff his horse."

Complyin wi' this request, the very first she had complied wi', the auld wifie ran in to the house—his lordship, while she was there, tellin his servant to put at ance into his pocket whatever it micht be—and brought oot a quantity o' bread and cheese, which the man disposed o' as his maister had desired him.

The coast being now clear, his lordship, after again shakin hands wi' the auld wife, and promisin to keep an ee on her son, put spurs to his horse, and darted aff at full speed, as delighted wi' his liberty as if he had escaped frae a highwayman; but, fast as he gaed, it was some seconds before he got oot o' hearin o' the auld wife's voice, bawlin after him, "Now, my lord, dinna forget Sandy—dinna forget Sandy M'Gill."

On gainin some distance, both master and man drew bridle, and laughed heartily at the adventure wi' the auld wife o' the Nether Mill.

Aweel, shortly after, his lordship embarked for Holland with a part o' his regiment—the remainder, amongst which was Sandy M'Gill, proceeding in another vessel—and arrived there, as did the whole corps, in due time, and without any accident.

Some days after the landin, Lord Drumlanrig, at parade one forenoon, after speakin and laughin for a few minutes wi' Captain Douglas in front o' the line, went up to a certain guid-lookin young sodger in that officer's company, and callin him out frae his comrades, asked him his name.

"Sandy M'Gill, my lord," replied the young man, touchin his hat, and somewhat surprised at bein singled out in this way.

"Exactly," said his lordship. "Well, Sandy, I breakfasted in your mother's house on my way frae Dumfries to Edinburgh, just before I left Scotland; and a kind, hearty old woman she is, I assure you."

"I wonder, my lord," said Sandy, blushin, "that my mother could hae had the impudence to tak your lordship into her puir sooty house."

"It was no impudence at all, Sandy—nae such thing. It was oot o' kindness to me and affection for you. The breakfast, however, was an excellent one, and gien wi' a hearty welcome and richt guid-will. But I promised yer mother, Sandy," continued his lordship, "to look after ye, and I mean to do sae. Can you write any?"

Sandy said he could.

"Can you figure?"

Another reply in the affirmative.

"Can ye show me your handwriting? Have ye any specimens upon you?"

Sandy pulled out of his pocket some scraps o paper that exhibited his fist. His lordship looked at them, and said the writing was very guid—that it wad do very weel. "Now, then, Sandy," he added, "I'll tell ye what I mean to do for you, to begin wi': there's anither serjeant wanted for your company, and I hae desired Captain Douglas to appoint you. You will get a suit o' claes frae the store, and there's five guineas to you to purchase necessaries, and I hae nae doot ye'll turn oot a guid and brave sodger."

Sandy endeavoured to express his gratitude for the sudden and unexpected fortune; but he couldna. Nor, though he had been able, did his lordship gie him an opportunity; for, anticipatin the lad's embarrassment, he walked awa the moment he had dune speakin.

Next day, Sandy appeared in the uniform o' a non-commissioned officer; and, being now on the road to promotion, returned, at the conclusion o' the war, to his native place, as captain; attributin a' his guid fortune to the breakfast which his mother gae to Lord Drumlanrig at the Nether Mill.

"Aweel, it is really curious how things turn oot sometimes," said lang Jamie Turner, on the conclusion o' the foregoing story—"very curious. Did ye ever hear, Mr Gas," continued Jamie, now addressing his landlord, "hoo Jock Tinwald, a son o' Andrew Tinwald's o' Shaw Hill, recovered forty guineas he ance lost at the Candlemas Fair o' Dumfries?"

"No," said Mr Gas, looking with interest at the speaker. "I never heard that ane."

"It was a gey clever ane," said Jamie Turner, and, without further preface, he proceeded to relate the following adventure:—

On a certain Candlemas Fair, some twa or three years back, auld Tinwald o' Shaw Hill sent his son Jock to Dumfries, wi' forty guineas in a net purse in his pocket, to purchase a couple o' good draught horses. Jock wasna lang in the fair until he fell in wi' twa horses that appeared to be o' precisely the description he wanted. He inquired their price, found it wasna far beyond the mark, and, finally, after some chaffering, struck a bargain with the seller. This done, the young farmer put his hand into his pocket, to bring out the net purse with the forty guineas. He started, and looked pale. It was not in the pocket in which he thought—nay, in which he was certain he had put it. He searched anither, and anither, and anither, with distraction in his looks. It was in nane o' them—it was lost, gane! He had been robbed. O' this there was nae doubt. Poor Jock was in despair, but it was an evil without a remedy; for he had not the smallest notion when, where, or by whom he had been plundered. There was therefore no help for it; and, feelin this, Jock repaired to a public-house, drowned the recollection of his loss in brandy, and went home at nicht penniless, horseless, and drunk.

Six months after this, the Rude Fair of Dumfries came round; and, in the thick and the thrang o' this fair, micht hae been seen the braid shouthers and the round, healthfu, guid-natured face o' Jock Tinwald. But surely he'll tak care this time how he mingles wi' the crood, or at least keep a sharp ee on his neebors. Not he. There he is, pushin and jostlin awa in the heart o' the very densest mass, wi' an apparent regardlessness o' consequences which is most amazin, considerin the loss he sustained on a former occasion. Nay, not only is he doin this, but he is ostentatiously displayin a purse apparently as well filled as the last one. This does indeed seem the extreme o' folly. But it only seems so. It is not without a reason. Jock is not so unguarded as he appears. The truth is, he is just now practisin a ruse which he is not without hope may help him to the recovery o' his forty guineas.

The purse which Jock is so openly sportin is filled not with gold, but with copper. It contains, in short, instead o' guineas, a quantity of farthings, and is thus ostentatiously displayed in the hope of attractin the notice of the light-fingered gentleman who had relieved him on the former occasion—and with what promise o' success may be guessed frae the followin incident.

On Tinwald's first entering the scene o' the fair, he was marked by two persons o' very equivocal appearance who were hoverin about.

"That," said ane o' them, nudging his neebor wi' his elbow, and inclinin his head towards Tinwald—"that's the flat I did at the last Candlemas fair. The easiest handled guse I ever cam across."

"What wad ye think o' our tryin him again?" said the speaker's neebor.

"Wi' a' my heart," replied the other. "He's but a saft ane; but I fear he'll no hae onything on him this time."

At this instant the fears of the pair of pickpockets on this score were relieved by a sight of Jock's purse. It caught their eyes in a moment, and they viewed it with a delight which gentlemen of their profession alone can know. They felt as sure of it as if it were already in their pockets. Dropping all other speculation, therefore, they now commenced dogging Jock, who was fishing away with his purse through the crowd, like an angler with his fly, for the thief of his guineas or some of his gang, whom he had a pretty shrewd notion would not be far off. Jock, however, took care to keep the exhibition of his purse within bounds. He took care not to make an over frequent or suspicious display of it, only occasionally, and then returning it to a certain side pocket of easy access. There was nothing, therefore, which Tinwald was at this moment so anxious for as to feel a hand in the said pocket; and this was a gratification which he was not long denied. A hand was introduced, he felt it, and, turning quickly round, he seized the person to whom it belonged.

"I ken ye, freend," said Jock to his prisoner, in a low whisper—"I ken ye perfectly weel. It was you that robbed me o' forty guineas in a green net purse at the last Candlemas Fair." (All this was said by Jock at a venture, but by chance was true.) "Now, I say, let me hae the money back quietly, and I'll tak nae mair notice o' the matter; but, if ye dinna, I'll immediately gie the alarm, and hae ye apprehended. Sae tak yer choice, freend. But, mind, there's a rope round your neck: it's hangin at the very least."

"Let me go, then, and follow me," replied the depredator, briefly, and in the same low tone that he had been addressed. Jock loosed his grasp, and keepin close behind his man, who immediately began threadin his way oot o' the crowd, followed him till they had cleared it; when, dreadin a sudden bolt, he cam up close beside him; and thus the two held on their way, till they cam to a retired part o' the market-place, when the thief suddenly stopped, and, plungin his hand into his bosom, drew oot a leathern bag, from which he counted into the astonished young farmer's hand forty golden guineas. Jock, confounded at his own success, could scarcely believe his eyes when he looked at the precious deposit in his hand; and, in the fulness o' his joy, insisted on giein the thief half-a-mutchkin o' brandy on the head o't. This, however, the latter declined, and, in an instant after, disappeared in the crowd; and Jock never saw mair o' him. And sae ends my story, freends," added lang Jamie Turner.

"And, by my feth, a richt guid ane—a real clever ane," said the landlord, as he filled glasses round, and, rising on his little, short legs, drank to each and all of the company "a soun sleep and a blithe waukenin." In two or three minutes more, the kitchen of the Floshend Inn was cleared of its tenants, and for that night, at any rate, no more was heard in it the sounds of revelry, nor the accompanying glee of the gibe, or jest, or merry tale.