they technically called doch an dorroch, a stirrup-cup, to the honour of the baron's roof-tree. It must be noticed, that the baillie, knowing by experience that the day's joviality, which had been hitherto sustained at the expense of his patron, might terminate partly at his own, had mounted his spavined grey pony, and, between gaiety of heart, and alarm for being hooked into a reckoning, spurred him into a hobbling canter (a trot was out of the question), and had already cleared the village. The others entered the change-house, leading Edward in unresisting submission; for his landlord whispered him, that to demur to such an overture would be construed into a high misdemeanour against the leges conviviales, or regulations of genial compotation. Widow Macleary seemed to have expected this visit, as well she might, for it was the usual consummation of merry-bouts, not only at Tully-Veolan, but at most other gentlemen's houses in Scotland, Sixty Years since. The guests thereby at once acquitted themselves of their burden of gratitude to their entertainer's kindness, encouraged the trade of his change-house, did honour to the place which afforded harbour to their horses, and indemnified themselves for the previous restraints imposed by private hospitality, by spending, what Falstaff calls the sweet of the night, in the genial licence of a tavern. Accordingly, in full expectation of these distinguished guests, Luckie Macleary had swept her house for the first time this fortnight, tempered her turf-fire to such a heat as the season required in her damp hovel even at Midsummer, set forth her deal table newly washed, propped its lame foot with a fragment of turf, arranged four or five stools of huge and clumsy form, upon the sites which best suited the inequalities of her clay floor; and having, moreover, put on her clean toy, rokelay, and scarlet plaid, gravely awaited the arrival of the company, in full hope of custom and profit. When they were seated under the sooty rafters of Luckie Macleary's only apartment, thickly tapestried with cobwebs, their hostess, who had already taken her cue from the Laird of Balmawhapple, appeared with a huge pewter measuring-pot, containing at least three English quarts, familiarly denominated a Tappit Hen, and which, in the language of the hostess, reamed (i. e. mantled) with excellent claret just drawn from the cask. It was soon plain, that what crumbs of reason the Bear had not devoured were to be picked up by the Hen; but the confusion which ap-. peared to prevail favoured Edward's resolution to evade the gaily circling glass. The rest began to talk thick and at once, each performing his own part in the conversation without the least respect to his neighbour. The Baron of Bradwardine sung French chansons-àboire and spouted pieces of Latin; Killancureit talked in a steady unalterable dull key, of top-dressing and bottom-dressing, and yearolds, and gimmers, and dinmonts, and stots, and runts, and kyloes, and a proposed turnpike-act; while Balmawhapple, in notes exalted above both, extolled his horse, his hawks, and a greyhound called Whistler. In the middle of this din, the baron repeatedly implored silence; and when at length the instinct of polite discipline so far prevailed that for a moment he obtained it, he hastened to beseech their attention « unto a military ariette, which was a particular favourite of the Mareschal Duc de Berwick;" then, imitating as well as he could the manner and tone of a French mousquetaire, he immediately commenced, Mon cœur volage, dit elle, N'est pas pour vous garçon, Lon, Lon, Laridon. Qui porte chapeau à plume, Soulier a rouge talon, Qui joue de la flute, Aussi du violon. Lon, Lon, Laridon. Balmawhapple could hold no longer, but broke in with what he called a d―d good dsong, composed by Gibby Gaethroughwi't, the piper of Cupar, and without wasting more time struck up, The baron, whose voice was drowned in the louder and more obstreperous strains of Balmawhapple, now dropped the competition, but continued to hum Lon, Lon, Laridon, and to regard the successful candidate for the attention of the company with an eye of disdain, while Balmawhapple proceeded, If up a bonny black-cock should spring, After an ineffectual attempt to recover the second verse, he sung the first over again; and, in prosecution of his triumph, declared there was << more sense in that than in all the derrydongs of France, and Fifeshire to the boot of it.>> The baron only answered with a long pinch of snuff, and a glance of infinite contempt. But those noble allies, the Bear and the Hen, had emancipated the young laird from the habitual reverence in which he held Bradwardine at other times. He pronounced the claret shilpit, and demanded brandy with great vociferation. It was brought; and now the demon of Politics envied even the harmony arising from this Dutch concert, merely because there was not a wrathful note in the strange compound of sounds which it produced. Inspired by her, the Laird of Balmawhapple, now superior to the nods and winks with which the Baron of Bradwardine, in delicacy to Edward, had hitherto checked his entering upon political discussion, demanded a bumper with the lungs of a Stentør, « to the little gentlemen in black velvet who did such service in 1702, and may the white horse break his neck over a mound of his making!» Edward was not at that moment clearheaded enough to remember that King William's fall, which occasioned his death, was said to be owing to his horse stumbling at a mole-hill, yet felt inclined to take umbrage at a toast which seemed, from the glance of Balmawhapple's eye, to have a peculiar and uncivil reference to the government that he served. But ere he could interfere, the Baron of Bradwardine had taken up the quarrel. « Sir; whatever my sentiments, tanquam privatus, may be in such matters, I shall not tamely endure your saying any thing that may impinge upon the honourable feelings of a gentleman under my roof. Sir, if have no respect for the laws of urbanity, do ye not respect the military oath, the sacramentum militare, by you " |