o’ bondage. We downa bide the coercion of gude braid-claith about our hinderlans; let-a-be breeks o’ freestone, and garters o’ iron.”

“Ye’ll find the stane breeks and the airn garters, ay, and the hemp cravat, for a’ that, neighbour,” replied the Bailie. “Nae man in a civilised country ever played the pliskies ye hae done—but e’en pickle in your ain pock-neuk—I hae gi’en ye warning.”

“Well, cousin,” said the other, “ye’ll wear black at my burial?”

“Deil a black cloak will be there, Robin, but the corbies and the hoodie-craws, I’se gie ye my hand on that. But whar’s the gude thousand pund Scots that I lent ye, man, and when am I to see it again?”

“Where it is,” replied my guide, after the affectation of considering for a moment, “I cannot justly tell—probably where last year’s snaw is.”

“And that’s on the tap of Schehallion, ye Hieland dog,” said Mr. Jarvie; “and I look for payment frae you where ye stand.”

“Ay,” replied the Highlander, “but I keep neither snaw nor dollars in my sporran. And as to when you’ll see it—why, just when the king enjoys his ain again, as the auld sang says.”

“Warst of a’, Robin,” retorted the Glaswegian,—“I mean, ye disloyal traitor—Warst of a’!—Wad ye bring popery in on us, and arbitrary power, and a foist and a warming-pan, and the set forms, and the curates, and the auld enormities o’ surplices and cearments? Ye had better stick to your auld trade o’ theft-boot, black-mail, spreaghs, and gillravaging—better stealing nowte than ruining nations.”

“Hout, man, whisht wi’ your whiggery,” answered the Celt, “we hae kend ane anither mony a lang day. I’se take care your counting-room is no cleaned out when the Gillon-a-naillie¹ come to redd up the Glasgow buiths, and clear them o’ their auld shop-wares. And, unless it just fa’ in the preceese way o’ your duty, ye maunna see me oftener, Nicol, than I am disposed to be seen.”

“Ye are a dauring villain, Rob,” answered the Bailie; “and ye will be hanged, that will be seen and heard tell o’; but I’se ne’er be the ill bird and foul my nest, set apart strong necessity and the skreigh of duty, which no man should hear and be inobedient.—And wha the deevil’s this?” he continued, turning to me—“Some gillravager that ye hae listed, I daur say. He looks as if he had a bauld heart to the high- way, and a lang craig for the gibbet.”

“This, good Mr. Jarvie,” said Owen, who, like myself, had been struck dumb during this strange recognition, and no less strange dialogue, which took place betwixt these extraordinary kinsmen—“This, good Mr. Jarvie, is young Mr. Frank Osbaldistone, only child of the head of our house, who should have been taken into our firm at the time Mr. Rashleigh Osbaldistone, his cousin, had the luck to be taken into it”—(Here Owen could not suppress a groan)—“But, howsoever—”

“Oh, I have heard of that smaik,” said the Scotch merchant, interrupting him; “it is he whom your principal, like an obstinate auld fule, wad make a merchant o’, wad he or wad he no, and the lad turned a strolling stage-player, in pure dislike to the labour an honest man should live by.—Weel, sir, what say you to your handiwark? Will Hamlet the Dane, or Hamlet’s ghost, be good security for Mr. Owen, sir?”

“I don’t deserve your taunt,” I replied, “though I respect your motive, and am too grateful for the assistance you have afforded Mr. Owen, to resent it. My only business here was to do what I could (it is perhaps very little) to aid Mr. Owen in the management of my father’s affairs. My dislike of the commercial profession is a feeling of which I am the best and sole judge.”