My friend Cyril Thornton has lately, in his very admirable autobiography, told us of a dinner with which he was entertained by one of the Magistrates of Glasgow, but it seems to have been an ordinary genteel affair, what in common Trongate parlance is called a beefer, or pot-luck, compared with the high and solemn banquet to which I was invited with the Lord.

English peers, as it is well known, beyond the Tweed, are not at all so respectable as those of Scottish growth; but the Earl of Moorheather was of the best blood in the Highlands, and, commanding the regiment then quartered in the city, was justly entitled to all manner of ceremony. Accordingly, Mr. Pullicate being recently chosen into the town council, could do no less, as his lady told me, than be civil to him, like the rest of the magistrates.

“’Deed,” said she, “Mr. Bogle Corbet, it's far from our line o’ life to think of making any occasion of the sort; the gude man, however, cannot weel be off testifying his respect for my Lord, but the thought o 't takes away my night's rest.”

I sympathized with her sincerely, and subjoined, “That gentlemen in public trusts are obliged to do many things exceedingly disagreeable to themselves.”

“That's very true,” was the reply, “and so I said to Eric,—I have not got my tongue yet used to call him Mr. Pullicate,—when he was obligated, by course of dignity, to see the man hanged: but this is a real great han’ling. Howsomever, if I can get through't with credit to the gude man, pains shall not be wanting.