considerable credit for throwing himself off so neatly. After putting a finger to the tailor's pulse, and passing his hand over his limbs, the doctor declared him free from blemish, and that there was no necessity for prescribing any other medicine than a walk to the city. Both having, then, taken their position in the rear of the regiment, it proceeded onward, and soon found itself within the precincts of Glasgow.

On entering the city the band immediately struck up "Caller Herring," the sound of which made every window fly open, and suggested to every cook the necessity of making instant preparation for the approach of her hungry master. Fearing, however, that the instructive melody might not altogether tell on the deaf ears of my old handmaid, Girzy, my fat friend, who had agreed to take a steak with me, no sooner saw the housekeeper at the window than he bawled out at the top of his voice, "Girzy, my lass, you may put on the taties noo!" Scarcely had the pleasing sound reached the ear of old Girzy than I was accosted by the well-known "Gadeo te valere" of Ritchie Falconer, who, after sarcastically exclaiming "Fortuna favet fortibus," breathlessly inquired what had befallen his customer the deacon, and told us of the consternation of his wife. The story of the tailor's mishap satisfied the bar

ber, while the appearance of Lawbroad himself quieted the fearful prognostications of his anxious helpmate.

The corps, on reaching its usual place of rendezvous, was immediately dispersed, while the soldiers hurried home to calm the fears of their wives, mothers, and sisters. In the evening the club-rooms of the city rang with unusual mirth and jollity. Each roof echoed back the scenes of the day and of the foray, but among them all none occasioned more fun and laughter than the tale of the churn and the promotion of the tailor.

Thus began and thus ended the ever-memorable day of the Battle of Garscube-a day unstained with blood, unsurpassed by heat, alike famous for its foray and for the capture of one prisoner-a day, in short, which proved the brightest gem in the garland of Glasgow volunteer glory, and has afforded as noble a theme of conversation to the pig-tailed soldiers of the Scottish western metropolis as that of St. Hilier's did to their gallant commander.

The Glasgow corps of volunteers, which so eminently distinguished itself on that eventful occasion, scarcely survived the close of the century that gave it birth, while the generality of the happy faces that grinned with delight at the ludicrous plight of Deacon Lawbroad have now,

as Hamlet says, "few left to mock their grinning "" and had I not, perhaps, been reminded the other day of the immortal action of this gallant corps, by perusing the equally deathless deed of its bounty, on the wall of the Royal Infirmary Hall,* I might possibly have never dreamt of becoming the humble annalist of its military glory.

* They gave the whole of the regimental stock-purse, amounting to £1,200, to that valuable institution.

THE OLD LONDON MERCHANT,

A FRAGMENT.

BY WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH, ESQ.

Flos Mercatorum.

Epitaph on Whittington.

Ar that festive season, when the days are at the shortest, and the nights at the longest, and when, consequently, it is the invariable practice of all sensible people to turn night into day; when the state of the odds between business and pleasure is decidedly in favour of the latter; when high carnival is held in London, and every thing betokens the prevalence and influence of good cheer; when pastry-cooks are in their glory, and green trays in requisition; when porters groan beneath hampers of game, and huge tubs of Canterbury brawn; when coaches arriving from Norfolk and Devonshire look like moving poulterers' shops; when their front boots won't close, and the guard hangs a string of turkeys behind, and a leash of hares in front; when attorneys in town send barrels of oysters to attorneys in the country; when Christmas-box claimants disturb one's equanimity by day, and Waits (those licensed nuisances,

to which even our reverence for good old customs cannot reconcile us) break one's first slumber at night; when surly Christians "awake,” and salute the band of little carolers with jugs of cold water; when their opposite neighbour the Jew, who has poked his night-capped head from his window, retires with a satisfactory chuckle; when the meat at Giblett's, which, for the last six weeks, has announced the approach of Christmas by its dailyincreasing layers of fat, as correctly as the almanack, has reached the ne-plus-ultra of adiposity; when wandering crowds are collected before the aforesaid Giblett's to gaze upon the yellow carcase of that leviathan prize-ox—the fat being rendered more intensely yellow by its contrast with the green holly with which it is garnished-as well as to admire the snowy cakes of suet with which the sides of that Leicestershire sheep are loaded; when the grocers' trade is "in request," and nothing is heard upon his counter but the jingling of scales and the snapping of twine; when the vender of sweetmeats, as he deals forth his citron and sultanas in the due minced-meat proportions to that pretty housemaid, whispers something in a soft and sugared tone about the misletoe; when "coming Twelfth Nights cast their shadows before," and confectioners begin to feel important; when pantomimes are about to unfold all their magic charms, and the holidays have fairly com