at least three stitches to the death of every hero. The dress was, therefore, soon ready, for the short coat fitted the wearer, and the rest of the apparel required little adjustment.

When our hero fairly assumed the "garb of old Gaul," which was well calculated to give an appearance of strength to a figure, which, though tall and well-made, was rather elegant than robust, I hope my fair readers will excuse him if he looked at himself in the mirror more than once, and could not help acknowledging that the reflection seemed that of a very handsome young fellow. In fact, there was no disguising it. His light-brown hair, for he wore no periwig, notwithstanding the uni versal fashion of the time, became the bonnet which surmounted it. His person promised firmness and agility, to which the ample folds of the tartan added an air of dignity. His blue eye seemed of that kind,

"Which melted in love, and which kindled in war."

And an air of bashfulness, which was in reality the effect of want of habitual intercourse with the world, gave interest to his features, without injuring their grace or intelligence. "He's a pratty man; a very pratty man," said Evan Dhu (now Ensign Maccombich) to Fergus's buxom landlady.

“He's vera weel," said the Widow Flockhart, "but no naithing so well-far'd as your colonel, ensign."

"I was na comparing them," quoth Evan," nor was I speaking about his being well-favoured; but only that Mr Waverley looks clean-made and deliver, and like a proper lad o' his quarters, that will not cry barley in a brulzie. And, indeed, he's gleg aneuch at the broadsword and target. I hae played wi' him mysel at Glennaquoich, and sae has Vich Ian Vohr, often of a Sunday afternoon."

"Lord forgive ye, Ensign Maccombich, I'm sure the colonel wad never do the like o' that."

"Hout! hout! Mrs Flockhart, we're

young blude, ye ken; and young saints, auld deils."

"But will ye fight wi' Sir John Cope, the morn, Ensign Maccombich ?"

" Troth I'se ensure him, an' he'll bide us, Mrs Flockhart."

"And will ye face these tearing chields, the dragoons, Ensign Maccombich ?”

"Claw for claw, as Conan said to Satan, Mrs Flockhart, and the deevil tak the shortest nails.""

"And will the Colonel venture on the bagganets himsell?"

"Ye may swear it, Mrs Flockhart; the very first man will he be, by Saint Phedar."

"Merciful goodness! and if he's killed amang the red coats!"

"Troth, if it should sae befall, Mrs Flockhart, I ken ane that will na be living to weep for him. But we maun a' live the day, and have our dinner; and there's Vich Ian Vohr has packed his dorlach, and

Mr Waverley's wearied 'wi' majoring yon der afore the muckle pier-glass, and that grey auld stoor carle, the Baron o' Bradwardine, that shot young Ronald of Bal. lankeiroch, he's coming down the close wi' the droghling, coghling baillie body they ca' Macwhupple, trindling ahint him, like a turnspit after a French cook, and I am as hungry as a gled, my bonny dow; sae bid Kate set on the broo', and do ye put on your pinners, for ye ken Vich Ian Vohr winna sit down till ye be at the head o' the table; and dinna forget the pint bottle o' brandy."

F

This hint produced dinner. Mrs Flockhart, smiling in her weeds like the sun through a mist, took the head of the table, thinking within herself perhaps, that she cared not how long the rebellion lasted that brought her into company so much above her usual associates. She was sup-. ported by Waverley and the Baron, with the advantage of the Chieftain vis-a-vis. The men of peace and of war, that is, Baillie

Macwheeble and Ensign Maccombich, after many profound congés to their superiors and each other, took their places on each side of the Chieftain. Their fare was excellent, time, place, and circumstances considered, and Fergus's spirits were extravagantly high. Indifferent to danger, and sanguine from temper, youth, and ambition, he saw in imagination all his prospects. crowned with success, and was totally indifferent to the probable alternative of a soldier's grave. The Baron apologized slightly for bringing MacWheeble. They had been providing, he said, for the expences of the campaign. "And, by my faith," said the old man, "as I think this will be my last, so I just end where I began-I hae evermore found the sinews of war, as a learned author calls the caisse militaire, more difficult to come by than either its flesh, blood, or bones."

"What, have you raised our only efficient body of cavalry, and got ye none of the louis d'ors out of the Doutelle to help you?"