Let the tide of the world wax or wane as it will, Morton thought as he
looked around him, enough will be found to fill the places which chance
renders vacant; and in the usual occupations and amusements of life,
human beings will succeed each other as leaves upon the same tree, with
the same individual difference and the same general resemblance.

After pausing a few minutes, Morton, whose experience had taught him the
readiest mode of securing attention, ordered a pint of claret; and as the
smiling landlord appeared with the pewter measure foaming fresh from the
tap (for bottling wine was not then in fashion), he asked him to sit down
and take a share of the good cheer. This invitation was peculiarly
acceptable to Niel Blane, who, if he did not positively expect it from
every guest not provided with better company, yet received it from many,
and was not a whit abashed or surprised at the summons. He sat down,
along with his guest, in a secluded nook near the chimney; and while he
received encouragement to drink by far the greater share of the liquor
before them, he entered at length, as a part of his expected functions,
upon the news of the country,--the births, deaths, and marriages; the
change of property; the downfall of old families, and the rise of new.
But politics, now the fertile source of eloquence, mine host did not care
to mingle in his theme; and it was only in answer to a question of Morton
that he replied, with an air of indifference, "Um! ay! we aye hae sodgers
amang us, mair or less. There's a wheen German horse down at Glasgow
yonder; they ca' their commander Wittybody, or some sic name, though he's
as grave and grewsome an auld Dutchman as e'er I saw."

"Wittenbold, perhaps?" said Morton,--"an old man, with grey hair and
short black moustaches; speaks seldom?"

"And smokes for ever," replied Niel Blane. "I see your honour kens the
man. He may be a very gude man too, for aught I see,--that is,
considering he is a sodger and a Dutchman; but if he were ten generals,
and as mony Wittybodies, he has nae skill in the pipes; he gar'd me stop
in the middle of Torphichen's Rant,--the best piece o' music that ever
bag gae wind to."

"But these fellows," said Morton, glancing his eye towards the soldiers
"that were in the apartment, are not of his corps?"

"Na, na, these are Scotch dragoons," said mine host,--"our ain auld
caterpillars; these were Claver'se's lads a while syne, and wad be again,
maybe, if