in chucky-stanes!—fling! fling!" and withdrawing into the house, he shut the door.

"Odd! I dinna ken," said one of the crowd, "but there's a deal o' truth in what he says."

"It was too bad to touch his windows," said another; "his son George has been in the wars, and the life o' a son is o' mair value than a pund o' candles."

"Ye're richt," cried a third.

"Hurrah for Jemmy the Leveller!" cried another. The crowd gave a loud cheer, and left the house in good humour; nor was there another window in the village broken throughout the night.

Next day, James received the following letter from his son. It was dated

"Toulouse, April 14, 1814.

"Honoured Father and Mother,—I hope this will find you and my dear sister well, as it leaves me, thank Providence for it. I think this war will soon be over now; for, whatever you may think of the French and their fighting, father, we have driven them from pillar to post, and from post to pillar, as the saying is. Not but that they are brave fellows, and clever fellows, too; but we can beat them, and that is everything. Soult is one of their best generals, if not their very best; and though he was in his own country, and had his positions all of his own choosing, I assure you, upon the word of a soldier, that we have beaten him out and out twice within this fortnight; but if you still get the newspaper, you will have seen something about it. You must not expect me to give you any very particular account about what has taken place; for a single soldier just sees and knows as much about a battle as the spoke of a mill-wheel knows about the corn which it causes to be ground. I may, here, also, while I remember, tell you what my notions of bravery are. Some people talk about courageous men, and braving death, and this and that; but, so far as I have seen and felt, it is all talk—nothing but talk. There are very few such cowards as to run away, or not to do their duty (indeed, to run away from the ranks during an action would be no easy matter), but I believe I am no coward—I daresay you think the same thing; and the best man in all T—— durst not call me one; but I will tell you how I felt when I first entered a battle. We were under arms—I saw a part of the enemy's lines before us—we were ordered to advance—I knew that in ten minutes the work of death would begin, and I felt—not faintish, but some way confoundedly like it. The first firing commenced by the advanced wing; at the report, my knees shook (not visibly), and my heart leaped within me. A cold sweat (a slight one) broke over me. I remember the sensation. A second discharge took place—the work was at hand—something seemed to crack within my ears. I felt I don't know how; but it was not courageous, though, as to running away or being beaten, the thought never entered my head. Only I did not feel like what you read about heroes. Well, the word 'Fire' was given to our own regiment. The drum of my ear actually felt as if it were split. My heart gave one terrible bound, and I felt it no more. For a few moments all was ringing of the ears, smoke, and confusion. I forgot everything about death. The roar of the action had become general—through its din I at intervals heard the sounds of the drum and the fife. But my ears instantly became, as it were, 'cased.' I could hear nothing but the word of command, save a hum, hum, something like a swarm of bees about to settle round my head. I saw nothing, and I just loaded as I was ordered, and fired—fired—fired!—as insensible, for all the world, as if I had been on a parade. Two or three of my neighbours were shot to the right and left; but the ranks were filled up in a twinkling, and it was not every time that I observed whether they were killed or wounded. But, as I say, after the third firing or so, I hardly knew whether I was dead or living; I acted in a kind of way mechanically, as it were, through a sort of dumfoundered desperation, or anything else ye like to call it; and if this be courage, it's not the sort of courage that I've heard and read about—but it's the only kind of courage I felt on entering on my first engagement, and, as I have said, there are none that would dare to call me coward! But as I was telling ye, we have twice completely beaten Soult within these fourteen days. We have driven them out of Spain; and, but for the bad winter weather, we would have driven them through France before now. But we have driven them into France; and as I said, even in their own country, we have beaten them twice. Soult had his army all drawn up and ready, upon a rising ground, before a town they call Orthes. I have no doubt but ye have some idea of what sort of winter it has been, and that may lead you to judge of what sort of roads we have had to wade through in a country like this; and that we've come from where nobody ever had to complain of being imprisoned for the destroying of toll-bars! I think that was the most foolish and diabolical action ever any person in our country was guilty of. But, besides the state of the roads, we had three rivers to cross before we could reach the French. However, we did cross them. General Picton, with the third division of the army, crossed or forded what they call the Cave de Pau on the 26th of last month, and we got over the river on the following day. Our army completed their positions early in the afternoon, and Lord Wellington (for he is a prompt man) immediately began to give Soult notice that he must seek different quarters for the night. Well, the action began, and a dreadful and sanguinary battle it was. Our third division suffered terribly. But we drove the French from their heights—we routed them. We thus obtained possession of the navigation of the Adour, one of the principal commercial passages in France; and Soult found there was nothing left but to retreat, as he best might, to Toulouse (from whence I write this letter), and there we followed him; and from here, too, though after hard fighting, we forced him to run for it. You may say what you like, father, but Lord Wellington is a first-rate general—though none of us over-and-above like him, for he is terribly severe; he is a disciplinarian, soul and body of him, and a rigid one. We have beaten all Bonaparte's generals; and I should like to meet with him, just to see if we can beat him too. You used to talk so much about him, that if I live to get to Paris, I shall see him, though I give a shilling for it. What I mean by that is, that I think the game is up with him; and four or five Irish soldiers, of my acquaintance, have thought it an excellent speculation to club together, and to offer the Emperor Alexander and the rest of them (who, I daresay, will be very glad to get rid of him on cheap terms), a price for him, and to bring him over to Britain, and exhibit him round the country at so much a-head——"

"Oh depravity!—depravity!" cried James, rising in a fury, and flinging the letter from him. "Oh, that a bairn o' mine should be capable o' pennin sic disgracefu language!"

He would allow no more of the letter to be read—he said his son had turned a mere reprobate; he would never own him more.

A few weeks after this, Catherine, the daughter of our old Leveller, was married to a young weaver, named William Crawford, who then wrought in the neighbourhood of Stirling. He was a man according to James' own heart; for he had wrought in the same shop with him, and, when a boy, received his principles from him. James, therefore, rejoiced in his daughter's marriage; and he said "there was ane o' his family—which wasna large—that hadna disgraced him." Yet he took the abdication and the exile of Napoleon to heart grievously. Many said that, if he could have raised the money, he would have gone to Elba to condole with the exiled emperor, though he should have begged for the remainder of his days. He went about mourning for his fate; but, as the proverb says, they who mourn for trifles or