described, and he says that he can make eighteen-pence a day by it, which seems to him to constitute a superlative degree of prosperity. We visited his loom, which we found half embedded in the damp earth in a low-roofed part of the cottage, and separated from the domestic establishment by two large wooden beds. Here he seemed engaged upon a piece of woollen cloth at least half an inch thick, the surface of which appeared fully as rough and unequal as the map of Selkirkshire in our good friend Mr. John Thomson’s Scottish Atlas. One peculiarity in his method of working is worthy of remark. Instead of impelling the shuttle in the improved modern manner, by means of a simple piece of mechanism, he sent it through the web by his hands, throwing it from the right and receiving it into the left, and _vice versa_, while the hand immediately unemployed with the shuttle, was employed for the instant in drawing the _lay_ in upon the thread. This old fashion, which formerly prevailed in every species of weaving, is now disused by all the Glasgow manufacturers and others who work upon fine materials, and is only kept up in remote parts by the coarse country weavers. We entered into a discussion of the various merits and demerits of different sorts of work; and found that Glasgow was blessed with no share of the goodwill of our friend the weaver. Jaconets, blunks, ginghams, and cambrics were alternately brought up, and each successively declared stale, flat, and unprofitable, in comparison with the coarse stuff upon which he was now employed. _Customer-wark_ was superior to every other work; and customer-wark was, indeed, the very god of his divinity. _Customer-wark_ seemed to give a sort of _character_ to his conversation, for the phrase was generally introduced three or four times into, and formed the termination of, every sentence. When he paused for breath, he recommenced with “customer-wark;” and this ludicrous technical accented every cadence. The world was to the weaver all a desert, wherein only one resting-place existed—_customer-wark_! The poor weaver’s workshop is a miserable-looking place, and so damp that the walls have a yellow tinge, which also affects the three-paned window, through which the light finds its way with difficulty. The family pig is disposed in the same place,—an unusual mark of squalor and poverty. The weaver tells that his loom now occupies the precise spot on which the tent of Montrose formerly stood; but this can scarcely be correct, as, by all accounts, the general resided, with all his horse, in the town of Selkirk.