“Why, a Scotch sort of a gentleman, as I said before,” returned mine host; “they are all gentle, ye mun know, though they ha' narra shirt to back; but this is a decentish hallion--a canny North Briton as e'er cross'd Berwick Bridge--I trow he's a dealer in cattle.” “Let us have his company, by all means,” answered my companion; and then, turning to me, he gave vent to the tenor of his own reflections. “I respect the Scotch, sir; I love and honour the nation for their sense of morality. Men talk of their filth and their poverty: but commend me to sterling honesty, though clad in rags, as the poet saith. I have been credibly assured, sir, by men on whom I can depend, that there was never known such a thing in Scotland as a highway robbery.” “That's because they have nothing to lose,” said mine host, with the chuckle of a self-applauding wit. “No, no, landlord,” answered a strong deep voice behind him, “it's e'en because your English gaugers and supervisors,* that you have sent down benorth the Tweed, have taen up the trade of thievery over the heads of the native professors.” * The introduction of gaugers, supervisors, and examiners, was one of the great complaints of the Scottish nation, though a natural consequence of the Union. “Well said, Mr. Campbell,” answered the landlord; “I did not think thoud'st been sae near us, mon. But thou kens I'm an outspoken Yorkshire tyke. And how go markets in the south?” “Even in the ordinar,” replied Mr. Campbell; “wise folks buy and sell, and fools are bought and sold.” “But wise men and fools both eat their dinner,” answered our jolly entertainer; “and here a comes--as prime a buttock of beef as e'er hungry men stuck fork in.” So saying, he eagerly whetted his knife, assumed his seat of empire at the head of the board, and loaded the plates of his sundry guests with his good cheer.