and the rest; while the big Tom MacVittie, returning to his original thesis, maintained that it would be only fair punishment if John Mayne were mulcted of his ’Logan Braes,’ because of his cruel maltreatment of ’Helen of Kirkconnell.’ "Yes, I will say," he continued—and his fist was ready to come down on the table if needs were. "Robbie himself might well be proud of ’Logan Braes;’ and John Mayne deserves to have something done to him for trying to spoil so fine a thing as ’Helen of Kirkconnell.’ I cannot forgive that. I cannot forgive that at all. No excuse. Do ye think the man that wrote the ’Siller Gun’ did not know he was making the fine old ballad into a fashionable rigmarole? Confound him, I would take ’Logan Braes’ from him in a minute, if I could, and hand it over to Robbie——" "Did you ever notice," interposed the editor of the Scotch paper, "the clever little trick of repetition in the middle of every alternate verse—— ’By Logan’s streams that rin so deep, Fu’ aft wi’ glee I’ve herded sheep; Herded sheep, or gathered slaes, Wi’ my dear lad on Logan braes. But wae’s my heart, thae days are gane, And I wi’ grief may herd alane; While my dear lad maun face his faes, Far, far frae me and Logan braes.’ I do not remember Burns using that device, though it was familiar in Scotch song—you recollect ’Annie Laurie’—-’her waist ye weel might span.’ And Landor used it in ’Rose Aylmer’— ’Rose Aylmer, all were thine. Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes—’" "I would like now," continued Tom MacVittie, with a certain impatience over the introduction of a glaiket Englisher, "to hand over to Robbie ’There’s nae luck about the house.’ The authorship is disputed anyhow; though I tell you that if William Julius Mickle ever wrote those verses I’ll just eat my hat—and coat, too! It was Jean Adams wrote that song; I say it was none other than Jean Adams. Mickle—and his Portuguese stuff——" "God bless me, Tom, do you forget ’Cumnor Hall’?" his brother exclaimed. "’Cumnor Hall?’ I do not forget ’Cumnor Hall?’" Tom MacVittie rejoined, with a certain disdain. "’Cumnor Hall!’—a wretched piece of fustian, that no one would have thought of twice, only that Walter Scott’s ear was taken with the first verse. Proud minions—simple nymphs—Philomel on yonder thorn: do ye mean that a man who wrote stuff like that could write like this— ’Rise up and mak’ a clean fireside, Put on the mickle pot; Gie little Kate her cotton gown, And Jock his Sunday’s coat; And mak’ their shoon as black as slaes, Their stockins’ white as snaw; It’s a’ to pleasure our gudeman— He likes to see them braw.’ That’s human nature, man; there you’ve the good-wife, and the goodman, and the bairns; none o’ your Philomels, and nymphs, and swains! That bletherin’ idiot, Dr. Beattie, wrote additional verses—well, he might almost be forgiven for the last couplet,