A curious story is narrated of Lady Elibank, the daughter of an eminent surgeon in Edinburgh. She told a would-be suitor, “I do not believe that you would part with a ‘leith’ of your little finger for my whole body.” Next day the young man handed her a joint from one of his fingers; she declined to have anything to do with him. “The man who has no mercy on his own flesh will not spare mine,” which served _him_ right. She was called up in church, as the use was, to be examined in the Assembly’s catechism, as Betty Stirling. “Filthy fellow,” she said; “he might have called me Mrs. Betty or Miss Betty; but to be called bare Betty is insufferable.” She was called bare Betty as long as she lived, which served _her_ right. The servants of some of those aristocratic ladies were as old-fashioned, as poor, and as devoted as themselves. Mrs. Erskine of Cardross lived in a small house at the foot of Merlin’s Wynd, which once stood near the Tron Kirk. George Mason, her servant, allowed himself much liberty of speech. On a young gentleman calling for wine a second time at dinner, George in a whisper, reproachful and audible, admonished him, “Sir, you have had a glass already.” This strikes a modern as mere impudence, yet passed as proper enough. The fashionable life of old Edinburgh had its head-quarters in the Assembly Rooms, first in the West Bow and then after 1720 south of the High Street in the Assembly Close. The formalities of the meetings and dances are beyond our scope. The “famed Miss Nicky Murray,” as Sir Alexander Boswell called her, presided here for many years; she was sister of the Earl of Mansfield, and a mighty fine lady. “Miss of What?” she would ask when a lady was presented. If of nowhere she had short shrift: a tradesman, however decked, was turned out at once. Her fan was her sceptre or enchanted wand, with a wave of which she stopped the music, put out the lights, and brought the day of stately and decorous proceedings to a close.