"Well--enough of this, Juden. Bring me a tass of hocheim dashed with brandy--the last runlet--and then I will go abroad. Get me my walking boots and short wig, a buff under-coat, and my scarlet suit bobbed with the white ribbons; my hat--ah, thou damnable cur!--the terrier has torn to shreds a feather, which, with its gold drop, cost me six silver pounds at Lucky Diaper's booth. But it matters not--I may never don another, I will wear my white beaver with the yellow feathers; and get thee thy bonnet and whinger, and follow me. Be brisk, for the morning wears apace." In five minutes the embossed cup of hock had been brought and drained, and his lordship attired. With his noble features, shaded by his broad hat and its waving feathers, his black wig curling over the shoulders of his scarlet satin coat, which was stiff with silver lace and white ribbons, Clermistonlee had quite the air of a finished gallant. A perfumed handkerchief fluttered from one pocket, a gold snuff-box, with a lady's picture on the lid, glittered in the depth of the other. His long bowl-hilted rapier, with a grasp of embossed silver and a sheath of crimson velvet, hung behind from an embroidered shoulder-belt: one hand dangled a gold-headed and tasselled cane--the other carried the long buff glove, and was bare, according to the vanity of the time, for displaying the sparkle of a splendid diamond ring. Juden buttoned his green coat close up, buckled on a heavy basket-hilted spada, and drawing his broad blue bonnet over his red burly visage with the air of a man intent on something desperate, followed his master, respectfully keeping a few paces behind on their gaining the crowded street, which was to be the grand arena of their operations. CHAPTER IX. THE LUCKENBOOTHS. He comes not on a wassail rout, Of revel, sport, and play; Our sword's gart fame proclaim us men Long ere this ruefu' day. OLD BALLAD. The bell tolling eleven in the clock-tower of the Netherbow Porte, made Clermistonlee quicken his pace in issuing from the gloomy alley of his house into the broad and magnificent High Street, along the far extending vista of which, and on its thronging crowds and infinity of shining windows, the summer sun poured down its morning glory. Round the Fountainwell there was the same bustle that may be seen at the present day; thrifty and noisy housewives quarrelling with the watercarriers, whose shining barrels upborne on leather slings, were then the only means by which water was conveyed to the houses; and a few old men, the last remnant of another age and more primitive state of society, yet linger around the old fountain, and climb to the loftiest mansions of the ancient Wynds, supplying the water which the Reservoir cannot force to so great a height.