and contemplating each other with that look of half-concealed contention and defiance, which only tended to make the attack more inevitable. The evening set in, and the witching hour--the keystone of night's black arch, twelve o'clock--was approaching. To go to bed on such an occasion, would have been held no better than for a jolly toper to shirk his bicker, a lover to eschew the trysting thorn, or a warrior to fly the scene of his country's glory; neither would it have been safe, for no good guyser of the old school would take the excuse of being in bed in lieu of the buttered pease-bannock--the true hogmanay cake, to which he was entitled, by "the auld use and wont" of Scotland; and far better breathe the smoke of the "smeikin horn" on foot, and with the means of self-defence at command, than lie choked in bed, and "deaved" by the stock and horn, the squalling bagpipe, and the eternal-- "Hery, Hary, Hubblischow, See ye not quha is come now!" ringing in one's ears during the whole night. The young were out; the old were in; but all were equally up and doing the honours of the occasion. At auld Wat Wabster's door, one minstrel company were singing--"Great is my sorrow;" and Marion, his daughter, with "Her glitterand hair, that was sae gowden," dealt out, with leal hand, the guyser's bannock. At the very next door, Meg Johnston was in the act of being "smecked oot" by a covey of twelve devils, who had inserted into every cranny a horn, and were blowing, with puffed cheeks, a choking death in every blast. One kept watch, to give the concerted signal when Meg should appear with her stick. On which occasion they were off in an instant; but only to return when Meg had let out the smoke, and satisfied herself that she would be no more tormented that night, to blow her up and out again, with greater vigour and a denser smoke than before. Farther on, Gib Dempster's dame, Kate, is at her door, with the bottle in her hand, to give another menyie of maskers their "hogmanay," in the form of a dram; and Gib is at her back, eyeing her with a squint, to count how many interlusive applications of the cordial she will make to her own throat before she renounce her _opportunity_. In the middle of the street, Gossip Simson is hurrying along, with the necessaries in her lap, to treat her "cusin," Christy Lowrie, with a bit and a drop; and ever and anon she says, "a guid e'en" to this one, and "a guid e'en" to that; and, between the parties, her head is ever thrown back, as if she were counting the stars; and, every time the act is repeated, the bottle undergoes a perceptible diminution of its contents, till, by the time she reaches her "luving cusin's" door, it is empty; and honest John Simson, at her return, greets her with--"My feth, Jenny, ye've been at mony a hoose in Christ's Kirk this nicht, if ane may judge by yer bottle." At the same instant, "Oh, leddy, help yer prisoneer This last nicht o' the passing year,"