ontent a year after the Deacon swung. Moreover, it gave
occasion for his dandyism and his love of display. If in one incarnation
he was the complete gentleman, in another he dressed the part of the
perfect scoundrel, and the list of his costumes would have filled one of
his own ledgers.

But, when once the possibility of housebreaking was taken from him, he
returned to his familiar dignity. Being questioned by the Procurator
Fiscal, he shrugged his shoulders, regretting that other affairs
demanded his attention. As who should say: it is unpardonable to disturb
the meditations of a gentleman. He made a will bequeathing his knowledge
of law to the magistrates of Edinburgh, his dexterity in cards and dice
to Hamilton the chimney-sweeper, and all his bad qualities to his good
friends and old companions, Brown and Ainslie, not doubting, however,
that their own will secure them 'a rope at last.' In prison it was his
worst complaint that, though the nails of his toes and fingers were not
quite so long as Nebuchadnezzar's, they were long enough for a
mandarin, and much longer than he found convenient. Thus he preserved an
untroubled demeanour until the day of his death. Always polite, and
even joyous, he met the smallest indulgence with enthusiasm. When Smith
complained that a respite of six weeks was of small account, Brodie
exclaimed, 'George, what would you and I give for six weeks longer? Six
weeks would be an age to us.'

The day of execution was the day of his supreme triumph. As some men
are artists in their lives, so the Deacon was an artist in his death.
Nothing became him so well as his manner of leaving the world. There is
never a blot upon this exquisite performance. It is superb, impeccable!
Again his dandyism supported him, and he played the part of a dying man
in a full suit of black, his hair, as always, dressed and powdered.
The day before he had been jovial and sparkling. He had chanted all his
flash songs, and cracked the jokes of a man of fashion. But he set out
for the gallows with a firm step and a rigorous demeanour. He offered
a prayer of his own composing, and 'O Lord,' he said, 'I lament that
I know so little of Thee.' The patronage and the confession are alike
characteristic. As he drew near the scaffold, the model of which he had
given to his native city a few years since, he stepped with an agile
briskness; he examined the halter, destined for his neck, with an
impartial curiosity.

His last plea