erson from the company at St. Ronan's Well.

These annunciations speedily became the magnet of the day. All idlers
crowded to peruse them; and it would be endless to notice the "God bless
me's"--the "Lord have a care of us"--the "Saw you ever the like's" of
gossips, any more than the "Dear me's" and "Oh, laa's" of the titupping
misses, and the oaths of the pantalooned or buck-skin'd beaux. The
character of Sir Bingo rose like the stocks at the news of a dispatch
from the Duke of Wellington, and, what was extraordinary, attained some
consequence even in the estimation of his lady. All shook their heads at
the recollection of the unlucky Tyrrel, and found out much in his manner
and address which convinced them that he was but an adventurer and
swindler. A few, however, less partial to the Committee of Management,
(for whenever there is an administration, there will soon arise an
opposition,) whispered among themselves, that, to give the fellow his
due, the man, be he what he would, had only come among them, like the
devil, when he was called for; and honest Dame Blower blessed herself
when she heard of such bloodthirsty doings as had been intended, and
"thanked God that honest Doctor Kickherben had come to nae harm amang a'
their nonsense."

CHAPTER XIV.

THE CONSULTATION.

_Clown._ I hope here be proofs.--

_Measure for Measure._

The borough of ---- lies, as all the world knows, about fourteen miles
distant from St. Ronan's, being the county town of that shire, which, as
described in the Tourist's Guide, numbers among its objects of interest
that gay and popular watering-place, whose fame, no doubt, will be
greatly enhanced by the present annals of its earlier history. As it is
at present unnecessary to be more particular concerning the scene of our
story, we will fill up the blank left in the first name with the
fictitious appellation of Marchthorn, having often found ourselves
embarrassed in the course of a story, by the occurrence of an ugly
hiatus, which we cannot always at first sight fill up, with the proper
reference to the rest of the narrative.

Marchthorn, then, was an old-fashioned Scottish town, the street of
which, on market-day, showed a reasonable number of stout great-coated
yeomen, bartering or dealing for the various commodities of their farms;
and on other days of the week, only a few forlorn burghers, crawling
about like half-awakened flies, and watching the town steeple till the