the flashes of our hero’s spirit, that touching upon this topic would be sure to defeat his purpose.  He therefore pleaded, that the invitation argued the Major’s disbelief of any part of the accusation which was inconsistent with Waverley’s conduct as a soldier and a man of honour, and that to decline his courtesy might be interpreted into a consciousness that it was unmerited.  In short, he so far satisfied Edward that the manly and proper course was to meet the Major on easy terms, that, suppressing his strong dislike again to encounter his cold and punctilious civility, Waverley agreed to be guided by his new friend.  The meeting, at first, was stiff and formal enough.  But Edward, having accepted the invitation, and his mind being really soothed and relieved by the kindness of Morton, held himself bound to behave with ease, though he could not affect cordiality.  The Major was somewhat of a Bon VIVANT, and his wine was excellent.  He told his old campaign stories, and displayed much knowledge of men and manners.  Mr. Morton had an internal fund of placid and quiet gaiety, which seldom failed to enliven any small party in which he found himself pleasantly seated.  Waverley, whose life was a dream, gave ready way to the predominating impulse, and became the most lively of the party.  He had at all times remarkable natural powers of conversation, though easily silenced by discouragement.  On the present occasion, he piqued himself upon leaving on the minds of his companions a favourable impression of one who, under such disastrous circumstances, could sustain his misfortunes with ease and gaiety.  His spirits, though not unyielding, were abundantly elastic, and soon seconded his efforts.  The trio were engaged in very lively discourse, apparently delighted with each other, and the kind host was pressing a third bottle of Burgundy, when the sound of a drum was heard at some distance.  The Major, who, in the glee of an old soldier, had forgot the duties of a magistrate, cursed, with a muttered military oath, the circumstances which recalled him to his official functions.  He rose and went towards the window, which commanded a very near view of the high-road, and he was followed by his guests.

The drum advanced, beating no measured martial tune, but a kind of rub-a-dub-dub, like that with which the fire-drum startles the slumbering artisans of a Scotch burgh.  It is the object of this history to do justice to all men; I must therefore record, in justice to the drummer, that he protested he could beat any known march or point of war known in the British army, and had accordingly commenced with ‘Dumbarton’s Drums,’ when he was silenced by Gifted Gilfillan, the commander of the party, who refused to permit his followers to move to this profane, and even, as he said, persecuting tune, and commanded the drummer to beat the 119th Psalm.  As this was beyond the capacity of the drubber of sheepskin, he was fain to have recourse to the inoffensive row-de-dow, as a harmless substitute for the sacred music which his instrument or skill were unable to achieve.  This may be held a trifling anecdote, but the drummer in question was no less than town-drummer of Anderton.  I remember his successor in office, a member of that enlightened body, the British Convention:  be his memory, therefore, treated with due respect.