Most miserable¹ man, whom wicked fate

  Hath brought to Court to sue, for had I wist,

  That few have found, and many a one hath miss'd!

  Full little knowest thou, that hast not tried,

  What hell it is, in sueing long to bide²:

  To lose good days that might be better spent;

  To waste long nights in pensive³ discontent;

  To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow;

  To feed on hope, to pine with fear and sorrow;

  To have thy Prince's grace, yet want her Peers';

  To have thy asking, yet wait many years;

  To fret⁴ thy soul with crosses and with cares—

  To eat thy heart through comfortless despairs.

  To fawn⁵, to crouch⁶, to wait, to ride, to run,

  To spend, to give, to want, to be undone⁷.

                          Mother Hubbard's Tale.

On the morning of the day on which George Heriot had prepared to escort the young Lord of Glenvarloch to the Court at Whitehall, it may be reasonably supposed, that the young man, whose fortunes were likely to depend on this cast, felt himself more than usually anxious. He rose early, made his toilette with uncommon⁸ care, and, being enabled, by the generosity⁹ of his more plebeian¹⁰ countryman, to set out a very handsome person to the best advantage, he obtained a

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