CHAPTER NINTH.
Who is he ?--One that for the lack of land Shall fight upon the water--he hath challenged Formerly the grand whale; and by his titles Of Leviathan, Behemoth, and so forth.
He tilted with a sword-fish--Marry, sir, Th' aquatic had the best--the argument Still galls our champion's breech.
Old Play.
"And the poor young fellow, Steenie Mucklebackit, is to be buried this morning," said our old friend the Antiquary, as he exchanged his quilted night-gown for an old-fashioned black coat in lieu of the snuff-coloured vestment which he ordinarily wore, "and, I presume, it is expected that I should attend the funeral ?" "Ou, ay," answered the faithful Caxon, officiously brushing the white threads and specks from his patron's habit.

"The body, God help us! was sae broken against the rocks that they're fain to hurry the burial.

The sea's a kittle cast, as I tell my daughter, puir thing, when I want her to get up her spirits; the sea, says I, Jenny, is as uncertain a calling"-- "As the calling of an old periwig-maker, that's robbed of his business by crops and the powder-tax.

Caxon, thy topics of consolation are as ill chosen as they are foreign to the present purpose.

_Quid mihi cum faemina ?_ What have I to do with thy womankind, who have enough and to spare of mine own ?--I pray of you again, am I expected by these poor people to attend the funeral of their son ?" "Ou, doubtless, your honour is expected," answered Caxon; "weel I wot ye are expected.