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CHAPTER VII
ADVENTURE OF CHEVALIER BURKE IN INDIA

Extracted from his Memoirs

… Here was I, therefore, on the streets of that city, the name of which I cannot call to mind, while even then I was so ill acquainted with its situation that I knew not whether to go south or north. The alert being sudden, I had run forth without shoes or stockings; my hat had been struck from my head in the mellay; my kit was in the hands of the English; I had no companion but the cipaye, no weapon but my sword, and the devil a coin in my pocket. In short, I was for all the world like one of those calendars with whom Mr. Galland has made us acquainted in his elegant tales. These gentlemen, you will remember, were for ever falling in with extraordinary incidents; and I was myself upon the brink of one so astonishing that I protest I cannot explain it to this day.

The cipaye was a very honest man; he had served many years with the French colours, and would have let himself be cut to pieces for any of the brave countrymen of Mr. Lally. It is the same fellow (his name has quite escaped me) of whom I have narrated already a surprising instance of generosity of mind – when he found Mr. de Fessac and myself upon the ramparts, entirely overcome with liquor, and covered us with straw while the commandant was passing by. I consulted him, therefore, with perfect freedom. It was a fine question what to do; but we decided at last to escalade a garden wall, where we could certainly sleep in the shadow of the trees, and might perhaps find an occasion to get hold of a pair of slippers and a turban. In that part of the city we had only the difficulty of the choice, for it was a quarter consisting entirely of walled gardens, and the lanes which divided them were at that hour of the night deserted. I gave the cipaye a back, and we had soon dropped into a large enclosure full of trees. The place was soaking with the dew, which, in that country, is exceedingly unwholesome, above all to whites; yet my fatigue was so extreme that I was already half asleep, when the cipaye recalled me to my senses. In the far end of the enclosure a bright light had suddenly shone out, and continued to burn steadily among the leaves. It was a circumstance highly unusual in such a place and hour; and, in our situation, it behoved us to proceed with some timidity. The cipaye was sent to reconnoitre, and pretty soon returned with the intelligence that we had fallen extremely amiss, for the house belonged to a white man, who was in all likelihood English.

“Faith,” says I, “if there is a white man to be seen, I will have a look at him; for, the Lord be praised! there are more sorts than the one!”

The cipaye led me forward accordingly to a place from which I had a clear view upon the house. It was surrounded with a wide verandah; a lamp, very well trimmed, stood upon the floor of it, and on either side of the lamp there sat a man, cross-legged, after the Oriental manner. Both, besides, were bundled up in muslin like two natives; and yet one of them was not only a white man, but a man very well known to me and the reader, being indeed that very Master of Ballantrae of whose gallantry and genius I have had to speak so often. Word had reached me that he was come to the Indies, though we had never met at least, and I heard little of his occupations. But, sure, I had no sooner recognised him, and found myself in the arms of so old a comrade, than I supposed my tribulations were quite done. I stepped plainly forth into the light of the moon, which shone exceedingly strong, and hailing Ballantrae by name, made him in a few words master of my grievous situation. He turned, started the least thing in the world, looked me fair in the face while I was speaking, and when I had done addressed himself to his companion in the barbarous native dialect. The second person, who was of an extraordinary delicate appearance, with legs like walking canes and fingers like the stalk of a tobacco-pipe,⁶ now rose to his feet.

“The Sahib,” says he, “understands no English language. I understand it myself, and I see you make some small mistake – O! which may happen very often. But the Sahib would be glad to know how you come in a garden?”

“Ballantrae!” I cried, “have you the damned impudence to deny me to my face?”

Ballantrae never moved a muscle, staring at me like an image in a pagoda.

“The Sahib understands no English language,” says the native, as glib as before. “He be glad to know how you come in a garden.”

“O! the divil fetch him,” says I. “He would be glad to know how I come in a garden, would he? Well, now, my dear man, just have the civility to tell the Sahib, with my kind love, that we are two soldiers here whom he never met and never heard of, but the cipaye is a broth of a boy, and I am a broth of a boy myself; and if we don’t get a full meal of meat, and a turban, and slippers, and the value of a gold mohur in small change as a matter of convenience, bedad, my friend, I could lay my finger on a garden where there is going to be trouble.”

They carried their comedy so far as to converse a while in Hindustanee; and then says the Hindu, with the same smile, but sighing as if he were tired of the repetition, “The Sahib would be glad to know how you come in a garden.”

“Is that the way of it?” says I, and laying my hand on my sword-hilt I bade the cipaye draw.

Ballantrae’s Hindu, still smiling, pulled out a pistol from his bosom, and though Ballantrae himself never moved a muscle I knew him well enough to be sure he was prepared.

“The Sahib thinks you better go away,” says the Hindu.

Well, to be plain, it was what I was thinking myself; for the report of a pistol would have been, under Providence, the means of hanging the pair of us.

“Tell the Sahib I consider him no gentleman,” says I, and turned away with a gesture of contempt.

I was not gone three steps when the voice of the Hindu called me back. “The Sahib would be glad to know if you are a dam low Irishman,” says he; and at the words Ballantrae smiled and bowed very low.

“What is that?” says I.

“The Sahib say you ask your friend Mackellar,” says the Hindu. “The Sahib he cry quits.”

“Tell the Sahib I will give him a cure for the Scots fiddle when next we meet,” cried I.

The pair were still smiling as I left.

There is little doubt some flaws may be picked in my own behaviour; and when a man, however gallant, appeals to posterity with an account of his exploits, he must almost certainly expect to share the fate of Caesar and Alexander, and to meet with some detractors. But there is one thing that can never be laid at the door of Francis Burke: he never turned his back on a friend…

(Here follows a passage which the Chevalier Burke has been at the pains to delete before sending me his manuscript. Doubtless it was some very natural complaint of what he supposed to be an indiscretion on my part; though, indeed, I can call none to mind. Perhaps Mr. Henry was less guarded; or it is just possible the Master found the means to examine my correspondence, and himself read the letter from Troyes: in revenge for which this cruel jest was perpetrated on Mr. Burke in his extreme necessity. The Master, for all his wickedness, was not without some natural affection; I believe he was sincerely attached to Mr. Burke in the beginning; but the thought of treachery dried up the springs of his very shallow friendship, and his detestable nature appeared naked. – E.McK.)

CHAPTER VIII
THE ENEMY IN THE HOUSE

It is a strange thing that I should be at a stick for a date – the date, besides, of an incident that changed the very nature of my life, and sent us all into foreign lands. But the truth is, I was stricken out of all my habitudes, and find my journals very ill redd-up,⁷ the day not indicated sometimes for a week or two together, and the whole fashion of the thing like that of a man near desperate. It was late in March at least, or early in April 1764. I had slept heavily, and wakened with a premonition of some evil to befall. So strong was this upon my spirit that I hurried downstairs in my shirt and breeches, and my hand (I remember) shook upon the rail. It was a cold, sunny morning, with a thick white frost; the blackbirds sang exceeding sweet and loud about the house of Durrisdeer, and there was a noise of the sea in all the chambers. As I came by the doors of the hall, another sound arrested me – of voices talking. I drew nearer, and stood like a man dreaming. Here was certainly a human voice, and that in my own master’s house, and yet I knew it not; certainly human speech, and that in my native land; and yet, listen as I pleased, I could not catch one syllable. An old tale started up in my mind of a fairy wife (or perhaps only a wandering stranger), that came to the place of my fathers some generations back, and stayed the matter of a week, talking often in a tongue that signified nothing to the hearers; and went again, as she had come, under cloud of night, leaving not so much as a name behind her. A little fear I had, but more curiosity; and I opened the hall-door, and entered.

The supper-things still lay upon the table; the shutters were still closed, although day peeped in the divisions; and the great room was lighted only with a single taper and the shining of the fire. Close in the chimney sat two men. The one that was wrapped in a cloak and wore boots, I knew at once: it was the bird of ill omen back again. Of the other, who was set close to the red embers, and made up into a bundle like a mummy, I could but see that he was an alien, of a darker hue than any man of Europe, very frailly built, with a singular tall forehead, and a secret eye. Several packets and a small valise were on the floor; and to judge by the smallness of this luggage, and by the condition of the Master’s boots, grossly patched by some unscrupulous country cobbler, evil had not prospered.

He rose upon my entrance; our eyes crossed; and I know not why it should have been, but my courage rose like a lark on a May morning.

“Ha!” said I, “is this you?” – and I was pleased with the unconcern of my own voice.

“It is even myself, worthy Mackellar,” says the Master.

“This time you have brought the black dog visibly upon your back,” I continued.

“Referring to Secundra Dass?” asked the Master. “Let me present you. He is a native gentleman of India.”

“Hum!” said I. “I am no great lover either of you or your friends, Mr. Bally. But I will let a little daylight in, and have a look at you.” And so saying, I undid the shutters of the eastern window.

By the light of the morning I could perceive the man was changed. Later, when we were all together, I was more struck to see how lightly time had dealt with him; but the first glance was otherwise.

“You are getting an old man,” said I.

A shade came upon his face. “If you could see yourself,” said he, “you would perhaps not dwell upon the topic.”

“Hut!” I returned, “old age is nothing to me. I think I have been always old; and I am now, I thank God, better known and more respected. It is not every one that can say that, Mr. Bally! The lines in your brow are calamities; your life begins to close in upon you like a prison; death will soon be rapping at the door; and I see not from what source you are to draw your consolations.”

Here the Master addressed himself to Secundra Dass in Hindustanee, from which I gathered (I freely confess, with a high degree of pleasure) that my remarks annoyed him. All this while, you may be sure, my mind had been busy upon other matters, even while I rallied my enemy; and chiefly as to how I should communicate secretly and quickly with my lord. To this, in the breathing-space now given me, I turned all the forces of my mind; when, suddenly shifting my eyes, I was aware of the man himself standing in the doorway, and, to all appearance, quite composed. He had no sooner met my looks than he stepped across the threshold. The Master heard him coming, and advanced upon the other side; about four feet apart, these brothers came to a full pause, and stood exchanging steady looks, and then my lord smiled, bowed a little forward, and turned briskly away.

“Mackellar,” says he, “we must see to breakfast for these travellers.”

It was plain the Master was a trifle disconcerted; but he assumed the more impudence of speech and manner. “I am as hungry as a hawk,” says he. “Let it be something good, Henry.”

My lord turned to him with the same hard smile. “Lord Durrisdeer,” says he.

“O! never in the family,” returned the Master.

“Every one in this house renders me my proper title,” says my lord. “If it please you to make an exception, I will leave you to consider what appearance it will bear to strangers, and whether it may not be translated as an effect of impotent jealousy.”

I could have clapped my hands together with delight: the more so as my lord left no time for any answer, but, bidding me with a sign to follow him, went straight out of the hall.

“Come quick,” says he; “we have to sweep vermin from the house.” And he sped through the passages, with so swift a step that I could scarce keep up with him, straight to the door of John Paul, the which he opened without summons and walked in. John was, to all appearance, sound asleep, but my lord made no pretence of waking him.

“John Paul,” said he, speaking as quietly as ever I heard him, “you served my father long, or I would pack you from the house like a dog. If in half an hour’s time I find you gone, you shall continue to receive your wages in Edinburgh. If you linger here or in St. Bride’s – old man, old servant, and altogether – I shall find some very astonishing way to make you smart for your disloyalty. Up and begone. The door you let them in by will serve for your departure. I do not choose my son shall see your face again.”

“I am rejoiced to find you bear the thing so quietly,” said I, when we were forth again by ourselves.

“Quietly!” cries he, and put my hand suddenly against his heart, which struck upon his bosom like a sledge.

At this revelation I was filled with wonder and fear. There was no constitution could bear so violent a strain – his least of all, that was unhinged already; and I decided in my mind that we must bring this monstrous situation to an end.

“It would be well, I think, if I took word to my lady,” said I. Indeed, he should have gone himself, but I counted – not in vain – on his indifference.

“Ay,” says he, “do. I will hurry breakfast: we must all appear at the table, even Alexander; it must appear we are untroubled.”

I ran to my lady’s room, and with no preparatory cruelty disclosed my news.

“My mind was long ago made up,” said she. “We must make our packets secretly to-day, and leave secretly to-night. Thank Heaven, we have another house! The first ship that sails shall bear us to New York.”

“And what of him?” I asked.

“We leave him Durrisdeer,” she cried. “Let him work his pleasure upon that.”

“Not so, by your leave,” said I. “There shall be a dog at his heels that can hold fast. Bed he shall have, and board, and a horse to ride upon, if he behave himself; but the keys – if you think well of it, my lady – shall be left in the hands of one Mackellar. There will be good care taken; trust him for that.”

“Mr. Mackellar,” she cried, “I thank you for that thought. All shall be left in your hands. If we must go into a savage country, I bequeath it to you to take our vengeance. Send Macconochie to St. Bride’s to arrange privately for horses and to call the lawyer. My lord must leave procuration.”

At that moment my lord came to the door, and we opened our plan to him.

“I will never hear of it,” he cried; “he would think I feared him. I will stay in my own house, please God, until I die. There lives not the man can beard me out of it. Once and for all, here I am, and here I stay, in spite of all the devils in hell.” I can give no idea of the vehemency of his words and utterance; but we both stood aghast, and I in particular, who had been a witness of his former self-restraint.

My lady looked at me with an appeal that went to my heart and recalled me to my wits. I made her a private sign to go, and when my lord and I were alone, went up to him where he was racing to and fro in one end of the room like a half-lunatic, and set my hand firmly on his shoulder.

“My lord,” says I, “I am going to be the plain-dealer once more; if for the last time, so much the better, for I am grown weary of the part.”

“Nothing will change me,” he answered. “God forbid I should refuse to hear you; but nothing will change me.” This he said firmly, with no signal of the former violence, which already raised my hopes.

“Very well,” said I. “I can afford to waste my breath.” I pointed to a chair, and he sat down and looked at me. “I can remember a time when my lady very much neglected you,” said I.

“I never spoke of it while it lasted,” returned my lord, with a high flush of colour; “and it is all changed now.”

“Do you know how much?” I said. “Do you know how much it is all changed? The tables are turned, my lord! It is my lady that now courts you for a word, a look – ay, and courts you in vain. Do you know with whom she passes her days while you are out gallivanting in the policies? My lord, she is glad to pass them with a certain dry old grieve⁸ of the name of Ephraim Mackellar; and I think you may be able to remember what that means, for I am the more in a mistake or you were once driven to the same company yourself.”

“Mackellar!” cries my lord, getting to his feet. “O my God, Mackellar!”

“It is neither the name of Mackellar nor the name of God that can change the truth,” said I; “and I am telling you the fact. Now for you, that suffered so much, to deal out the same suffering to another, is that the part of any Christian? But you are so swallowed up in your new friend that the old are all forgotten. They are all clean vanished from your memory. And yet they stood by you at the darkest; my lady not the least. And does my lady ever cross your mind? Does it ever cross your mind what she went through that night? – or what manner of a wife she has been to you thenceforward? – or in what kind of a position she finds herself to-day? Never. It is your pride to stay and face him out, and she must stay along with you. O! my lord’s pride – that’s the great affair! And yet she is the woman, and you are a great hulking man! She is the woman that you swore to protect; and, more betoken, the own mother of that son of yours!”

“You are speaking very bitterly, Mackellar,” said he; “but, the Lord knows, I fear you are speaking very true. I have not proved worthy of my happiness. Bring my lady back.”

My lady was waiting near at hand to learn the issue. When I brought her in, my lord took a hand of each of us, and laid them both upon his bosom. “I have had two friends in my life,” said he. “All the comfort ever I had, it came from one or other. When you two are in a mind, I think I would be an ungrateful dog – ” He shut his mouth very hard, and looked on us with swimming eyes. “Do what ye like with me,” says he, “only don’t think – ” He stopped again. “Do what you please with me: God knows I love and honour you.” And dropping our two hands, he turned his back and went and gazed out of the window. But my lady ran after, calling his name, and threw herself upon his neck in a passion of weeping.

I went out and shut the door behind me, and stood and thanked God from the bottom of my heart.

At the breakfast-board, according to my lord’s design, we were all met. The Master had by that time plucked off his patched boots and made a toilet suitable to the hour; Secundra Dass was no longer bundled up in wrappers, but wore a decent plain black suit, which misbecame him strangely; and the pair were at the great window, looking forth, when the family entered. They turned; and the black man (as they had already named him in the house) bowed almost to his knees, but the Master was for running forward like one of the family. My lady stopped him, curtsying low from the far end of the hall, and keeping her children at her back. My lord was a little in front: so there were the three cousins of Durrisdeer face to face. The hand of time was very legible on all; I seemed to read in their changed faces a memento mori; and what affected me still more, it was the wicked man that bore his years the handsomest. My lady was quite transfigured into the matron, a becoming woman for the head of a great tableful of children and dependants. My lord was grown slack in his limbs; he stooped; he walked with a running motion, as though he had learned again from Mr. Alexander; his face was drawn; it seemed a trifle longer than of old; and it wore at times a smile very singularly mingled, and which (in my eyes) appeared both bitter and pathetic. But the Master still bore himself erect, although perhaps with effort; his brow barred about the centre with imperious lines, his mouth set as for command. He had all the gravity and something of the splendour of Satan in the “Paradise Lost.” I could not help but see the man with admiration, and was only surprised that I saw him with so little fear.

But indeed (as long as we were at the table) it seemed as if his authority were quite vanished and his teeth all drawn. We had known him a magician that controlled the elements; and here he was, transformed into an ordinary gentleman, chatting like his neighbours at the breakfast-board. For now the father was dead, and my lord and lady reconciled, in what ear was he to pour his calumnies? It came upon me in a kind of vision how hugely I had overrated the man’s subtlety. He had his malice still; he was false as ever; and, the occasion being gone that made his strength, he sat there impotent; he was still the viper, but now spent his venom on a file. Two more thoughts occurred to me while yet we sat at breakfast: the first, that he was abashed – I had almost said, distressed – to find his wickedness quite unavailing; the second, that perhaps my lord was in the right, and we did amiss to fly from our dismasted enemy. But my poor master’s leaping heart came in my mind, and I remembered it was for his life we played the coward.

When the meal was over, the Master followed me to my room, and, taking a chair (which I had never offered him), asked me what was to be done with him.

“Why, Mr. Bally,” said I, “the house will still be open to you for a time.”

“For a time?” says he. “I do not know if I quite take your meaning.”

“It is plain enough,” said I. “We keep you for our reputation; as soon as you shall have publicly disgraced yourself by some of your misconduct, we shall pack you forth again.”

“You are become an impudent rogue,” said the Master, bending his brows at me dangerously.

“I learned in a good school,” I returned. “And you must have perceived yourself that with my old lord’s death your power is quite departed. I do not fear you now, Mr. Bally; I think even – God forgive me – that I take a certain pleasure in your company.”

He broke out in a burst of laughter, which I clearly saw to be assumed.

“I have come with empty pockets,” says he, after a pause.

“I do not think there will be any money going,” I replied. “I would advise you not to build on that.”

“I shall have something to say on the point,” he returned.

“Indeed?” said I. “I have not a guess what it will be, then.”

“O! you affect confidence,” said the Master. “I have still one strong position – that you people fear a scandal, and I enjoy it.”

“Pardon me, Mr. Bally,” says I. “We do not in the least fear a scandal against you.”

He laughed again. “You have been studying repartee,” he said. “But speech is very easy, and sometimes very deceptive. I warn you fairly: you will find me vitriol in the house. You would do wiser to pay money down and see my back.” And with that he waved his hand to me and left the room.

A little after, my lord came with the lawyer, Mr. Carlyle; a bottle of old wine was brought, and we all had a glass before we fell to business. The necessary deeds were then prepared and executed, and the Scots estates made over in trust to Mr. Carlyle and myself.

“There is one point, Mr. Carlyle,” said my lord, when these affairs had been adjusted, “on which I wish that you would do us justice. This sudden departure coinciding with my brother’s return will be certainly commented on. I wish you would discourage any conjunction of the two.”

“I will make a point of it, my lord,” said Mr. Carlyle. “The Mas – Mr. Bally does not, then, accompany you?”

“It is a point I must approach,” said my lord. “Mr. Bally remains at Durrisdeer, under the care of Mr. Mackellar; and I do not mean that he shall even know our destination.”

“Common report, however – ” began the lawyer.

“Ah! but, Mr. Carlyle, this is to be a secret quite among ourselves,” interrupted my lord. “None but you and Mackellar are to be made acquainted with my movements.”

“And Mr. Bally stays here? Quite so,” said Mr. Carlyle. “The powers you leave – ” Then he broke off again. “Mr. Mackellar, we have a rather heavy weight upon us.”

“No doubt, sir,” said I.

“No doubt,” said he. “Mr. Bally will have no voice?”

“He will have no voice,” said my lord; “and, I hope, no influence. Mr. Bally is not a good adviser.”

“I see,” said the lawyer. – “By the way, has Mr. Bally means?”

“I understand him to have nothing,” replied my lord. “I give him table, fire, and candle in this house.”

“And in the matter of an allowance? If I am to share the responsibility, you will see how highly desirable it is that I should understand your views,” said the lawyer. “On the question of an allowance?”

“There will be no allowance,” said my lord. “I wish Mr. Bally to live very private. We have not always been gratified with his behaviour.”

“And in the matter of money,” I added, “he has shown himself an infamous bad husband. Glance your eye upon that docket, Mr. Carlyle, where I have brought together the different sums the man has drawn from the estate in the last fifteen or twenty years. The total is pretty.”

Mr. Carlyle made the motion of whistling. “I had no guess of this,” said he. “Excuse me once more, my lord, if I appear to push you; but it is really desirable I should penetrate your intentions. Mr. Mackellar might die, when I should find myself alone upon this trust. Would it not be rather your lordship’s preference that Mr. Bally should – ahem – should leave the country?”

My lord looked at Mr. Carlyle. “Why do you ask that?” said he.

“I gather, my lord, that Mr. Bally is not a comfort to his family,” says the lawyer, with a smile.

My lord’s face became suddenly knotted. “I wish he was in hell!” cried he, and filled himself a glass of wine, but with a hand so tottering that he spilled the half into his bosom. This was the second time that, in the midst of the most regular and wise behaviour, his animosity had spurted out. It startled Mr. Carlyle, who observed my lord thenceforth with covert curiosity; and to me it restored the certainty that we were acting for the best in view of my lord’s health and reason.

Except for this explosion the interview was very successfully conducted. No doubt Mr. Carlyle would talk, as lawyers do, little by little. We could thus feel we had laid the foundations of a better feeling in the country, and the man’s own misconduct would certainly complete what we had begun. Indeed, before his departure, the lawyer showed us there had already gone abroad some glimmerings of the truth.

“I should perhaps explain to you, my lord,” said he, pausing, with his hat in his hand, “that I have not been altogether surprised with your lordship’s dispositions in the case of Mr. Bally. Something of this nature oozed out when he was last in Durrisdeer. There was some talk of a woman at St. Bride’s, to whom you had behaved extremely handsome, and Mr. Bally with no small degree of cruelty. There was the entail, again, which was much controverted. In short, there was no want of talk, back and forward; and some of our wiseacres took up a strong opinion. I remained in suspense, as became one of my cloth; but Mr. Mackellar’s docket here has finally opened my eyes – I do not think, Mr. Mackellar, that you and I will give him that much rope.”

The rest of that important day passed prosperously through. It was our policy to keep the enemy in view, and I took my turn to be his watchman with the rest. I think his spirits rose as he perceived us to be so attentive, and I know that mine insensibly declined. What chiefly daunted me was the man’s singular dexterity to worm himself into our troubles. You may have felt (after a horse accident) the hand of a bone-setter artfully divide and interrogate the muscles, and settle strongly on the injured place? It was so with the Master’s tongue, that was so cunning to question; and his eyes, that were so quick to observe. I seemed to have said nothing, and yet to have let all out. Before I knew where I was the man was condoling with me on my lord’s neglect of my lady and myself, and his hurtful indulgence to his son. On this last point I perceived him (with panic fear) to return repeatedly. The boy had displayed a certain shrinking from his uncle; it was strong in my mind his father had been fool enough to indoctrinate the same, which was no wise beginning: and when I looked upon the man before me, still so handsome, so apt a speaker, with so great a variety of fortunes to relate, I saw he was the very personage to captivate a boyish fancy. John Paul had left only that morning; it was not to be supposed he had been altogether dumb upon his favourite subject: so that here would be Mr. Alexander in the part of Dido, with a curiosity inflamed to hear; and there would be the Master, like a diabolical Æneas, full of matter the most pleasing in the world to any youthful ear, such as battles, sea-disasters, flights, the forests of the West, and (since his later voyage) the ancient cities of the Indies. How cunningly these baits might be employed, and what an empire might be so founded, little by little, in the mind of any boy, stood obviously clear to me. There was no inhibition, so long as the man was in the house, that would be strong enough to hold these two apart; for if it be hard to charm serpents, it is no very difficult thing to cast a glamour on a little chip of manhood not very long in breeches. I recalled an ancient sailor-man who dwelt in a lone house beyond the Figgate Whins (I believe, he called it after Portobello), and how the boys would troop out of Leith on a Saturday, and sit and listen to his swearing tales, as thick as crows about a carrion: a thing I often remarked as I went by, a young student, on my own more meditative holiday diversion. Many of these boys went, no doubt, in the face of an express command; many feared, and even hated, the old brute of whom they made their hero; and I have seen them flee from him when he was tipsy, and stone him when he was drunk. And yet there they came each Saturday! How much more easily would a boy like Mr. Alexander fall under the influence of a high-looking, high-spoken gentleman-adventurer, who should conceive the fancy to entrap him; and the influence gained, how easy to employ it for the child’s perversion!