the artful way in which he
adapted the style of his bowling to the character of the man who fenced
him at the wicket. Boys were simply enamoured of him, for, by that
instinct which never fails the young, he won their heartfelt devotion
by his quick discernment of the weaknesses and proclivities of all the
young with whom he ever came in contact. I have seen my youngest son--a
lad of eleven--after years of separation from him, when the boy met him
in London, in 1884, nestle on his knee quite spontaneously, to listen
to some of his Kafiristan exploits not touched on in his paper. His
beaming, manly laugh of amusement and tender compassion over the boy's
simplicity when asked by my ingenuous lad why he did not kill a lot of
those fellows during those days of danger, I fancy I see while I write.
Indeed, this keen participation in the nature and delights of the young
was the secret of his success during the Kafiristan exploration. It was
the touchstone of his sympathy with the various barbaric tribes with
whom he had to come in contact, and whose nature he did not require to
learn, for he had already sounded all that was human in its touching
variety. Love and sympathy for man as man, could alone give this
knowledge and furnish this magic key to hearts in wilds unknown. No
human system of mental training could ever do it. In this connection I
smile somewhat at Dr. Leitner's profound German dialectic in the
discussion on the paper read by McNair over the preliminary preparation
in language and terms required by an explorer to do his work
effectively. Where man is equipped by that instinctive faculty of
accommodating himself to the men of all nations with their physical
attributes and surroundings, I think he may dispense, in a large
measure, with the science of language as an open sesame. Nature has her
own methods.

This being more in the nature of a memoir purely personal in its
details, giving the characteristics of the man who performed an exploit
deemed by the Royal Geographical Society worthy of the Murchison Grant,
I may be pardoned for adding a few private particulars of the events
leading to the death of one so young, and whose career was so full of
promise at its earthly close.

During the summer of the year 1888, McNair met with a very serious
horse accident, one, indeed, that might with complete natural sequence
have terminated his life on the spot. The vicious horse of a friend he
was riding to tame the brute (