xioned, mountain-looking fellow, he looks as if he had
just come down from the Highlands, and had never taken a pen in
hand."

His carelessness of appearances extended to his rooms, which looked like
small sections from the primeval chaos. The book-shelves were of
unpainted wood, knocked together in the rudest fashion, and the books
were many of them tattered and without backs. A case containing foreign
birds was used also as a wardrobe, and all of his rare possessions in
natural history were mixed up with a most motley collection of books and
papers,--these latter consisting of all sorts of scraps, of which no one
else could have made anything. He always seemed to be able to find them
when wanted, even in the worst confusion; but how he did it was a
mystery to his friends. "Here and there, in the interstices between
books, were stuffed what appeared to be dingy, crumpled bits of paper,
but they were in reality bank-notes, his class fees; which he never
carried in a purse, but stuffed away wherever it seemed most convenient
at the moment." He never, even in the coldest weather, had a fire in his
room.

No account of Kit North would be complete that left out entirely the
convivialities of the table, though we should make a great mistake if we
took the humorous caricatures of the "Noctes Ambrosianae" for accounts of
literal feats in that line. This has sometimes been done, and he is
frequently represented as a glutton and a drunkard. He was neither,
although he did perform some remarkable feats both of eating and
drinking in his day. His life of constant out-of-door exercise gave him
a keen appetite, and a perfect digestion, and he loved the hilarity of
the table as well as any man of his day. But in his later life he became
a _teetotaller_. Even in his earlier days it was often the excitement of
company which quickened all of his powers to their utmost tension, when
the effect was attributed to wine. So fond was he of all sorts and kinds
of out-of-the-way company, that he was at one time in the habit of going
at midnight to the Angel Inn, where many of the up and down London
coaches met, and there to preside at the passengers' supper, carving for
them, inquiring all about their respective journeys, and astonishing
them with his wit and pleasantry. He would also linger about with
coachmen and guards, and was present at, and took a hand in, many a
street row, unknown by those with whom he mingled.

He is said