ly life. My
attentions to him had not passed unnoticed, and he was kind, fatherly,
and unreserved. I had never known my father so entertaining as at these
moments, when his life was but too evidently drawing to a close. I had
no idea that he knew and had seen so much; my respect for him increased,
and I looked upon him almost with admiration. His anecdotes were in
general highly curious; some of them related to people in the highest
stations, and to men whose names were closely connected with some of the
brightest glories of our native land. He had frequently
conversed--almost on terms of familiarity--with good old George. He had
known the conqueror of Tippoo Saib; and was the friend of Townshend, who,
when Wolfe fell, led the British grenadiers against the shrinking
regiments of Montcalm. 'Pity,' he added, 'that when old--old as I am
now--he should have driven his own son mad by robbing him of his plighted
bride; but so it was; he married his son's bride. I saw him lead her to
the altar; if ever there was an angelic countenance, it was that girl's;
she was almost too fair to be one of the daughters of women. Is there
anything, boy, that you would wish to ask me? now is the time.'

'Yes, father; there is one about whom I would fain question you.'

'Who is it? shall I tell you about Elliot?'

'No, father, not about Elliot; but pray don't be angry; I should like to
know something about Big Ben.'

'You are a strange lad,' said my father; 'and, though of late I have
begun to entertain a more favourable opinion than heretofore, there is
still much about you that I do not understand. Why do you bring up that
name? Don't you know that it is one of my temptations: you wish to know
something about him. Well! I will oblige you this once, and then
farewell to such vanities--something about him. I will tell
you--his--skin when he flung off his clothes--and he had a particular
knack in doing so--his skin, when he bared his mighty chest and back for
combat; and when he fought he stood, so . . . if I remember right--his
skin, I say, was brown and dusky as that of a toad. Oh me! I wish my
elder son was here.'

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

MY BROTHER'S ARRIVAL--A DYING FATHER--CHRIST

At last my brother arrived; he looked pale and unwell; I met him at the
door. 'You have been long absent,' said I.

'Yes,' said he, 'perhaps too long; but how is my father?'

'Very poorly,' said I, 'he has had a fresh attack; bu