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y upon his brow the mark of the apocalyptic beast。 I half expected that these miserable beings； like the people of Lystra； would recognise their betters and force us to the altar； in which case； warned by the late of Paul and Barnabas； I do not know that my modesty would have prevailed upon me to decline。 But there was no need for such churlish virtue。 More blinded than the Lycaonians； the people saw no divinity in our gait； and as our temporary godhead lay more in the way of observing than healing their infirmities； we were content to pass them by in scorn。
I could not leave my companion； not from regard or even from interest； but from a very natural feeling； inseparable from the case。 To understand it； let us take a simile。 Suppose yourself walking down the street with a man who continues to sprinkle the crowd out of a flask of vitriol。 You would be much diverted with the grimaces and contortions of his victims； and at the same time you would fear to leave his arm until his bottle was empty； knowing that； when once among the crowd； you would run a good chance yourself of baptism with his biting liquor。 Now my companion's vitriol was inexhaustible。
It was perhaps the consciousness of this； the knowledge that I was being anointed already out of the vials of his wrath； that made me fall to criticising the critic； whenever we had parted。
After all； I thought； our satirist has just gone far enough into his neighbours to find that the outside is false； without caring to go farther and discover what is really true。 He is content to find that things are not what they seem； and broadly generalises from it that they do not exist at all。 He sees our virtues are not what they pretend they are； and； on the strength of that； he denies us the possession of virtue altogether。 He has learnt the first lesson； that no man is wholly good； but he has not even suspected that there is another equally true； to wit； that no man is wholly bad。 Like the inmate of a coloured star； he has eyes for one colour alone。 He has a keen scent after evil； but his nostrils are plugged against all good； as people plugged their nostrils before going about the streets of the plague…struck city。
Why does he do this？ It is most unreasonable to flee the knowledge of good like the infection of a horrible disease； and batten and grow fat in the real atmosphere of a lazar… house。 This was my first thought； but my second was not like unto it； and I saw that our satirist was wise； wise in his generation； like the unjust steward。 He does not want light； because the darkness is more pleasant。 He does not wish to see the good； because he is happier without it。 I recollect that when I walked with him； I was in a state of divine exaltation； such as Adam and Eve must have enjoyed when the savour of the fruit was still unfaded between their lips； and I recognise that this must be the man's habitual state。 He has the forbidden fruit in his waist…coat pocket； and can make himself a god as often and as long as he likes。 He has raised himself upon a glorious pedestal above his fellows； he has touched the summit of ambition； and he envies neither King nor Kaiser； Prophet nor Priest； content in an elevation as high as theirs； and much more easily attained。 Yes； certes； much more easily attained。 He has not risen by climbing himself； but by pushing others down。 He has grown great in his own estimation； not by blowing himself out； and risking the fate of AEsop's frog； but simply by the habitual use of a diminishing glass on everybody else。 And I think altogether that his is a better； a safer； and a surer recipe than most others。
After all； however； looking back on what I have written； I detect a spirit suspiciously like his own。 All through； I have been comparing myself with our satirist； and all through； I have had the best of the comparison。 Well； well； contagion is as often mental as physical； and I do not think my readers； who have all been under his lash； will blame me very much for giving the headsman a mouthful of his own sawdust。
SKETCHES CHAPTER II … NUITS BLANCHES
IF any one should know the pleasure and pain of a sleepless night； it should be I。 I remember； so long ago； the sickly child that woke from his few hours' slumber with the sweat of a nightmare on his brow； to lie awake and listen and long for the first signs of life among the silent streets。 These nights of pain and weariness are graven on my mind； and so when the same thing happened to me again； everything that I heard or saw was rather a recollection than a discovery。
Weighed upon by the opaque and almost sensible darkness； I listened eagerly for anything to break the sepulchral quiet。 But nothing came； save； perhaps； an emphatic crack from the old cabinet that was made by Deacon Brodie； or the dry rustle of the coals on the extinguished fire。 It was a calm； or I know that I should have heard in the roar and clatter of the storm； as I have not heard it for so many years； the wild career of a horseman； always scouring up from the distance and passing swiftly below the window； yet always returning again from the place whence first he came； as though； baffled by some higher power； he had retraced his steps to gain impetus for another and another attempt。
As I lay there； there arose out of the utter stillness the rumbling of a carriage a very great way off； that drew near； and passed within a few streets of the house； and died away as gradually as it had arisen。 This； too； was as a reminiscence。
I rose and lifted a corner of the blind。 Over the black belt of the garden I saw the long line of Queen Street； with here and there a lighted window。 How often before had my nurse lifted me out of bed and pointed them out to me； while we wondered together if； there also； there were children that could not sleep； and if these lighted oblongs were signs of those that waited like us for the morning。
I went out into the lobby； and looked down into the great deep well of the staircase。 For what cause I know not； just as it used to be in the old days that the feverish child might be the better served； a peep of gas illuminated a narrow circle far below me。 But where I was； all was darkness and silence； save the dry monotonous ticking of the clock that came ceaselessly up to my ear。
The final crown of it all； however； the last touch of reproduction on the pictures of my memory； was the arrival of that time for which； all night through； I waited and longed of old。 It was my custom； as the hours dragged on； to repeat the question； 'When will the carts come in？' and repeat it again and again until at last those sounds arose in the street that I have heard once more this morning。 The road before our house is a great thoroughfare for early carts。 I know not； and I never have known； what they carry； whence they come； or whither they go。 But I know that； long ere dawn； and for hours together； they stream continuously past； with the same rolling and jerking of wheels and the same clink of horses' feet。 It was not for nothing that they made the burthen of