among the bulk of his subscribers. Here I saw the
unfortunate Andrew Macdonald, author of Vimonda; and here, too, I saw
at a distance the boast of Scotland, Robert Burns. Of the latter I
shall presently have occasion to speak more fully.

I am inadvertently led to confound dates while I talk of this remote
period, for, as I have no notes, it is impossible for me to remember
with accuracy the progress of studies, if they deserve the name, so
irregular and miscellaneous. But about the second year of my
apprenticeship my health, which, from rapid growth and other causes,
had been hitherto rather uncertain and delicate, was affected by the
breaking of a blood-vessel. The regimen I had to undergo on this
occasion was far from agreeable. It was spring, and the weather raw
and cold, yet I was confined to bed with a single blanket, and bled
and blistered till I scarcely had a pulse left. I had all the appetite
of a growing boy, but was prohibited any sustenance beyond what was
absolutely necessary for the support of nature, and that in vegetables
alone. Above all, with a considerable disposition to talk, I was not
permitted to open my lips without one or two old ladies who watched my
couch being ready at once to souse upon me,

"imposing silence with a stilly sound."[31]

[Footnote 31: [Home's _Douglas_.]]

My only refuge was reading and playing at chess. To the romances and
poetry, which I chiefly delighted in, I had always added the study of
history, especially as connected with military events. I was
encouraged in this latter study by a tolerable acquaintance with
geography, and by the opportunities I had enjoyed while with Mr.
MacFait to learn the meaning of the more ordinary terms of
fortification. While, therefore, I lay in this dreary and silent
solitude, I fell upon the resource of illustrating the {p.040}
battles I read of by the childish expedient of arranging shells, and
seeds, and pebbles, so as to represent encountering armies. Diminutive
cross-bows were contrived to mimic artillery, and with the assistance
of a friendly carpenter I contrived to model a fortress, which, like
that of Uncle Toby, represented whatever place happened to be
uppermost in my imagination. I fought my way thus through Vertot's
Knights of Malta--a book which, as it hovered between history and
romance, was exceedingly dear to me; and Orme's interesting and
beautiful History of Indostan, whose copious plans, aided by th