d sacrifice everything, was retailing a piece of
news. This was so great an enjoyment with him that he gloried in
dwelling on it, and making the most of it. He used to retail a piece of
news, as a perfect novel, in three volumes. In his first he would take
care to ascertain that you were acquainted with the parties under
discussion; and, if you were not, make you so, throwing in a few
anecdotes illustrative of their characters. In In his second, he would
grow discursive, giving an episode or two, and dealing in moral
reflections and knowledge of human nature rather largely. And in his
third he would come smash, crash down on you with the news itself, and
leave you gasping.

He followed this plan on the present occasion. He answered Tom's
question by asking,--

"Do you know Desborough?"

"Of course I do," said Tom; "and a noble good fellow he is."

"Exactly," said Burnside; "super of police; distinguished in Indian
wars; nephew of my Lord Covetown. An Irishman is Desborough, but far
from objectionable."

This by way of first volume: now comes his second:--

"Now, sir, I, although a Scotchman born, and naturally proud of being
so, consider that until these wretched national distinctions between
the three great nations are obliterated we shall never get on, sir;
never. That the Scotch, sir, are physically and intellectually
superior----"

"Physically and intellectually the devil," burst in Tom. "Pick out any
dozen Scotchmen, and I'll find you a dozen Londoners who will fight
them, or deal with them till they'd be glad to get over the borders
again. As for the Devon and Cornish lads, find me a Scotchman who will
put me on my back, and I'll write you a cheque for a hundred pounds, my
boy. We English opened the trade of the world to your little two
millions and a-half up in the north there; and you, being pretty well
starved out at home, have had the shrewdness to take advantage of it;
and now, by Jove, you try to speak small of the bridge that carried you
over. What did you do towards licking the Spaniards; eh? And where
would you be now, if they had not been licked in 1588, eh? Not in
Australia, my boy! A Frenchman is conceited enough, but, by George, he
can't hold a candle to a Scotchman."

Tom spoke in a regular passion; but there was some truth in what he
said, I think. Burnside didn't like it, and merely saying, "You
interrupt me, sir," went on to his third volume without a struggle.

"You are aware, ladies,