of action which prompts almost every creature like him to make one in a crowd, wherever it may assemble.  The mind of poor Raymond was of a very anomalous character indeed; for his memory, which was wonderful, accumulated in one heterogeneous mass, all the incidents in which he had ever taken any part, and these were called out of the confusion, precisely as some chord of association happened to be struck in any conversation which he held.  For this reason he sometimes uttered sentiments that would have come with more propriety from the lips of a philosopher than a fool, and again fell to the level of pure idiotism, so singular were his alternations from sense to nonsense.  Lucre’s porter, himself a wag, knew perfectly well what was going forward, and, indeed, took very considerable delight in the movement.  When Raymond presented himself, the porter, to whom he was very well known, determined, for the joke’s sake, that he should have the honor of an interview as well as the rest.  Lucre, as we said, being but seldom at Castle Cumber, was ignorant of Raymond’s person and character, and, indeed, we may add, that he stood in a position precisely similar with respect to almost every one of his own flock.  When Raymond entered, then, he was addressed in much the same terms as the others.

“Well, friend, what is your business?—­

“John, admit no more, and let the carriage come round—­are you a convert also?”

“Yes, I am; what have you to give me?”

“A pure and peaceful religion, my friend.”

“Where is it?”

“In this book—­this is the Word of God, that preacheth peace and salvation to all.”

“Has Val M’Clutchy this book?”

“Of course he has—­it is not to be supposed that so able and staunch a friend of Protestantism, of the religion of the state, could be without this book, or ignorant of it.”

Raymond put it tip to his nose, and after seeming to smell it, said, with a strong shudder, “how did you do this among you?  How did you do it?—­look at it—­see, see, it’s dripping wid blood—­here’s murder on this page, there’s starvation on that—­there’s the blood-hounds huntin’—­look, sir, look at the poor creature almost worn down, makin’ his way to hide, but he can’t; they have him, they have him—­see how they drag him, as if he was, a—­ay, drag, drag, he’s yours now, he’s yours—­whip and scourge, whip and scourge—­more blood, more blood—­and this is it, this—­don’t you see it, sir, comin’ down in drops when I hould it up that way!”

“My good friend, you are certainly in liquor—­your language is that of a man strongly affected by drink.”