long as he lived, and holding on by the Rock,
which was a favourite expression of his.

When I arrived, I found him to be a lonely,
austere, ascetical old bachelor. His house had
an eremetical air, and my spirits sank as
entered it. I came at an unfortunate moment;
for it wanted but ten minutes to the time for
"exercises"—the spiritual ones—though I was
hungry with a long and weary journey. The
servants, a severe and unassisted company, were
called up to punishment; and for nearly an hour
we listened to Uncle Curriehill, officiating—on
that night with extra unction and extra length
to make a, favourable impression on the newly
joined member of the congregation.

Yet I soon found him out to be a good-natured
and indulgent relation, and with a way to his
heart. Before that night was over, I had
discovered a coffin-shaped case in a corner, containing
various rusty-looking quarto volumes.

"What! do you play, Uncle Curriehill?" I
cried, in a transport. " Yes, you do. I know
you do."

A little embarrassed, he said, " Well, a little.
There is nothing profane in it, except one plays
on the Sabbath. David, we know——"

"I am so glad," I repeated; " and what do
you play? We can have duets."

He started now. " What, you play? Capital!
we can have duets. And what do you play?"

"Fiddle, Uncle Curriehill," I said. " I'll fetch
it." So I did. In a few moments the coffin
was sacrilegiously opened, and in a few moments
the room echoed with a delicious orchestral
tuning, and we were scraping one of Archangelo
Corelli's " Concertos," an old copy, I recollect,
with a frontispiece of Archangelo himself, grim
and bilious-looking, in a full-bottomed wig, and a
list of his odd dances, " Sarabandas," " Gigas,"
"Corantos," and " Ye Follia," whatever that
was. When we had done with Archangelo, he
asked me to play a solo. I tried a national air.
But I saw he was languid. I played another.
He was equally unexcited. Suddenly I thought
—rather was it some spiteful familiar who
suggested it?—what if I played that mournful and
most musical bit out of the Sinner's Opera—
The Traviata? I began the well-known " Addio
del passato," " tum tum, tumtit umti, tum tum,"
plaintively, with an expression of agony, as the
music directed me. In a second he was caught.
His eyes lighted up. His head began to move
from right to left. He was charmed. When I
had played it through twice, he asked, eagerly,
"What is it? The name?"

This was an embarrassment I had not thought
of. To name the Sinner's Opera in that house,
nay, any opera, was fatal. With wonderful
presence of mind, I answered,

"An Italian air, ' Addio del passato,' Uncle
Curriehill."

"I'll order it to-morrow, and learn it myself.
Spofforth and Riddel will get me any music I
want. Give the name exactly." And he took
out his pencil.

Embarrassing again. "The Addio——" I
said, shortly.

"Addio what?" he went on; " you said
something else."

I stammered, " Addio perche folingo,"
summing up some stray Italian.

"Very good," he said, making a note of it.
"I'll get it to-morrow, and we can play it in
unison."

I had to play it several times over that night,
and each time he was more and more enraptured.
It came to eleven o'clock. He looked at his
watch with a start. It was an hour past the
time for canonical exercises. He gave a cry.
He little thought that this had been the
Traviata's work.

III.

Next day, after breakfast, he called to me.
"Now you must play me that—that"—and he
took out his note—"that delightful ' Addio
perche folingo.'"

Suddenly it occurred to me to glide into
the well-known Brindisi Libiamo, or Drinking
Song, from the same nefarious opera. The
chique—is that the word?—or swing of
that sparkling morcel quite enraptured him.
Again he had out his note to take down the
name.

See the consequence of even one drifting
deflexion from the paths of truth! Having fallen
once, I had no alternative but to go on and coin
another Italian name. This was the " Largo
feroce," by the same author. His name? Ah,
that I could not remember. I was not going to
steep myself in deception.

He came back in the evening. " Very odd."
he said. " I have been to Spofforth's, and
asked them for the ' Largo feroce' and the
' Addio perche folingo,' and they can't get it—
never heard of it. In fact, a young shopman
fellow said it didn't sound like Italian, and
that there must be a mistake. However, they
are to look out for it."

This was a relief. But how curious if airs
with such titles were to turn up? It would be
one of the most curious phenomena ever known.

Meanwhile, the spiritual exercises proceeded
with a stern and unflinching rigour. The
only curious phenomenon was that sometimes
my Uncle Curriehill's musical devotion actually
encroached on the canonical hours of prayer. I
blush to confess that when I found that a
"Gigas " or even " Ye Follia"—what that did
mean I don't know to this hour—had carried us
past the hour of the Muezzin's Call to Prayer,
I made no faint offer even to supply that
officer's place, and remind my uncle that the
turn for sacred things had now arrived.

But his passion for the Sinner's Opera had
grown by what it fed on, and insensibly I had,
one by one, taught him nearly all the airs in
that masterpiece—an incautious tiling on my
part: yet the grotesque humour of the situation
had a sort of charm for me. But I was on a
precipice.

One day he had gone out to his musicseller's,
to get some " real old music," and was absent
very long. When he came back I read in his
face that something had happened. In a faltering