asking him if he could possibly account for
such demeanour. Robert smiled, and
replied:

"O, yes, sir!"

"Then do so," I said to him.

"The truth is, sir," he went on to say,
"that all the people hereabouts think you
are a madman, and that I am your keeper."

"What!" I exclaimed.

"It is quite true, sir; and, as neither
myself nor my wife could disobey your order,
we could not tell the people who you were,
and what you were, and what you were doing,
all they could judge by was what they
saw; and sometimes, when you were walking
about the garden, and talking loud
to yourself, you certainly did look rather
queer, sir. By at least forty or fifty people
have I been asked if you were harmless.
'Harmless? Yes!' I said; 'and there's
nothing the matter with him—he ain't mad.'
But they only shook their heads at that. I
had, at one time, to go round to the parents
of the little boys and girls who ran about the
streets, and prevent them allowing their
children to shout after you."

"Shout after me!"

"Yes, sir. After you passed them they
would follow in a body, shouting out, 'There
goes the mad 'un!' You did not notice
them, of course?"

"And you mean to tell me," said I, "that
ALL the people in the place thought me
insane, and think so still?"

"Yes, sir; all, with only one exception."

"Who may that be?"

"An old man, sir, who is eighty-nine years
of age. Passing the cottage one morning,
when you were walking about the garden,
the old man said, 'Folks think your master
mad; but I know better, for I have listened
to him more than twice or thrice, and I have
come to the conclusion that he is writing a
book, or else that he is a lawyer working up
some great case that is coming on for trial.'
On asking him how he came to think that,
sir, he said he remembered Mr. Erskine,
afterwards the famous Lord Erskine, who
used to come down here often, and stay for a
few days in an old house that stood where
this cottage now stands."

To have a conversation with an old man
who could recollect Erskine, and answer
questions anent that illustrious orator and
advocate, would indeed, I thought, be a great
treat.

"Who is the old man? What is he?" I
asked.

"His name is Carding, sir. He was, in
former days, a bold smuggler; but he has
now an independence on which he lives."

"Do you think he would come and see
me?"

"I am sure he would, sir."

"Then bring him here."

In less than half-an-hour, Robert returned
with old Mr. Carding, who was still very
erect, and whose faculties were in excellent
preservation. His eyesight was good, he was
far from deaf, and he spoke with a rapidity
and distinctness that astonished me. I
asked him to be seated, and after he had
drank a glass or two of the sherry which
I placed before him, I came to the point by
saying:

"I am told you remember the late Lord
Erskine?"

"Remember him well, sir," was his reply;
"knew him long before he was the great
man that he became. He was about nine or
ten years my senior. For a long time no one
knew who he was, and he used to go by the
name of the Rampant Madman. Most people
were frightened of him, and the mothers
used to make a sort of Bogey of him to
frighten their naughty children. 'I'll send
for that mad gentleman,' they used to say.
He stayed in this very place where you now
are. He never stayed long at a time, but he
paid us a visit pretty often."

"What did he do, that people thought him
mad?"

"Do, sir? Why, he would stand at the
very edge of the cliff where the flag-staff now
is, and talk by the hour—sometimes for two
hours or three hours together; and so loud
would he speak at times, that you might
hear him a quarter of a mile off, his right
arm moving about above his head, and his
left hand clenched firmly on his hip." (The
old man stood up, and imitated the great
orator's attitude.) "At low water he would
go and stand on those black rocks out yonder
and talk, seemingly, to the waves, When
he once began he never stopped till it was all
over, and I have seen the perspiration
running down his forehead, even in cool weather.
He never kept his hat on while he was
speaking; but as soon as he was done, he
would put it on, and sometimes laugh
heartily. He used to talk like a man who
had something on his mind which he could
not divulge to his fellow creatures; and yet
he did not seem to care who heard him
speak. I and several other young men have
been within six or seven yards of him, and,
although he saw us, he took no more notice
of us than if we had been a parcel of sticks
or stones, and went on talking just the
same. He had been down here, off and on,
for more than two years before it was known
that he was the famous barrister Erskine,
and then it was only by an accident that we
knew he was not mad."

"How?"

"On one Saturday afternoon he brought
down with him a young gentleman, of about
twenty years of age, who walked about the
pier while Mr. Erskine was making a speech
out upon the rocks. One of the men on the
pier remarked to this young gentleman,
'What a pity that such a fine man, and such
a pleasant spoken man when he is calm,
should be so mad!' Whereupon the young