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breathing of foul air in any shape, may be
thought as surely to be going to the dogs as
one who takes to drinking.


   KING James to royal Stirling town
     Was riding from the chace,
   When he was aware of a banished man
     Return'd without his grace.

   The man stood forward from the crowd
      In act to make appeal:
   Said James, but in no pleasant tone,
      "Yonder is my Gray-steel."

   He knew him not by his attire,
      Which was but poor in plight;
   He knew him not by his brown curls,
      For they were turn'd to white;

   He knew him not by followers,
     For want had made them strange;
   He knew him by his honest look,
     Which time could never change.

   Kilspindie was a Douglas bold,
     Who, when the king was young,
   Had pleased him like the grim Gray-steel,
     Of whom sweet verse is sung:

   Had pleas'd him by his sword that cropp'd
     The knights of their renown,
   And by a foot so fleet and firm,
     No horse could tire it down.

   But James hath sworn an angry oath,
     That as he was king crown'd,
   No Douglas ever more should set
       His foot on Scottish ground.

   Too bold had been the Douglas race,
     Too haughty and too strong;
   Only Kilspindie of them all
     Had never done him wrong.

   "A boon! a boon!" Kilspindie cried;
     "Pardon that here am I:
   In France I have grown old and sad,
     In Scotland I would die."

   Kilspindie knelt, Kilspindie bent,
     His Douglas pride was gone;
   The king he neither spoke nor look'd,
     But sternly rode straight on.

   Kilspindie rose, and pace for pace
     Held on beside the train,
   His cap in hand, his looks in hope,
     His heart in doubt and pain.

   Before them lay proud Stirling hill,
     The way grew steep and strong,
   The king shook bridle suddenly,
     And up swept all the throng.

   Kilspindie said within himself:
     "He thinks of Auld Lang Syne,
   And wishes pleasantly to see
     What strength may still be mine."

   On rode the court, Kilspindie ran,
     His smile grew half distress' d;
   There wasn't a man in that company,
     Save one, but wished him rest.

   Still on they rode, and still ran he,
     His breath he scarce could get;
   There wasn't a man in that company,
     Save one, with eyes unwet.

   The king has entered Stirling town,
     Nor ever graced him first;
   Kilspindie sat him down, and ask'd
     Some water for his thirst.

   But they had mark'd the monarch's face,
     And how he kept his pride;
   And old Kilspindie in his need
     Is water's self denied.

   Ten weeks thereafter, sever'd still
     From Scotland's dear embrace,
   Kilspindie died of broken heart,
     Sped by that cruel race.

   Ten years thereafter, his last breath
     King James as sadly drew;
   And though he died of many thoughts,
     Kilspindie cross'd him too.


"WHO is Lloyd?"

In common with thousands of others I have
often asked this question, while reading in the
newspapers of terrible disasters at sea, of loss
of noble, richly-freighted ships and richer
human lives, of damage done to cargoes, of
wrecks found floating on the waste of waters far
at sea, of solitary spars, or empty casks picked
up on foreign shores: I had read, too, with
gladdened heartand who has not?—of ships
arrived in far-off colonies or Indian ports, with
some dear friends on board, and all reported

He must be a most wonderful man, this
Lloyd, whose Shipping Lists supply all
this intelligence.  Is he some active and
wealthy ship-broker, a native of Wales,
wearing a Welsh wig, and busily occupied with
long lists of ships in some little dark dusty
office, somewhere down by Custom House
Quay ?  Nobody could tell me, so I resolved
to make Mr. Lloyd's acquaintance, and to
learn from his own lips how he contrived to
gather together such a mass of intelligence as
he does gather within the space of twenty-four

My inquiries led me to the Royal
Exchange, where I was told I should find
Lloyd's, and where, at the end of half-an-
hour of questioning, I actually discovered two
gigantic doors, with the sought-for word
blazoned over them in burnished brass. The
doors were flung wide open, as though one or
two ships were going to be launched through
them very shortly.  Before me, as I entered,
rose a noble flight of stairs, as wide almost
as a frigate's deck, and up and down these
Titan stones rushed past me scores of people
in half abstracted mood.  I could have
imagined that the men I met rushing out had
just heard of some fearful shipwreck, involving