not cut my comb, and this is that which you may depend upon." Francis made no reply; and they resumed their usual attention to the business of the shop, and their usual solicitations to the passengers.1 1 Note II.-George Heriot. CHAPTER III. Bobadil. I pray you, possess no gallant of your acquaintance with a knowledge of my lodging. Master Matthew. Who, I, sir? - Lord, sir! BEN JONSON. THE next morning found Nigel Olifaunt, the young Lord of Glenvarloch, seated, sad and solitary, in his little apartment, in the mansion of John Christie, the ship-chandler; which that honest tradesman, in gratitude perhaps to the profession from which he derived his chief support, appeared to have constructed as nearly as possible upon the plan of a ship's cabin. It was situated near to Paul's Wharf, at the end of one of those intricate and narrow lanes, which, until that part of the city was swept away by the Great Fire in 1666, constituted an extraordinary labyrinth of small, dark, damp, and unwholesome streets and alleys, in one corner or other of which the plague was then as surely found lurking, as in the obscure corners of Constantinople in our own time. But John Christie's house looked out upon the river, and had the advantage, therefore, of free air, impregnated, however, with the odoriferous fumes of the articles in which the ship-chandler dealt with the odour of pitch, and the natural scent of the ooze and sludge left by the reflux of the tide. Upon the whole, except that his dwelling did not float with the flood-tide, and become stranded with |