a matter of duty.  Every member of the Mohawk Club was bound to possess an accomplishment.  One was “a dancing master;” that is to say he made the rustics frisk about by pricking the calves of their legs with the point of his sword.  Others knew how to make a man sweat; that is to say, a circle of gentlemen with drawn rapiers would surround a poor wretch, so that it was impossible for him not to turn his back upon some one.  The gentleman behind him chastised him for this by a prick of his sword, which made him spring round; another prick in the back warned the fellow that one of noble blood was behind him, and so on, each one wounding him in his turn.  When the man, closed round by the circle of swords and covered with blood, had turned and danced about enough, they ordered their servants to beat him with sticks, to change the course of his ideas.  Others “hit the lion”—­that is, they gaily stopped a passenger, broke his nose with a blow of the fist, and then shoved both thumbs into his eyes.  If his eyes were gouged out, he was paid for them.

Such were, towards the beginning of the eighteenth century, the pastimes of the rich idlers of London.  The idlers of Paris had theirs.  M. de Charolais was firing his gun at a citizen standing on his own threshold.  In all times youth has had its amusements.

Lord David Dirry-Moir brought into all these institutions his magnificent and liberal spirit.  Just like any one else, he would gaily set fire to a cot of woodwork and thatch, and just scorch those within; but he would rebuild their houses in stone.  He insulted two ladies.  One was unmarried—­he gave her a portion; the other was married—­he had her husband appointed chaplain.

Cockfighting owed him some praiseworthy improvements.  It was marvellous to see Lord David dress a cock for the pit.  Cocks lay hold of each other by the feathers, as men by the hair.  Lord David, therefore, made his cock as bald as possible.  With a pair of scissors he cut off all the feathers from the tail and from the head to the shoulders, and all those on the neck.  So much less for the enemy’s beak, he used to say.  Then he extended the cock’s wings, and cut each feather, one after another, to a point, and thus the wings were furnished with darts.  So much for the enemy’s eyes, he would say.  Then he scraped its claws with a penknife, sharpened its nails, fitted it with spurs of sharp steel, spat on its head, spat on its neck, anointed it with spittle, as they used to rub oil over athletes; then set it down in the pit, a redoubtable champion, exclaiming, “That’s how to make a cock an eagle, and a bird of the poultry yard a bird of the mountain.”