But all this had long passed away.  He was now a bachelor past fifty, bearish and uncouth in his appearance, and ungracious in his deportment.  Secluded in his chambers, poring over the dry technicalities of his profession, he had divided the moral world into two parts—­honest and dishonest, lawful and unlawful.  All other feelings and affections, if he had them, were buried, and had never been raised to the surface.  At the time we speak of, he continued his laborious, yet lucrative, profession, toiling in his harness like a horse in a mill, heaping up riches, knowing not who should gather them; not from avarice, but from long habit, which rendered his profession not only his pleasure, but essential to his very existence.  Edward Forster had not seen him for nearly twenty years; the last time was when he passed through London upon his retirement from the service.  Indeed, as they never corresponded (for there was nothing in common between them), it is a matter of doubt whether Jock was exactly aware which of his brothers remained alive; and had it been a subject of interest, he would, in all probability, have referred to the former letters of his father and mother, as legal documents, to ascertain who was remaining of his kin.

The next surviving son was yclept (there’s something very consonant in that word) Nicholas.  The Reverend Mr Forster, who had no inheritance to bequeath to his family except a good name, which, although better than riches, will not always procure for a man one penny loaf, naturally watched for any peculiar symptoms of genius in his children which might designate one of the various paths to wealth and fame by which it would be most easy for the individual to ascend.  Now it did occur that when Nicholas was yet in womanish attire, he showed a great partiality to a burning-glass, with which he contrived to do much mischief.  He would burn the dog’s nose as he slept in the sun before the door.  His mother’s gown showed proofs of his genius by sundry little round holes, which were considerably increased each time that it returned from the wash.  Nay, heretical and damnable as is the fact, his father’s surplice was as a moth-eaten garment from the repeated and insidious attacks of this young philosopher.  The burning-glass decided his fate.  He was bound apprentice to an optical and mathematical instrument maker; from which situation he was, if possible, to emerge into the highest grade of the profession; but somehow or another, a want of ambition or of talent did not permit him to ascend the scale, and he now kept a shop in the small seaport town of Overton, where he repaired damaged articles of science—­a watch one day, a quadrant or a compass another; but his chief employment and his chief forte lay in telescopes; and accordingly, a large board, with “Nicholas Forster, Optician,” surmounted the small shop window, at which he was invariably to be seen at his employment.  He was an eccentric person, one of