My brother, who, for some years past, had been receiving his education in a certain celebrated school in England, was now with us; and it came to pass, that one day my father, as he sat at table, looked steadfastly on my brother and myself, and then addressed my mother:—­’During my journey down hither, I have lost no opportunity of making inquiries about these people, the Scotch, amongst whom we now are, and since I have been here I have observed them attentively.  From what I have heard and seen, I should say that upon the whole they are a very decent set of people; they seem acute and intelligent, and I am told that their system of education is so excellent that every person is learned—­more or less acquainted with Greek and Latin.  There is one thing, however, connected with them, which is a great drawback—­the horrid jargon which they speak.  However learned they may be in Greek and Latin, their English is execrable; and yet I’m told it is not so bad as it was.  I was in company, the other day, with an Englishman who has resided here many years.  We were talking about the country and the people.  “I should like both very well,” said I, “were it not for the language.  I wish sincerely our Parliament, which is passing so many foolish acts every year, would pass one to force these Scotch to speak English.”  “I wish so, too,” said he.  “The language is a disgrace to the British Government; but, if you had heard it twenty years ago, captain!—­if you had heard it as it was spoken when I first came to Edinburgh!"’

‘Only custom,’ said my mother.  ’I daresay the language is now what it was then.’

‘I don’t know,’ said my father; ’though I daresay you are right; it could never have been worse than it is at present.  But now to the point.  Were it not for the language, which, if the boys were to pick it up, might ruin their prospects in life,—­were it not for that, I should very much like to send them to a school there is in this place, which everybody talks about—­the High School I think they call it.  ’Tis said to be the best school in the whole island; but the idea of one’s children speaking Scotch—­broad Scotch!  I must think the matter over.’

And he did think the matter over; and the result of his deliberation was a determination to send us to the school.  Let me call thee up before my mind’s eye, High School, to which, every morning, the two English brothers took their way from the proud old Castle through the lofty streets of the Old Town.  High School!—­called so, I scarcely know why; neither lofty in thyself nor by position, being situated in a flat bottom; oblong structure of tawny stone, with many windows fenced with iron netting—­with thy long hall below, and thy five chambers above, for the reception of the five classes, into which the eight hundred urchins who styled thee instructress were divided.  Thy learned rector and his four subordinate dominies; thy strange old porter of the tall form and