It was at the Gentlemen's Concert Hall that he first met James Lawrie, the dramatic critic of our weekly newspaper who wrote under the name of "Snug," and had some public reputation as a writer of elegant poetry, and an immense fame among journalists and actors and theatrical musicians and painters as a composer of bawdy verses. This man was a Scotsman, a hard drinker, and he was said to know every verse that Robert Burns ever wrote by heart, and also to have many poems that had never been printed. He used to write notices of the little performances in the Gentlemen's Concert Hall, and, as he could be very scathing, the actors used to fawn upon him and flatter him. The spotty-faced youth introduced him to Frederic one night, and the old man--he was not above fifty-five, but he had always been Old Lawrie--shook him warmly by the hand and said: "I'm proud to meet your father's son, sir." That rather staggered Frederic, to whom it had never occurred that his father might be admirable. Old Lawrie saw that he was a little taken aback and he scowled and went on: "Come, come! Not ashamed of your father, are you, heh? My sons are, but then my sons are respectable. That's what's the matter with them, they're respectable and safe. Safe's a good word for a gag. You can bring your lips together on it hard." "I was at school in France," replied Frederic with a flush of timidity under his paint. He had just come from the dress-rehearsal on the stage, the play being _Still Waters Run Deep_. "If you like France," said Old Lawrie, "you won't like this cursed hole. You'll die in it. I've never been to France myself, but I've read their books. They pull everything to bits with their brains. Nothing left. They're a better lot than we are. Got no morals, but who has? We pretend to have 'em. They don't. Know your Burns? It's in print, so I see no reason why I shouldn't speak it: _O Lord! yestreen, Thou ken, wi' Meg-- Thy pardon I sincerely beg, O may it ne'er be a livin' plague To my dishonour, An' I'll ne'er lift a lawless leg Again upon her. Maybe Thou lets the fleshly thorn Beset thy servant e'en and morn, Lest he owre high and proud should turn 'Cause he's sae gifted: If sae, Thy hand maun e'en be borne, Until Thou lift it. But, Lord, remember me and mine Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine That I for fear and grace may shine Excell'd by nane, An' a' the glory shall be Thine, Amen, Amen._ Old Lawrie was a fine man as he declaimed the verses. His eyes flashed and his voice came big from his chest, and when he had done he turned to Frederic and said: