The manager of the working departments—Mr. Hughes being now more in connection with the counting-room—was Daniel M’Corkindale. He never spoke above a whisper, nor stirred out of his quiet manner, and yet, under his control, every man and boy performed his task with despatch and the regularity of clockwork. M’Corkindale was part and parcel of that office—visit it at what hour of the day or night you pleased, there you found him; and even on a Sunday he would take the key and flit noiselessly among the untenanted case-frames and silent presses. James Hogg called him the honest and indefatigable M’Corkindale. After thirty years of faithful service, he died in March 1833, two months after his master. Mr. James Bertram, editor of the _North Briton_, published in 1893 “Memories of Books and Authors,” which contained the following notice of the Ballantyne Press in 1837-38: “I had often occasion to visit Paul’s Work, where my friend, Mr. R. H. Patterson, afterwards editor of the _Edinburgh Advertiser_, was one of the ‘readers.’ Ballantyne’s was an office in which many ‘characters’ were to be found, including ‘the Major,’ Mr. Cartwright, an accomplished printer’s-reader; Mr. Christie, one of the foremen; and William Tofts, one of the machinists. These men had all known Sir Walter, Mr. Lockhart, Mr. Constable, Mr. Blackwood, Professor Wilson, and others of the bright spirits of _Maga_. One of the old ‘pigs’[34] of the house delighted to tell us stories about Sir Walter, ‘stories that Mr. Lockhart kent naething ava aboot.’ He maintained that he knew who wrote the novels ‘almost as soon as the master’ (Mr. James Ballantyne). When asked how that came about, he would tell his best tale with a sufficient amount of importance; and although it was credited in the office, I cannot guarantee its accuracy. ‘I had just begun (he would say) to a new sheet of “Guy Mannering” one night a while after twelve—we were working late in the press-room at that time—and all the compositors had left, when in comes Mr. Ballantyne himself, with a letter in his hand and a lot of types. “I am going to make a small alteration, Sandy,” he said, “just unlock the forme, will you? I’ll not keep you many minutes.” Well, I did as I was bidden, and Mr. B., looking at the letter, altered three lines on one page and one line on another. “That will do now, I think, Sandy,” were his words; “but first pull a sheet till I see.” The master then looked carefully over the two pages and said, “Bring me the printed sheets—they’ll have to be destroyed,” and off he went, never thinking that he had left the letter lying on my bank. I had barely time to get a glimpse at it, when back came Mr. Ballantyne, but I kent the hand weel, and the signature, and it was “Walter Scott.” I had a great lang ballant (ballad) in Sir Walter’s ain hand o’ write at hame, so that I was nae stranger to it. I would hae likit to see what the difference was that was made in the sheets, but