Once more in the streets, I turned my steps towards Basset's house, where I hoped, at all events, to learn some tidings of my brother. I was not long in arriving at the street, and speedily recognized the old house, whose cobwebbed windows and unwashed look reminded me of former times. The very sound of the heavy iron knocker awoke its train of recollections; and when the door was opened, and I saw the narrow hall, with its cracked lamp and damp, discolored walls, the whole heart-sinking with which they once inspired me came back again, and I thought of Tony Basset when his very name was a thing of terror to me. Mr. Basset, I was told, was at court, and I was shown into the office to await his return. The gloomy little den,--I knew it well, with its dirty shelves of dirtier papers, its old tin boxes, and its rickety desk, at which two meanly-dressed starveling youths were busy writing. They turned a rapid glance towards me as I entered; and as they resumed their occupation, I could hear a muttered remark upon my dress and appearance, the purport of which I did not catch. I sat for some time patiently, expecting Basset's arrival, but as the time stole by, I grew wearied with waiting, and determined on ascertaining, if I might, from the clerks, some intelligence concerning my brother. “Have you any business with Mr. Burke?” said the youth I addressed, while his features assumed an expression of vulgar jocularity. “Yes,” was my brief reply. “Wouldn't a letter do as well as a personal interview?” said the other, with an air of affected courtesy. “Perhaps so,” I replied, too deeply engaged in my own thoughts to mind their flippant impertinence. “Then mind you direct your letter 'Churchyard, Loughrea;' or, if you want to be particular, say 'Family vault.'” [Illustration: 426] “Is he dead? Is George dead?” “That's hard to say,” interposed the other; “but they've buried him, that's certain.” Like a stunning blow, the shock of this news left me unable to speak or hear. A maze of confused thoughts crossed and jostled each other in my brain, and I could neither collect myself nor listen to what was said around me. My first clear memory was of a thousand little childish traits of love which had passed between us. Tokens of affection long forgotten now rushed freshly to my mind; and he whom a moment before I had condemned as wanting in all brotherly feeling, I now sorrowed for with true grief. The low and vulgar insolence of the speakers made no impression on me; and when, in answer to my questions, they narrated the manner of his death,--a fever contracted after some debauch at Oxford,--I only heard the tidings, but did not notice the unfeeling tone it was conveyed in.