He was aware that the person to whom he had written was acquainted with the ruined fortunes of his house; and it was gall to his spirit to find that he not only wrote as if ignorant of them, but addressed him with the unfeeling familiarity of cold politeness, attributing to the folly of youth what he well knew to be the effect of misery and ruin. He applied to another without obtaining any answer whatever; and the third to whom he applied, having read his note, sent a verbal message by the bearer, saying, “Tell Mr Hamilton that Mr —— is not at home.” Indignant at the treatment of supposed friends, on the evening of the second day he discharged his bill at the coffee-house (on doing which he had but a few shillings left), and resolved to call personally upon an old college associate who had been often obliged to him, and who then was indebted to him more than a hundred pounds. This university companion, after coming of age, had fitted up a house in a style of absurd extravagance in Leicester Square. I should have told you that, previous to Alexander’s proceeding to London, he had been compelled to dispose of the best part of his apparel to support his wife and himself, and, at the time we speak of, his appearance was what ought to be termed _shabby genteel_. He proceeded to the house of his friend, and striking upon the huge brass knocker, in the absence of the porter, a pert little French valet, with powdered hair, peeped cautiously from behind the door, and surveying him with a glance of aversion and contempt, in which he no doubt set him down to be a dun, he inquired—“Vat you vant, fellow?” “The Honourable Edward Stafford, your master,” said Alexander, firmly. “Mon Dieu! ha! ha! ha!” said the little Gaul, and attempted to thrust the door in his face; but Alexander, perceiving his intention, thrust forth his hand with a force that made the door fly back upon its hinges, and caused the huge brass knocker to sound an unusual and unceremonious alarm through the house, and at the same time drove the little powdered piece of foreign impertinence upon his back at the further end of the lobby. “Moorder! moorder!” shouted the little valet, sprawling upon his back, and kicking with his feet upon the floor, till kitchen-maids, housekeeper, cook, butler, and all the personages in the Honourable Edward Stafford’s establishment, came rushing around him, holding up their hands. “_O sacra Marie!_” cried the little valet, as they raised him to his feet; “de tief! de savage! vould commit von moorder!—_Ma foi!_ it be de miracle I be alive!” and, gathering himself upon his hands and knees, he muttered, eyeing him askance—“_Je voudrais qu’il s’en allat!_”