or a partridge!'

"I can only hope he forgave me.

"Carlyle? Well, from about 1865, and on to near his death, at the
request of the Sage of Chelsea, I spent many pleasant evenings with him.
He usually sat on a low seat leaning against the side of the fire,
smoking a long clay pipe up the drawing-room chimney. I sat on a chair
on the opposite side of the fireplace. I do not remember that we ever
had any form of drinkable refreshments during the couple of hours I
might be with him in the evening.

"One night I questioned him about the destruction of the manuscript of a
volume of his 'French Revolution.' I asked, 'Is it true that an entire
volume of the manuscript was lost or destroyed?' when he replied in a
tone of distress, 'Yes, yes; it is ower true. I lent it to a friend, and
never saw it again.' I said, 'I can hardly comprehend how you got over
it.' He replied, 'For two days and nights I could neither eat nor
sleep.' I then said, 'Well, but you did get over it, some way?' 'Well,
yes,' he replied. 'I just went into the country, and for several weeks
did nothing but read Marryat's novels.' Bursting into a loud laugh, the
thought of this time seemed now to amuse him. 'Well,' I said, 'and what
did you do then?' When he replied, with a deep sigh, 'I just came back
and wrote it all over again.' Then he further said, solemnly, 'I dinna
think it's the same; no, I dinna think it's the same!'

[Illustration: DR. SUTHERLAND. MR. RAWLINSON.

"IN THE CRIMEA."

_From a Painting._]

"On other evenings we had conversations on various matters, as for
instance, modern portrait statuary in London, which I said upon the
whole was not satisfactory, in which he agreed. I ended the discussion
by saying that if our portrait statuary became much worse, when some
monster murderer had been tried and found guilty, the judge, putting on
the black cap, should say, 'Prisoner at the bar, a jury of your
countrymen having found you guilty of a most atrocious crime, you must
be hanged until you are dead, and then a statue shall be erected to
perpetuate your memory, and God help your soul.' Carlyle assented, but
not in any hearty manner. No doubt I had ventured a little out of my
bearings.

"On another occasion I brought on the subject of the attack of Mrs.
Beecher Stowe on the memory of Lord Byron. I said there might be
something in Byron's separation from his wife neither agreeable nor
pleasant, but that I could not believe there was much o