so experienced an artist.

"It was a good idea of yours," said I, seating myself on the tongue of a
wagon, "to bring Indian meal with you."

"Yes, yes" said R. "It's good bread for the prairie--good bread for the
prairie. I tell you that's burning again."

Here he stooped down, and unsheathing the silver-mounted hunting-knife
in his belt, began to perform the part of cook himself; at the same
time requesting me to hold for a moment the book under his arm, which
interfered with the exercise of these important functions. I opened
it; it was "Macaulay's Lays"; and I made some remark, expressing my
admiration of the work.

"Yes, yes; a pretty good thing. Macaulay can do better than that though.
I know him very well. I have traveled with him. Where was it we first
met--at Damascus? No, no; it was in Italy."

"So," said I, "you have been over the same ground with your countryman,
the author of 'Eothen'? There has been some discussion in America as to
who he is. I have heard Milne's name mentioned."

"Milne's? Oh, no, no, no; not at all. It was Kinglake; Kinglake's the
man. I know him very well; that is, I have seen him."

Here Jack C., who stood by, interposed a remark (a thing not common with
him), observing that he thought the weather would become fair before
twelve o'clock.

"It's going to rain all day," said R., "and clear up in the middle of
the night."

Just then the clouds began to dissipate in a very unequivocal manner;
but Jack, not caring to defend his point against so authoritative a
declaration, walked away whistling, and we resumed our conversation.

"Borrow, the author of 'The Bible in Spain,' I presume you know him
too?"

"Oh, certainly; I know all those men. By the way, they told me that one
of your American writers, Judge Story, had died lately. I edited some of
his works in London; not without faults, though."

Here followed an erudite commentary on certain points of law, in which
he particularly animadverted on the errors into which he considered that
the judge had been betrayed. At length, having touched successively
on an infinite variety of topics, I found that I had the happiness
of discovering a man equally competent to enlighten me upon them all,
equally an authority on matters of science or literature, philosophy or
fashion. The part I bore in the conversation was by no means a prominent
one; it was only necessary to set him going, and when he had run long
enough upon one topic, to di