“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 divert him to another and lead him on to pour out his heaps of treasure in succession.

“What has that fellow been saying to you?” said Shaw, as I returned to the tent.  “I have heard nothing but his talking for the last half-hour.”