Don't you see it
burning?"
"It ain't half done," growled Sorel, in the amiable tone of a whipped
bull-dog.
"It is. Turn it over, I tell you!"
Sorel, a strong, sullen-looking Canadian, who from having spent his
life among the wildest and most remote of the Indian tribes, had
imbibed much of their dark, vindictive spirit, looked ferociously up,
as if he longed to leap upon his bourgeois and throttle him; but he
obeyed the order, coming from 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, philosphy 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.
