to dine with me, alas! only eight days before he died.

Motley was a singularly pleasant fellow. My friendship with
him began over a volume of Sir W. Hamilton's Lectures. He

asked what I was reading - I handed him the book.
'A-h,' said he, 'there's no mental gymnastic like

metaphysics.'
Many a battle we afterwards had over them. When I was at

Cannes in 1877 I got a message from him one day saying he was
ill, and asking me to come and see him. He did not say how

ill, so I put off going. Two days after I heard he was dead.
Merimee's cynicism rather alarmed one. He was a capital

caricaturist, though, to our astonishment, he assured us he
had never drawn, or used a colour-box, till late in life. He

had now learnt to use it, in a way that did not invariably
give satisfaction. Landseer always struck me as sensitive

and proud, a Diogenes-tempered individual who had been spoilt
by the toadyism of great people. He was agreeable if made

much of, or almost equally so if others were made little of.
But of all those named, surely John Lawrence was the

greatest. I wish I had read his life before it ended. Yet,
without knowing anything more of him than that he was Chief

Commissioner of the Punjab, which did not convey much to my
understanding, one felt the greatness of the man beneath his

calm simplicity. One day the party went out for a deer-
drive; I was instructed to place Sir John in the pass below

mine. To my disquietude he wore a black overcoat. I assured
him that not a stag would come within a mile of us, unless he

covered himself with a grey plaid, or hid behind a large rock
there was, where I assured him he would see nothing.

'Have the deer to pass me before they go on to you?' he
asked.

'Certainly they have,' said I; 'I shall be up there above
you.'

'Well then,' was his answer, 'I'll get behind the rock - it
will be more snug out of the wind.'

One might as well have asked the deer not to see him, as try
to persuade John Lawrence not to sacrifice himself for

others. That he did so here was certain, for the deer came
within fifty yards of him, but he never fired a shot.

Another of the Indian viceroys was the innocent occasion of
great discomfort to me, or rather his wife was. Lady Elgin

had left behind her a valuable diamond necklace. I was going
back to my private tutor at Ely a few days after, and the

necklace was entrusted to me to deliver to its owner on my
way through London. There was no railway then further north

than Darlington, except that between Edinburgh and Glasgow.
When I reached Edinburgh by coach from Inverness, my

portmanteau was not to be found. The necklace was in a
despatch-box in my portmanteau; and by an unlucky oversight,

I had put my purse into my despatch-box. What was to be
done? I was a lad of seventeen, in a town where I did not

know a soul, with seven or eight shillings at most in my
pocket. I had to break my journey and to stop where I was

till I could get news of the necklace; this alone was clear
to me, for the necklace was the one thing I cared for.

At the coach office all the comfort I could get was that the
lost luggage might have gone on to Glasgow; or, what was more

probable, might have gone astray at Burntisland. It might
not have been put on board, or it might not have been taken

off the ferry-steamer. This could not be known for twenty-
four hours, as there was no boat to or from Burntisland till

the morrow. I decided to try Glasgow. A return third-class
ticket left me without a copper. I went, found nothing, got

back to Edinburgh at 10 P.M., ravenously hungry, dead tired,
and so frightened about the necklace that food, bed, means of

continuing my journey, were as mere death compared with
irreparable dishonour. What would they all think of me? How

could I prove that I had not stolen the diamonds? Would Lord
Elgin accuse me? How could I have been such an idiot as to

leave them in my portmanteau! Some rascal might break it
open, and then, goodbye to my chance for ever! Chance? what

chance was there of seeing that luggage again? There were so
many 'mights.' I couldn't even swear that I had seen it on

the coach at Inverness. Oh dear! oh dear! What was to be
done? I walked about the streets; I glanced woefully at

door-steps, whereon to pass the night; I gazed piteously
through the windows of a cheap cook's shop, where solid

wedges of baked pudding, that would have stopped digestion
for a month, were advertised for a penny a block. How rich

should I have been if I had had a penny in my pocket! But I
had to turn away in despair.

At last the inspiration came. I remembered hearing Mr.
Ellice say that he always put up at Douglas' Hotel when he

stayed in Edinburgh. I had very little hope of success, but
I was too miserable to hesitate. It was very late, and

everybody might be gone to bed. I rang the bell. 'I want to
see the landlord.'

'Any name?' the porter asked.
'No.' The landlord came, fat, amiable looking. 'May I speak

to you in private?' He showed the way to an unoccupied room.
'I think you know Mr. Ellice?'

'Glenquoich, do you mean?'
'Yes.'

'Oh, very well - he always stays here on his way through.'
'I am his step-son; I left Glenquoich yesterday. I have lost

my luggage, and am left without any money. Will you lend me
five pounds?' I believe if I were in the same strait now,

and entered any strange hotel in the United Kingdom at half-
past ten at night, and asked the landlord to give me five

pounds upon a similar security, he would laugh in my face, or
perhaps give me in charge of a policeman.

My host of Douglas' did neither; but opened both his heart
and his pocket-book, and with the greatest good humour handed

me the requested sum. What good people there are in this
world, which that crusty old Sir Peter Teazle calls 'a d-d

wicked one.' I poured out all my trouble to the generous
man. He ordered me an excellent supper, and a very nice

room. And on the following day, after taking a great deal of
trouble, he recovered my lost luggage and the priceless

treasure it contained. It was a proud and happy moment when
I returned his loan, and convinced him, of what he did not

seem to doubt, that I was positively not a swindler.
But the roofless night and the empty belly, consequent on an

empty pocket, was a lesson which I trust was not thrown away
upon me. It did not occur to me to do so, but I certainly

might have picked a pocket, if - well, if I had been brought
up to it. Honesty, as I have often thought since, is dirt

cheap if only one can afford it.
Before departing from my beloved Glenquoich, I must pay a

passing tribute to the remarkable qualities of Mrs. Edward
Ellice and of her youngest sister Mrs. Robert Ellice, the

mother of the present member for St. Andrews. It was, in a
great measure, the bright intelligence, the rare tact, and

social gifts of these two ladies that made this beautiful
Highland resort so attractive to all comers.

CHAPTER XXXVIII
THE winter of 1854-55 I spent in Rome. Here I made the

acquaintance of Leighton, then six-and-twenty. I saw a good
deal of him, as I lived almost entirely amongst the artists,

taking lessons myself in water colours of Leitch. Music also
brought us into contact. He had a beautiful voice, and used

to sing a good deal with Mrs. Sartoris - Adelaide Kemble -
whom he greatly admired, and whose portrait is painted under

a monk's cowl, in the Cimabue procession.