he became proficient in French, German and Italian, and was able to enjoy in their own language the literature of those countries.  A Scottish nobleman, impressed by his wonderful poetical talent, defrayed the expenses of a tour which he made in Italy and an extended stay in Rome, to the enrichment of his mind and to his great enjoyment.  On his return to Scotland he published a book of poems.  In an introduction to this book the Revd.  George Gilfillan wrote, “The volume he now presents to the world is distinguished by great variety of subject and modes of treatment.  It has a number of sweet Scottish verses, plaintive or pawky.  It has some strains of a higher mood, reminding us of Keats in their imagination.  But the highest effort, if not also the most decided success, is his series of sonnets, entitled, ‘In Rome.’  And certainly this is a remarkable series.”  A remarkable man he was indeed; simple and earnest in manner, with a fine eye, a full dark beard and sunburnt face.  Tiring, however, of a labourer’s life and of the pick and shovel, he left the railway and became assistant librarian of Edinburgh University, and three years afterwards Secretary to the Philosophical Institution of Edinburgh.  He afterwards became Chief Librarian to the Edinburgh University.  He died in the summer of 1909.  He stayed with me in Glasgow once for a week-end, and on the Sunday afternoon we together visited a friend of his who lived near, a literary man, who then was engaged in writing a series of lives of the Poets for some publishing house.  An interesting part of our conversation was about Carlyle with whom this friend was intimate, had in fact just returned from visiting him at Chelsea.  He told us many interesting stories of the sage.  I remember one.  He was staying with the Carlyles, when Mrs. Carlyle was alive.  One evening at tea, a copper kettle, with hot water, stood on the hob.  Mrs. Carlyle made a movement as if to rise, with her eye directed to the kettle; the friend, divining her wish, rose and handed her the kettle.  She thanked him, and, with a pathetic and wistful gaze at Carlyle, added, “Ay, Tam, ye never did the like o’ that!”

My first trip abroad was in 1883, and my companion, G. G. We went to Paris via Newhaven, Dieppe and Rouen, and at Rouen stayed a day and a night, and spent about a fortnight in Paris.  We were accompanied from London by a friend I have not yet named, one who was well known in the railway world, Tony Visinet, the British Engineering and Commercial Agent of the Western Railway of France; a delightful companion always, full of the charm and vivacity that belong to his country.  He took us to see his mother at Rouen, who lived in an old-fashioned house retired from the road, in a pleasant court-yard; a charming old lady, with whom G. G. was able to converse, but I was not.  Tony Visinet’s life was full of movement and variety.  He had lodgings in London, and a flat in Paris, traversed the Channel continually, and I remember his proudly celebrating his fifteen hundredth crossing.