Here are three of the stanzas:— “Thocht thow be Paip or Cardinall, Sa heich in thy Pontificall, Resist thow God that creat all, Than downe thou sall cum, downe. “Thocht thow be Archebischop or Deane, Chantour, Chanslar, or Chaplane, Resist thow God, thy gloir is gane, And downe thow sall cum, downe. “Thocht thow flow in Philosophie, Or graduate in Theologie, Yit, and thow fyle the veritie, Than downe thow sall cum, downe.” Most pleasant of all it was when, later in the evening, we moved to the low trellised verandah on the south side of the house, opening on the beautiful garden of flowers and evergreens in which Syme took such delight. It was a fine, still evening; and, as the talk went on in the open air, with the garden stretching in front of us and the views of the hills beyond, only with the accompaniment now of wreaths of tobacco-smoke, Syme, who disliked tobacco, was smilingly tolerant even of that accompaniment, in honour of the chief smoker. For more than twelve years after that evening, which I remember now like a dream, Carlyle was still in the land of the living, advancing from his seventy-third year to his eighty-sixth; but hardly a year of the twelve had elapsed when the great surgeon who had entertained him, and who was so much his junior, was struck by the paralysis which carried him off. It is from Dr. John Brown that we have this touching record of Syme’s last days:—