Pirbright Smith is well. Old Mr. Pegfurth Bannatyne is here staying at a country inn. His whole baggage is a pair of socks and a book in a fishing-basket; and he borrows even a rod from the landlord. He walked here over the hills from Sanquhar, ‘singin’, he says, ‘like a mavis.’ I naturally asked him about Hazlitt. ‘He wouldnae take his drink,’ he said, ‘a queer, queer fellow.’ But did not seem further communicative. He says he has become ‘releegious,’ but still swears like a trooper. I asked him if he had no headquarters. ‘No likely,’ said he. He says he is writing his memoirs, which will be interesting. He once met Borrow; they boxed; ‘and Geordie,’ says the old man chuckling, ‘gave me the damnedest hiding.’ Of Wordsworth he remarked, ‘He wasnae sound in the faith, sir, and a milk-blooded, blue-spectacled bitch forbye. But his po’mes are grand—there’s no denying that.’ I asked him what his book was. ‘I havenae mind,’ said he—that was his only book! On turning it out, I found it was one of my own, and on showing it to him, he remembered it at once. ‘O aye,’ he said, ‘I mind now. It’s pretty bad; ye’ll have to do better than that, chieldy,’ and chuckled, chuckled. He is a strange old figure, to be sure. He cannot endure Pirbright Smith—‘a mere æsth_a_tic,’ he said. ‘Pooh!’ ‘Fishin’ and releegion—these are my aysthatics,’ he wound up. I thought this would interest you, so scribbled it down. I still hope to get more out of him about Hazlitt, though he utterly pooh-poohed the idea of writing H.’s life. ‘Ma life now,’ he said, ‘there’s been queer things in _it_.’ He is seventy-nine! but may well last to a hundred!—Yours ever, R. L S. VI MARSEILLES AND HYÈRES, OCTOBER 1882-AUGUST 1884 TO THE EDITOR OF THE ‘NEW YORK TRIBUNE’ _Terminus Hotel_, _Marseilles_, _October_ 16, 1882. SIR,—It has come to my ears that you have lent the authority of your columns to an error. More than half in pleasantry—and I now think the pleasantry ill-judged—I complained in a note to my _New Arabian Nights_ that some one, who shall remain nameless for me, had borrowed the idea of a story from one of mine. As if I had not borrowed the ideas of the half of my own! As if any one who had written a story ill had a right to complain of any other who should have written it better! I am indeed thoroughly ashamed of the note, and of the principle which it implies. But it is no mere abstract penitence which leads me to beg a corner of your paper—it is the desire to defend the honour of a man of letters equally known in America and England, of a man who could afford to lend to me and yet be none the poorer; and who, if he would so far condescend, has my free permission to borrow from me all that he can find worth borrowing.