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THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 
 [From a Pliotograph by Elliott and Fry, London.] 
 
REMi:^ISCEIsrOE8 
 
 BY 
 
 THOMAS CARLYLE 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE 
 
 WITH COPIOUS INDEX 
 
 I APR 6 1881^ 
 
 NEW YORK 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE 
 
 1881 
 
 'Jr 
 

 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1881, by 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, 
 In tho Office of the Librarian of Congress, at "Washington. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 JAMES CARLYLE, OF ECCLEFECHAN 
 EDWAED IRYING ..... 
 LORD JEFFREY .... 
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 
 APPENDIX :— SOUTHEY ; WORDSWORTH 
 
 PAGE 
 
 1 
 
 SI 
 169 
 203 
 321 
 
P E E F A C E. 
 
 In the summer of 1871, Mr. Carlyle placed in my hands a collec- 
 tion of MSS. of which he desired me to take charge, and to pub- 
 lish, should I think fit to do so, after he was gone. They consisted 
 of letters written by his wife to himself and to other friends during 
 the period of her married life, with the "rudiments" of a preface 
 of his own, giving an account of her family, her childhood, and 
 their own experience together from their first acquaintance till her 
 death. They were married in 1826 ; Mrs. Carlyle died suddenly in 
 1866. Between these two periods Carlyle's active literary life was 
 comprised ; and he thought it unnecessary that more than these 
 letters contained should be made knowu, or attempted to be made 
 known, about himself or his personal history. The essential part 
 of his life was in his works, which those who chose could read. 
 The private part of it was a matter in which the world had no con- 
 cern. Enough would be found, told by one who knew him better 
 than any one else knew him, to satisfy such curiosity as there might 
 be. His object was rather to leave a monument to a singularly 
 gifted woman, who, had she so pleased, might have made a name 
 for herself, and for his sake had voluntarily sacrificed ambition and 
 fortune. 
 
 The letters had been partially prepared for the press by short 
 separate introductions and explanatory notes. But Carlyle warned 
 me that before they were published tbey would require anxious re- 
 vision. Written with the unreserve of confidential communica- 
 tions, they contained anecdotes, allusions, reflections, expressions 
 of opinion and feeling, which were intended obviously for no eye 
 save that of the person to whom they were addressed. He be- 
 lieved, at the time I speak of, that his own life was near its end, 
 
vi PREFACE. 
 
 and, seeing the difficulty in wbicTi I might be placed, ho left me at 
 last with discretion to destroy the whole of them, should I find the 
 task of discriminating too intricate a problem. 
 
 The expectation of an early end was perhaps suggested by the 
 wish for it. He could no longer write. His hand was disabled by 
 palsy. His temperament did not suit with dictation, and he was 
 impatient of an existence which he could no longer turn to any 
 useful purpose. He lingered on, however, year after year, and it 
 gradually became known to him that his wishes w^ould not i)rotect 
 him from biographers, and that an account of his life would cer- 
 tainly be tried, perhaps by more than one person. A true descrip- 
 tion of it he did not believe that any one could give, not even his 
 closest friend : but there might be degrees ot falsity ; and since a 
 biography of some kind there was to be, he decided at last to ex- 
 tend his original commission to me, and to make over to me all his 
 l>rivate papers, journals, note-books, letters, and unfinished or neg- 
 lected writings. 
 
 Being a person of most methodical habits, he had preserved every 
 letter which he had ever received of not entirely trifling import. 
 His mother, his wife, his brothers, and many of his friends had 
 kept as carefully every letter from himself. The most remarkable 
 of his contemporaries had been among his correspondents — Eng- 
 lish, French, Italian, German, and American. Goethe had recog- 
 nized his genius, and had written to him often, advising and en- 
 couraging. His own and Mrs. Carlyle's journals were records of 
 their most secret thoughts. All these Mr. Carlyle, scarcely remem- 
 bering what they contained, but with characteristic fearlessness, 
 gave me leave to use as I might please. 
 
 Material of such a character makes my duty in one respect an 
 easy one. I have not to relate Mr. Carlyle's history, or describe his 
 character. He is his own biographer, and paints his own portrait. 
 But another difficulty arises from the extent of the resources thrown 
 open to me. His own letters are as full of matter as the richest of 
 his published works. His friends were not common men, and in 
 writing to him they wrote their best. Of the many thousand let- 
 ters in ray possession, there is hardly one which, either on its spe- 
 cial merits, or through its connection with something which con- 
 cerned him, does not deserve to be printed. Selection is indispen- 
 
PREFACE. vii 
 
 sable ; a middle way must be struck between too much and too lit- 
 tle. I have been guided largely, however, by Carlyle's personal di- 
 rections to me, and such a way will, I trust, be discovered. 
 
 Meanwhile, on examining the miscellaneous MSS., I found among 
 them various sketches and reminiscences : one written in a note- 
 book fifty years ago, on hearing in London of his father's death ; 
 another of Edward Irving; another of Lord Jeffrey; others (these 
 brief and slight) of Southey and Wordsworth. In addition, there 
 was a long narrative, or fragments of a narrative, designed as ma- 
 terial for the introduction to Mrs. Carlyle's letters. These letters 
 would now have to be rearranged with his own; and an introduc- 
 tion, under the shape which had been intended for it, would be no 
 longer necessary. The "Eeminiscences" appeared to me to be far 
 too valuable to be broken up and employed in any composition of 
 my own, and I told Mr. Carlyle that I thought they ought to be 
 printed with the requisite omissions immediately after his own 
 death. He agreed with me that it should be so, and at one 
 time it was proposed that the ty];)e should be set up while he was 
 still alive, and could himself revise what he had written. He 
 found, however, that the effort would be too much for him, and the 
 reader has here before him Mr. Carlyle's own handiwork, but with- 
 out his last touches, not edited by himself, not corrected by him- 
 self, perhaps most of it not intended for publication, and written 
 down merely as an occupation, for his own ]3rivate satisfaction. 
 
 The Introductory Fragments were written immediately after his 
 wife's death ; the account of Irving belongs to the autumn and 
 winter which followed. So singular was his condition at this 
 time, that he was afterwards unconscious what he had done; and 
 when, ten years later, I found the Irving MS. and asked him about 
 it, he did not know to what I was alluding. The sketch of Jeffrey 
 was written immediately after. Some parts of the introduction I 
 have reserved for the biography, into which they will most con- 
 veniently fall ; the rest, from the point where they form a con- 
 secutive story, I have printed with only a few occasional reserva- 
 tions. " Southey " and " Wordsworth," being merely detached notes 
 of a few personal recollections, I have attached as an appendix. 
 
 Nothing more remains to be said about these papers, save to re- 
 peat, for clearness' sake, that they are published with Mr. Carlyle's 
 
viii PREFACE. 
 
 consent, but without Ms supervision. The detailed responsibility 
 is therefore entirely my own. I will add, for the convenience of 
 the general public, the few chief points of his outward life. He 
 was the son of a village mason, born at Ecclefechan, in Annandale, 
 December 4, 1795. He was educated first at Ecclefechan school. In 
 1806 he was sent to the grammar-school at Annan, and in 1809 to 
 Edinburgh University. In 1814 he was appointed mathematical 
 usher at Annan, and in 1816 schoolmaster at Kirkcaldy. In 1818 he 
 gave up his situation, and supported himself by taking pupils at 
 Edinburgh. In 1822 he became private tutor in the family of Mr. 
 Charles Buller ; Charles BuUer the younger, who was afterwards so 
 brilliantly distinguished in Parliament, being his pupil. While in 
 this capacity he wrote his " Life of Schiller," and translated " Wil- 
 helm Meister." In 1826 he married. He lived for eighteen months 
 at Comley Bank, on the north side of Edinburgh. He then re- 
 moved to Craigenputtoch, a moorland farm in Dumfriesshire belong- 
 ing to his wife's mother, where he remained for seven years, writ- 
 ing " Sartor Resartus " there, and nearly all his Miscellanies. In 1834 
 he left Scotland and settled in London, No. 5 Cheyne Row, Chelsea, 
 and there continued without further change till his death. 
 
REMINISCENCES 
 
 JAMES CARLYLE, OF ECCLEFECHAN, MASON 
 
JAMES CARLYLE* 
 
 On Tuesday, January 26, 1832, 1 received tidings that my dear 
 and worthy father had departed out of this world. He was called 
 away hy a death apparently of the mildest, on Sunday morning 
 about six. He had taken what was thought a bad cold on the 
 Monday preceding, but rose every day and was sometimes out of 
 doors. Occasionally he was insensible (as pain usually soon made 
 him of late years), but when spoken to he recollected himself. 
 He was up and at the kitchen fire (at Scotsbrig)! on the Saturday 
 evening about six, but was evidently growing fast worse in breath- 
 ing. " About ten o'clock he fell into a sort of stupor," writes my 
 sister Jane, *' still breathing higher and with greater difficulty. 
 He spoke little to any of us, seemingly unconscious of what he did, 
 came over to the bedside, and offered up a prayer to Heaven in such 
 accents as it is impossible to forget. He departed almost without 
 a struggle," adds she, " this morning at half-past six." My mother 
 adds, in her own hand, " It is God that has done it. Be still, my 
 dear children. Your affectionate mother. God support us all." 
 The funeral is to be on Friday, the present date is Wednesday 
 night. This stroke, altogether unexpected at the time, but which 
 I have been long anticipating in general, falls heavy on me, as such 
 needs must, yet not so as to stun me or unman me. Natural tears 
 have come to my relief. I can look at my dear father, and that 
 section of the past which he has made alive for me, in a certain 
 sacred sanctified light, and give way to what thoughts rise in me 
 without feeling that they are weak and useless. 
 
 The time till the funeral was past I instantly determined on 
 passing with my wife only, and all others were excluded. I have 
 written to my mother and to John,t have walked far and much, 
 
 * Written in London, in January, 1832. 
 
 t A farm near Ecclefechan occupied by James Carlyle during the last six years 
 of his life. 
 t Mr. Carlyle's brother. 
 
4 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 chiefly iu the Regent's Park, and considered about many things, if 
 so were that I might accomplish this problem, to see clearly what 
 my present calamity means — what I have lost and what lesson my 
 loss was to teach me. 
 
 As for the departed, we ought to say that ho was taken home 
 " like a shock of corn fully ripe." He " had finished the work that 
 was given him to do " and finished it (very greatly more than the 
 most) as became a man. He was summoned, too, before he had 
 ceased to be interesting — to be lovable. (He was to the last the 
 pleasantest man I had to speak with in Scotland.) For many 
 years too he had the end ever in his eye, and was studying to make 
 all preparation for what in his strong way he called often " that 
 last, that awfnl change." Even at every new parting of late years 
 I have noticed him wring my hand with a tenderer pressure, as if 
 he felt that one other of our few meetings here was over. Merci- 
 fully also has he been spared me till I am abler to bear his loss ; 
 till by manifold struggles I too, as he did, feel my feet on the Ever- 
 lasting rock, and, through time with its death, can in some degree 
 see into eternity with its life. So that I have repeated, not with 
 unwet eyes, let me hope likewise not with unsoftened heart, those 
 old and forever true words, " Blessed are the dead that die in the 
 Lord ; they do rest from their labors, and their works follow them." 
 Yes, their works follow them. The force that had been lent my 
 father he honorably expended in manful well-doing. A portion of 
 this plnnet bears beneficent traces of his strong hand and strong 
 head. Nothing that he undertook to do but he did it faithfully 
 and like a true man. I shall look on the houses he built with a 
 certain proud interest. They stand firm and sound to the heart all 
 over his little district. No one that comes after him will ever 
 say, " Here was the finger of a hollow eye-servant." They are 
 little texts for me of the gospel of man's free-will. Nor will his 
 deeds and sayings in any case be found unworthy — not false and 
 barren, but genuine and fit. Nay, am not I also the humble James 
 Carlyle's work ? I owe him much more than existence, I owe him 
 a noble inspiring example (now that I can read it in that rustic 
 character). It was he exchisively that determined on educating me ; 
 that from his small hard-earned funds sent me to school and col- 
 lege, and made me whatever I am or may become. Let me not 
 mourn for my father, let me do worthily of him. So shall he still 
 live even here in me, and his worth plant itself honorably forth 
 into new generations. 
 
 I purpose now, while the impression is more pure and clear 
 
JAMES CARLYLE. 5 
 
 within me, to mark down the main things I can recollect of my 
 father. To myself, if I live to after-years, it may he instructive 
 and interesting, as the past grows ever holier the farther we leave 
 it. My mind is calm enough to do it deliberately, and to do it 
 truly. The thought of that pale earnest face which even now lies 
 stiffened into death in that bed at Scotsbrig, with the Infinite all 
 of worlds looking down on it, will certainly impel me. Neither, 
 should these lines survive myself and be seen by others, can the 
 sight of them do harm to any one. It is good to know how a true 
 spirit will vindicate itself with truth and freedom through what 
 obstructions soever ; how the acorn cast carelessly into the wilder- 
 ness will make room for itself and grow to be an oak. This is one 
 of the cases belonging to that class, " the lives of remarkable men," 
 in which it has been said, " paper and ink should least of all be 
 spared." I call a man remarkable who becomes a true workman 
 in this vineyard of the Highest. Be his work that of palace-build- 
 ing and kingdom-founding, or only of delviug and ditching, to me 
 it is no matter, or next to none. All human work is transitory, 
 small in itself, contemptible. Only the worker thereof, and the 
 spirit that dwelt in him, is significant. I proceed without order, or 
 almost any forethought, anxious only to save what I have left and 
 mark it as it lies in me. 
 
 In several respects, I consider my father as one of the most in- 
 teresting men I have known. He was a man of perhaps the very 
 largest natural endowment of any it has been my lot to converse 
 with. None of us will ever forget that bold glowing style of his, 
 flowing free from his untutored soul, full of metaphors (though he 
 knew not what a metaphor was) with all manner of potent words 
 which he appropriated and applied with a surprising accuracy 
 you often would not guess whence ; brief, energetic, and which I 
 should say conveyed the most perfect picture — definite, clear, not 
 in ambitious colors, but in full white sunlight — of all the dialects I 
 have ever listened to. Nothing did I ever hear him undertake to 
 render visible which did not become almost ocularly so. Never 
 shall we again hear such speech as that was. The whole district 
 knew of it and laughed joyfully over it, not knowing how other- 
 wise tp express the feeling it gave them ,• emphatic I have heard 
 him beyond all men. In anger he had no need of oaths, his words 
 were like sharp arrows that smote into the very heart. The fault 
 was that he exaggerated (which tendency I also inherit), yet only 
 in description and for the sake chiefly of humorous effect. He 
 was a man of rigid, even scrupulous, veracity. I have often heard 
 
6 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 him turn back when he thought his strong words were misleading, 
 and correct them into meusurative accuracy. 
 
 I call him a natural man, singularly free from all manner of af- 
 fectation ; he was among the last of the true men which Scotland, 
 on the old system, produced or can produce ; a man healthy in 
 body and mind, fearing God, and diligently working on God's earth 
 with contentment, hope, and unwearied resolution. He was never 
 visited with doubt. The old theorem of the universe was sufficient 
 for him; and he worked well in it, and in all senses successfully 
 and wisely — as few can do. So quick is the motion of transition 
 becoming, the new generation almost to a man must make their 
 belly their God, and, alas! find even that an empty one. Thus, 
 curiously enough and blessedly, he stood a true man on the verge 
 of the old, while his son stands here lovingly surveying him on the 
 verge of the new, and sees the possibility of also being true there. 
 God make the possibility, blessed possibility, into a reality. 
 
 A virtue he had which I should learn to imitate. He never sjmlce 
 of what was disagreeaMe and past. I have often wondered and ad- 
 mired at this. The thing that he had nothing to do with, he did 
 nothing with. His was a healthy mind. In like manner 1 have 
 seen him always, when we young ones, half roguishly (and provok- 
 iugly, without doubt), were perhaps repeating sayings of his, sit as 
 if he did not hear us at all. Never once did I know him utter a 
 word ; only once, that I remember, give a look in such a case. 
 
 Another virtue the example of which has passed strongly into 
 me was his settled placid indifference to the clamors or the mur- 
 murs of public opinion. -For the judgment of those that had no 
 right or power to judge him, he seemed simply to care nothing at 
 all. He very rarely spoke of despising such things. He contented 
 himself with altogether disregarding them. Hollow babble it was 
 for him, a thing, as Fichte said, that did not exist — das gar nieht 
 existirte. There was something truly great in this. The very per- 
 fection of it hid from you the extent of the attainment. 
 
 Or rather let us call it a new phasis of the health which in mind 
 as in body was conspicuous in him. Like a healthy man, he want- 
 ed only to get along with his task. Whatsoever could not forward 
 him in this (and how could public opinion and much else, of the 
 like sort do ?) was of no moment to him, was not there for him. 
 
 This great maxim of philosophy he had gathered by the teaching 
 of nature alone — that man was created to work, not to speculate 
 or feel or dream. Accordingly, he set his whole heart thitherwards. 
 He did work wisely and unweariedly (phne Hast aher East)j and 
 
JAMES CARLYLE. 7 
 
 perhaps performed more with the tools he had than any man I 
 now know. It shouki have made me sadder than it did to hear 
 the young ones sometimes complaining of his slow punctuality and 
 thoroughness. He would leave nothing till it was done. Alas! 
 the age of substance and solidity is gone for the time ; that of show 
 and hollow superficiality — in all senses — is in full course. 
 
 And yet he was a man of open sense ; wonderfully so. I could 
 have entertained him for days talking of any matter interesting to 
 man. He delighted to hear of all things that were worth talking 
 of: the mode of living men had — th^ mode of working; their opin- 
 ions, virtues, whole spiritual and temporal environments. 
 
 It is some two years ago (in summer) since I entertained him 
 highly — he was hoeing turnips, and perhaps I helped him — with 
 an account of the character and manner of existence of Francis 
 Jeffrey. Another evening he enjoyed — probably it was on this 
 very visit — with the heartiest relish my description of the people, 
 I think, of Turkey. The Chinese had astonished him much. In 
 some magazine he had got a sketch of McCartney's " Embassy," 
 the memory of which never left him. Adam Smith's "Wealth of 
 Nations," greatly as it lay out of his course, he had also fallen in 
 with, and admired and understood and remembered so far as he 
 had any business with it. I once wrote him about my being in 
 Smithfield Market seven years ago, of my seeing St. Paul's. Both 
 things interested him heartily and dwelt with him. I had hoped 
 to tell him much of what I saw in this second visit, and that many 
 a long cheerful talk would have given us both some sunny hours, 
 but es Jconnte nimnier seyn. Patience ! hope ! 
 
 At the same time, he had the most entire^and open contempt for 
 all idle tattle j what he called clatter. Any talk that had mean- 
 ing in it he could listen to. What had no meaning in it — above 
 all, what seemed false — he absolutely could and would not hear, 
 but abruptly turned aside from it, or if that might not suit, with 
 the besom of destruction swept it far away from him. Long may 
 we remember his " I don't believe thee ;" his tongue-paralyzing, 
 cold, indifferent " Hah !" I should say of him as I did of our sister* 
 whom we lost, that he seldom or never spoke except actually to 
 convey an idea. Measured by quantity of words, he was a talker 
 of fully average copiousness ; by extent of meaning communicated, 
 he was the most copious I have listened to. How in few sentences 
 he would sketch you off an entire biography, an entire object or 
 
 * Margaret, who died in 1S31. 
 
8 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 transaction, keen, clear, rugged, genuine, completely rounded in ! 
 His words came direct from the heart by the inspiration of the 
 moment. 
 
 " It is no idle tale," he said to some laughing rustics while stat- 
 ing, in his strong way, some complaint against them, and their 
 laughter died into silence. Dear, good father ! There looked hon- 
 estly through those clear earnest eyes a sincerity that compelled 
 belief and regard. '' Moffat," said he one day to an incorrigible 
 reaper, "thou hast had every feature of a bad shearer — high, 
 rough, and little ou't. Thou maun alter thy figure or slant the 
 bog," pointing to the man's road homewards. 
 
 He was irascible, choleric, and we all dreaded his wrath, yet pas- 
 sion never mastered him or maddened him. It rather inspired him 
 with new vehemence of insight and more piercing emphasis of 
 wisdom. It must have been a bold man that did not quail before 
 that face when glowing Avith indignation, grounded, for so it ever 
 was, on the sense of right and in resistance of wrong. More than 
 once has he lifted up his strong voice in tax courts and the like 
 before "the gentlemen" (what he knew of highest among men), 
 and, rending asunder official sophisms, thundered even into their 
 deaf ears the indignant sentence of natural justice to the con- 
 viction of all. Oh, why did we laugh at these things while we 
 loved them ? There is a tragic greatness and sacredness in them 
 now. 
 
 I can call my father a brave man {ein tapferer). Man's face he 
 did not fear; God he always feared. His reverence, I think, was 
 considerably mixed with fear ; yet not slavish fear, rather awe, as 
 of unutterable depths of silence through which flickered a trem- 
 bling hope. How he used to speak of death, especially in late 
 years — or rather to be silent, and look at it ! There was no feeling 
 in him here that he cared to hide. He trembled at the really ter- 
 rible ; the mock terrible he cared nought for. That last act of his 
 life, when in the last agony, with the thick ghastly vapors of death 
 rising round him to choke him, he burst through and called with 
 a man's voice on the great God to have mercy on him — that was 
 like the epitome and concluding summary of his whole life. God 
 gave him strength to wrestle with the King of Terrors, and, as it 
 were, even then to prevail. All his strength came from God, and 
 ever sought new nourishment there. God be thanked for it. 
 
 Let me not mourn that my father's force is all spent, that his 
 valor wars no longer. Has it not gained the victory ? Let me 
 imitate him rather. Let his courageous heart beat anew in me, 
 
JAMES CARLYLE. 9 
 
 that wlien oppression and opposition, unjustly threaten, I too may- 
 rise with his spirit to front them and subdue them. 
 
 On the whole, ought I not to rejoice that God was pleased to 
 give me such a father ; that from earliest years I had the example 
 of a real man of God's own making continually before me ? Let 
 me learn of Mm. Let me write my books as he built his houses, 
 and walk as blamelessly through this shadow world; if God so 
 will, to rejoin him at last. Amen. 
 
 Alas! such is the miseducation of these days, it is only among 
 those that are called the uneducated classes — those educated by 
 experience — that you can look for a Man. Even among these, such 
 a sight is growing daily rarer. My father, in several respects, has 
 not, that I can think of, left his fellow. Ultimus Bomamrum. 
 Perhaps among Scottish peasants what Samuel Johnson was among 
 English authors. I have a sacred pride in my peasant father, and 
 would not exchange him, even now, for any king known to me. 
 Gold and the guinea stamp — the Man and the clothes of the man. 
 Let me thank God for that greatest of blessings, and strive to live 
 worthily of it. 
 
 Though from the heart, and practically even more than in words, 
 an independent man, he was by no means an insubordinate one. 
 His bearing towards his superiors I consider noteworthy — of a 
 piece with himself. I think in early life, when working in Spring- 
 hill for a Sir W. Maxwell — the grandfather of the present Baronet 
 — he had got an early respect impressed upon him for the character 
 as well as station of a gentleman. I have heard him often describe 
 the grave wisdom and dignified deportment of that Maxwell as of 
 a true " ruler of the people." It used to remind me of the gentle- 
 men in Goethe. Sir William, like those he ruled over, and benig- 
 nautly, or at least gracefully and earnestly, governed, has passed 
 away. Bat even for the mere clothes-screens of rank ray father 
 testified no contempt. He spoke of them in public or private with- 
 out acerbity ; testified for them the outward deference which cus- 
 tom and convenience prescribed, and felt no degradation therein. 
 Their inward claim to regard was a thing which concerned them, 
 not him. I love to figure him addressing these men, with bared 
 head, by the title of "your honor," with a manner respectful, yet 
 unembarrassed ; a certain manly dignity looking through his own 
 fine face, with his noble gray head bent patiently to the, alas ! un- 
 worthy. Such conduct is, perhaps, no longer possible. 
 
 Withal, he had in general a grave natural politeness. I have 
 seen him, when the women were perhaps all in anxiety about the 
 
 1* 
 
10 KEMINISCENCES. 
 
 disorder, etc., usher men in with true hospitality into his mean 
 house, without any grimace of apologies, or the smallest seeming 
 embarrassment. Were the house but a cabin, it was his, and they 
 were welcome to him, and what it held. This was again the man. 
 His life was "no idle tale;" not a lie, but a truth, which whoso 
 liked was welcome to come and examine. "An earnest, toilsome 
 life," which had also a serious issue. 
 
 The more I reflect on it, the more I must admire how completely 
 nature had taught him ; how completely he was devoted to his 
 work, to the task of his life, and content to let all pass by unheeded 
 that had not relation to this. It is a singular fact, for example, 
 that though a man of such openness and clearness, he had never, I 
 believe, read three pages of Burns's poems. Not even when all 
 about him became noisy and enthusiastic, I the loudest, on that 
 matter, did he feel it worth while to renew his investigation of 
 it, or once turn his face towards it. The poetry he liked (he did 
 not call it poetry) was truth, and the wisdom of reality. Burns, 
 indeed, could have done nothing for him. As high a greatness 
 hung over his world as over that of Burns — the ever-present great- 
 ness of the Infinite itself. Neither was he, like Burns, called to 
 rebel against the world, but to labor patiently at his task there, 
 uniting the possible with the necessary to bring out the real, 
 wherein also lay an ideal. Burns could not have in any way 
 strengthened him in this course, and therefore was for him a phe- 
 nomenon merely. Nay, rumor had been so busy with Burns, and 
 destiny and his own desert had in very deed so marred his name, 
 that the good rather avoided him. Yet it was not with aversion 
 that my father regarded Burns; at worst with indifference and 
 neglect. I have heard him speak of once seeing him standing in 
 "Rob Scott's smithy" (at Ecclefechan, no doubt superintending 
 some work). He heard one say, "There is the poet Burns." He 
 went out to look, and saw a man with boots on, like a well-dressed 
 farmer, walking down the village on the opposite side of the burn. 
 This was all the relation these two men ever had ; they were very 
 nearly coevals.* I knew Robert Burns, and I knew my father. 
 Yet were you to ask me which had the greater natural faculty, I 
 might perhaps actually pause before replying. Burns had an infi- 
 nitely wider education, my father a far wholesomer. Besides, the 
 on6 was a man of musical utterance ; the other wholly a man of 
 action, with speech subservient thereto. Never, of all the men I 
 
 • Burns died the year after Thomas Carlyle was born. 
 
JAMES CAELYLE. 11 
 
 have seen, has one come personally in ray way in whom the en- 
 dowment from nature and the arena from fortune were so utterly 
 out of all proportion. I have said this often, and partly know it. 
 As a man of speculation — had culture ever unfolded him— he must 
 have gone wild and desperate as Burus ; but he was a man of con- 
 duct, and work keeps all right. What strange shapahle creatures 
 we are ! 
 
 My father's education was altogether of the worst and most lim- 
 ited. I believe he was never more than three months at any school. 
 What he learned there showed what he might have learned. A 
 solid knowledge of arithmetic, a fine antique handwriting — these, 
 with other limited practical etceteras, were all the things he ever 
 heard mentioned as excellent. He had no room to strive for more. 
 Poetry, fiction in general, he had universally seen treated as not 
 only idle, but false and criminal. This was the spiritual element 
 he had lived in almost to old age. But greatly his most important 
 culture he had gathered — and this, too, by his own endeavors — 
 from the better part of the district, the religious men ; to whom, 
 as to the most excellent, his own nature gradually attached and 
 attracted him. He was religious with the consent of his whole 
 faculties. Without religion he would have been nothing. Indeed, 
 his habit of intellect was thoroughly free, and even incredulous. 
 And strongly enough did the daily example of this work afterwards 
 on me. "Putting out the natural eye of his mind to see better 
 with a telescope" — this was no scheme for him. But he was in 
 Aunandale, and it was above fifty years ago,* and a Gospel was still 
 preached there to the heart of a man in the tones of a man. Re- 
 ligion was the pole-star for my father. Rude and uncultivated as 
 he otherwise was, it made him and kept him " in all points a man." 
 
 Oh ! when I think that all the area in boundless space he had 
 seen was limited to a circle of some fifty miles' diameter (he never 
 in his life was farther or elsewhere so far from home as at Craigen- 
 puttoch), and all his knowledge of the boundless time was derived 
 from his Bible and what the oral memories of old men could give 
 him, and his own could gather ; and yet, that he was such, I could 
 take shame to myself. I feel to my father — so great though so 
 neglected, so generous also towards me — a strange tenderness, and 
 mingled pity and reverence peculiar to the case, infinitely soft and 
 near my heart. Was he not a sacrifice to me ? Had I stood in his 
 place, could he not have stood in mine, and more ? Thou good fa- 
 
 * Written in 1832. 
 
12 KEMlNiSCENGES. 
 
 tlier ! well may I forever houor thy memory. Surely that act was 
 not without its reward. And was not nature great, out of such 
 materials to make such a man ? 
 
 Though geuuiue aud coherent, " living and life-giving," he was, 
 nevertheless, but half developed. We had all to complain that we 
 durst not freely love him. His heart seemed as if walled in ; he 
 had not the free means to unbosom himself. My mother has owned 
 to me that she could never understand him ; that her affection and 
 (with all their little strifes) her admiration of him was obstructed. It 
 seemed as if an atmosphere of fear repelled us from him. To me it 
 was especially so. Till late years, wheu he began to respect me 
 more, and, as it were, to look up to me for instruction, for protec- 
 tion (a relation unspeakably beautiful), I was ever more or less 
 awed and chilled before him. My heart and tongue played freely 
 only with my mother. He had an air of deepest gravity, even 
 sternness. Yet he could laugh with his whole throat, and his whole 
 heart. I have often seen him weep, too ; his voice would thicken 
 and his lips curve while reading tlie Bible. He had a merciful 
 heart to real distress, though he hated idleness, and for imbecility 
 and fatuity had no tolerance. Once — and I think once only — I 
 saw him in a passion of tears. It was when the remains of my 
 mother's fever hung upon her, in 1817, and seemed to threaten the 
 extinction of her reasou. We were all of us nigh desperate, and our- 
 selves mad. He burst at last into quite a torrent of grief, cried 
 piteously, and threw himself on the floor and lay moauiug. I won- 
 dered, aud had no words, no tears. It was as if a rock of granite 
 had melted, and was thawing into water. What unknown seas of 
 feeling lie in man, and will from time to time break through! 
 
 He was no niggard, but truly a wisely generous economist. He 
 paid his men handsomely and with overplus. He had known pov- 
 erty in the shape of actual want (in boyhood) and never had one 
 peuny which he knew not well how he had come by (" picked," as 
 he said, ''out of the hard stone"), yet he ever parted with money 
 as a man that kuew when he was getting money's worth ; that 
 could give also, and with a frank liberality when the fit occasion 
 called. I remember with the peculiar kind of tenderness that at- 
 taches to many similar things in his life, one, or rather, I think, 
 two times, when he sent me to buy a quarter of a pound of tobacco, 
 to give to some old women whom he had had gathering potatoes 
 for him. He nipped off for each a handsome leash, and handed it 
 her by way of over and above. This was a common principle with 
 him. I must have been twelve or thirteen wheu I fetched this to- 
 
JAMES CARLYLE. 13 
 
 bacco. I love to think of it. " The little that a just man hath." 
 The old women are now perhaps all dead. He, too, is dead, but 
 the gift still lives. 
 
 He was a man singularly free from affectation. The feeling that 
 he had not he could in no wise pretend to have ; however ill the 
 want of it might look, he simply would not, and did not, put on the 
 show of it. 
 
 Singularly free from envy I may reckon him too, the rather if I 
 consider his keen temper and the value he naturally (as a man 
 wholly for action) set upon success in life. Others that (by better 
 fortune ; none was more industrious or more prudent) had grown 
 richer than he did not seem to provoke the smallest grudging in 
 him. They were going their path, he going his ; one did not im- 
 pede the other. He rather seemed to look at such with a kind of 
 respect, a desire to learn from them — at lowest, with indifference. 
 
 In like manner, though he above all things (indeed, in strictness 
 solely) admired talent, he seemed never to have measured himself 
 anxiously against any one ; was content to be taught by whomsoever 
 could teach him. One or two men, immeasurably his inferiors in 
 faculty, he, I do believe, looked up to and thought, with perfect 
 composure, abler minds than himself. 
 
 Complete, at the same time, was his confidence in his own judg- 
 ment when it spoke to him decisively. He was one of those few 
 that could believe and know as well as inquire and be of opinion. 
 When I remember how much he admired intellectual force, how 
 much he had of it himself, and yet how unconsciously and content- 
 edly he gave others credit for superiority, I again see the healthy 
 spirit of the genuine man. Nothing could please him better than 
 a well-ordered discourse of reason, the clear solution and exposition 
 of any object, and he knew well in such cases when the nail had 
 been hit, and contemptuously enough recognized when it had been 
 missed. He has said of a bad preacher, '•'■ he was like a fly wading 
 among tar." Clearness, emphatic clearness, was his highest cate- 
 gory of man's thinking power. He delighted always to hear good 
 argument. He would often say, " I would like to hear thee argue 
 with him." He said this of Jeffrey and me, with an air of such sim- 
 ple earnestness, not two years ago (1830), and it was his true feel- 
 ing. I have often ]3leased him much by arguing with men (as many 
 years ago I was prone to do) in his presence. He rejoiced greatly 
 in my success, at all events in my dexterity and manifested force. 
 Others of us he admired for our " activity," our practical valor and 
 skill, all of us (generally speaking) for our decent demeanor in the 
 
14 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 world. It is now one of my greatest blessings (for which I would 
 thank Heaven from the heart) that he lived to see me, through va- 
 rious obstructions, attain some look of doing well. He had " edu- 
 cated " me against much advice, I believe, and chiefly, if not solely, 
 from his own noble faith. James Bell, one of our wise men, had 
 told him, " Educate a boy, and he grows up to despise his ignorant 
 parents." My father once told me this, and added, " Thou hast not 
 done so ; God be thanked for it." I have reason to think ray father 
 was proud of me (not vain, for he never, except when provoked, 
 openly bragged of us) ; that here too he lived to see the pleasure 
 of the Lord prosper in his hands. Oh, was it not a happiness for 
 me ! The fame of all this planet were not henceforth so precious. 
 
 He was thrifty, patient, careless of outward accommodation, had 
 a Spartan indifference to all that. When he quarrelled about such 
 things, it was rather because some human mismanagement seemed to 
 look through the evil. Food and all else were simply and solely 
 there as the means for doing worlc. We have lived for months of 
 old (and when he was not any longer poor), because by ourselves, 
 on porridge and potatoes, with no other condiment than what our 
 own cow yielded. Thus are we not now all beggars, as the most 
 like us have become. Mother and father were assiduous, abstemi- 
 ous, frugal without stinginess. They shall not want their reward. 
 Both still knew what they were doing in this world, and why they 
 were here. " Man's chief end," my father could have answered from 
 the depths of his soul, " is to glorify God and enjoy Imn forever." 
 By this light he walked, choosing his path, fitting prudence to prin- 
 ciple with wonderful skill and manliness ; through " the ruins of a 
 falling era," not once missing his footing. Go thou, whom by the 
 hard toil of his arms and his mind he has struggled to enlighten 
 better; go thou, and do likewise. 
 
 His death was unexpected? Not so; every morning and every 
 evening, for perhaps sixty years, he had prayed to the Great Father 
 in words which I shall now no more hear him impressively pro- 
 nounce, "Prepare us for those solemn events, death, judgment, and 
 eternity." He would pray also, " Forsake us not now when we are 
 old and our heads grown gray." God did not forsake him. 
 
 Ever since I can remember, his honored head was gray ; indeed, 
 he must have been about forty when I was born. It was a noble 
 head ; very large, the upper part of it strikingly like that of the 
 poet Goethe ; the mouth again bearing marks of unrefinement, shut, 
 indeed, and significant, yet loosely compressed (as I have seen in 
 the firmest men if used to hard manual labor), betokening depth, 
 
JAMES CARLYLE. 15 
 
 passionateness, force ; all in an element not of languor, yet of toil 
 and patient perennial endurance. A face full of meaning* and 
 earnestness, a^raan of strength and a man of toil. Jane (Mrs. Car- 
 lyle) took a profile of him when she was last in Annandale. It is 
 the only memorial we have left, and worth much to us. He was 
 short of stature, yet shorter than usual only in the limbs ; of great 
 muscular strength, far more than even his strong-built frame gave 
 promise of. In all things he was emphatically temperate ; through 
 life guilty, more than can be said of almost any man, of no excess. 
 He was born, I think, in the year 1757, at a place called Brown- 
 knowe, a small farm not far from Burns wark Hill, in Annandale. I 
 have heard him describe the anguish of mind he felt when leaving 
 this place, aud taking farewell of a "big stone" whereon he had 
 been wont to sit in early boyhood tending the cattle. Perhaps 
 there was a thorn- tree near it. His heart, he said, was like to 
 burst ; they were removing to Sibbaldry Side, another farm in the 
 valley of Dryfe. He was come to full manhood. The family was 
 exposed to great privations while at Brownkuowe. The mother, 
 Mary Gillespie (she had relations at Dryfesdale) was left with her 
 children, and had not always meal to make them porridge. My fa- 
 ther was the second son and fourth child. My grandfather, Thomas 
 Carlyle, after whom I am named, Avas an honest, vehement, advent- 
 urous, but not an industrious man. He used to collect vigorously 
 and rigorously a sum sufficient for his half-year's rent (probably 
 some five or six pounds), lay this by, and, for the rest, leaving the 
 mother with her little ones to manage very much as they could, 
 would meanwhile amuse himself, perhaps hunting, most probably 
 with the Laird of Bridekirk (a swashbuckler of those days, com- 
 poser of " Bridekirk's Hunting "), partly in the character of kins- 
 man, partly of attendant and henchman. I have heard my father 
 describe the shifts they were reduced to at home. Once, he said, 
 meal, which had perhaps been long scarce, and certainly for some 
 time wanting, arrived at last late at night. The mother proceeded 
 on the spot to make cakes of it, and had no fuel but straw that she 
 tore from the beds (straw lies under the chaff sacks we all slept on) 
 to do it with. The children all rose to eat. Potatoes were little 
 in use then ; a " wechtful" was stored up to be eaten perhaps about 
 Halloween. My father often told us how he once, with a provi- 
 dence early manifested, got possession of four potatoes, and, think- 
 
 * Carlyle breaks off for a moment and writes these words : "About this hour ia 
 the funeral. Irving enters. Unsatisfactory." He then goes on. 
 
16 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 ing that a time of want miglit come, hid them carefully against the 
 evil day. He found them long after all grown together ; they had 
 not been needed. I think he once told us his first short clothes 
 were a hull made mostly or wholly of leather. We all only laugh- 
 ed, for it is now long ago. Thou dear father ! Through what stern 
 obstructions was thy way to manhood to be forced, and for us and 
 for our travelling to be made smooth ! 
 
 My grandfather, whom I can remember as a slightish, wiry-look- 
 ing old man, had not possessed the wisdom of his son. Yet per- 
 haps he was more to be pitied than blamed. His mother, whose 
 name I have forgotten, was early left a widow with two of them, 
 in the parish, perhaps in the village, of Middlebie. Thomas, the 
 elder, became a joiner aud went to work in Lancashire, perhaps in 
 Lancaster, where he stayed more than one season. He once re- 
 turned home in winter, partly by ice — skating along the West- 
 moreland and Cumberland lakes. He was in Dumfriesshire in 1745 ; 
 saw the Highlanders come through Ecclefechan over the Border 
 heights as they went down ; was at Dumfries amoug them as they 
 returned back in flight. He had gone, by the Lady of Bridekirk's 
 request, to look after the Laird, whom, as a Whig of some note, 
 they had taken prisoner. His whole adventures there he had mi- 
 nutely described to his children (I, too, have heard him speak, but 
 briefly aud indistinctly, of them) ; by my uncle Frank I once got a 
 full account of the matter, which shall perhaps be inserted else- 
 where. He worked as carpenter, I know not how long, about Mid- 
 dlebie ; then laid aside that craft (except as a side business, for he 
 always had tools which I myself have assisted him in grinding) aud 
 went to Brownknowe to farm. In his latter days he was chiefly 
 supported by my father, to whom I remember once hearing him 
 say, with a half-choked tremulous palsied voice, "Thou hast been 
 a good son to me." He died in 1804. I well remember the funeral, 
 which I was at, and that I read (being then a good reader), " Mac- 
 Ewen on the Types" (which I have not seen since, but then par- 
 tially understood and even liked for its glib smoothness) to the 
 people sitting at the wake. The funeral was in time of snow. All 
 is still very clear to me. The three brothers, my father, Frank, and 
 Tom, spoke together in the dusk on the street of Ecclefechan, I 
 looking up aud listening. Tom proposed that he would bear the 
 whole expense, as he had been "rather backward during his life," 
 which offer was immediately rejected. 
 
 Old Thomas Carlyle had been proud and poor. No doubt he was 
 discontented, enough. Industry was perhaps more difficult in An- 
 
JAMES CARLYLE. 17 
 
 nandale then (this I do not think very likely). At all events, the 
 man in honor (the man) of those days in that rude border country 
 was a drinker and hunter; above all, a striker. My grandfather 
 did not drink, but his stroke was ever as ready as his word, and 
 both were sharp enough. He was a fiery man, irascible, indomi- 
 table, of the toughness and springiness of steel. An old market- 
 brawl, called the " Ecclefechan Dog-fight," in which he was a prin- 
 cipal, survives in tradition there to this day. My father, who in 
 youth too had been in quarrels, and formidable enough in them, but 
 from manhood upwards abhorred all such things, never once spoke 
 to us of this. My grandfather had a certain religiousness ; but it 
 could not be made dominant and paramount. His life lay in two. 
 I figure him as very miserable, and pardon (as my father did) all 
 his irregularities and unreasons. My father liked, in general, to 
 speak of him when it came in course. He told us sometimes of his 
 once riding down to Annan (when a boy) behind him, on a sack of 
 barley to be shipped, for which there was then no other mode of con- 
 veyance but horseback. On arriving at Annan bridge, the people de- 
 manded three-halfpence of toll money. This the old man would in 
 no wise pay, for tolls were then reckoned pure imposition, got soon 
 into argument about it, and rather than pay it turned his horse's 
 head aside and swam the river at a dangerous place, to the extreme 
 terror of his boy. Perhaps it was on this same occasion, while the 
 two were on the shore about Whiunyrigg with many others on the 
 same errand (for a boat bad come in, from Liverpool probably, and 
 the country must hasten to ship) that a lad of larger size jeered at 
 the little boy for his ragged coat, etc. Whereupon his father, 
 doubtless provoked too, gave him permission to fight the wrong- 
 doer, which he did, and with victory. "Man's inhumanity to 
 man." 
 
 I must not dwell on these things, yet will mention the other 
 brother, my grand -uncle Francis, still remembered by his title, 
 " the Captain of Middlebie." He was bred a shoemaker, and, like 
 his elder brother, went to travel for work and insight. My father 
 once described to me with pity and aversion how Francis bad on 
 some occasion taken to drinking and to gaming " far ujd in Eng- 
 land" (Bristol?), had lost all his money, and gone to bed drunk. 
 He awoke next morning in horrors, started up, stung by the serpent 
 of remorse, and flinging himself out of bed, broke his leg against a 
 table standing near, and lay there sprawling, and had to lie for 
 weeks, with nothing to pay the shot. Perhaps this was the crisis 
 of his life. Perhaps it was to pay the bill of this very tavern that 
 
18 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 he went and enlisted himself on hoard some small-craft man-of-war. 
 A mutiny (as I have heard) took place, wherein Francis Carlyle 
 with great daring stood hy the captain and quelled the matter, for 
 which service he was promoted to the command of a revenue ship, 
 and sailed therein chiefly about the Solway seas, and did feats 
 enough, of which perhaps elsewhere. He had retired with dignity 
 on half-pay to his native Middlehie before my birth. I never saw 
 him but once, and then rather memorably. 
 
 My grandfather and he, owing to some sort of cloud and misun- 
 derstanding, had not had any intercourse for long ; in which di- 
 vision the two families had joined. But now, when old Thomas 
 was lying on his probable, and as it proved actual, death-bed, the 
 old rugged sea-captain relented, and resolved to see his brother yet 
 once before he died. 
 
 He came in a cart to Ecclefechan (a great enterprise then, for the 
 road was all water-cut, and nigh impassable with roughness). I 
 chanced to be standing by when he arrived. He was a grim, broad, 
 to me almost terrible man, unwieldy so that he could not walk. 
 (My brother John is said to resemble him. He was my prototype 
 of Smollett's Trunnion). They lifted him up the steep straight 
 stairs in a chair to the room of the dying man. The two old 
 brothers sainted each other, hovering over the brink of the grave. 
 They were both above eighty. In some twenty minutes the arm- 
 chair was seen again descending (my father bore one corner of it in 
 front) ; the old man had parted with his brother for the last time. 
 He went away with few words, but with a face that still dimly 
 haunts me, and I never saw him more. The business at the moment 
 was quite unknown to me, but I gathered it in a day or two, and 
 its full meaning long afterwards grew clear to me. Its outward 
 phases, now after some twenty-eight years, is plain as I have writ- 
 ten. Old Francis also died not long afterwards. 
 
 One vague tradition I will mention, that our humble forefathers 
 dwelt long as farmers at Burrens, the old Roman station in Middle- 
 hie. Once, in times of border robbery, some Cumberland cattle 
 had been stolen and were chased. The traces of them disappeared 
 at Burrens, and the angry Cumbrians demanded of the poor farmer 
 what had become of them. It was vain for him to answer and aver 
 (truly) that he knew nothing of them, had no concern with them. 
 He was seized by the people, and despite his own desperate prot- 
 estations, despite his wife's shriekings and his children's cries, he 
 was hanged on the spot. The case even in those days was thought 
 piteous, and a perpetual gift of the little farm was made to the 
 
JAMES CARLYLE. 19 
 
 poor widow as some compensation. Her children and children's 
 children continued to possess it till their title was questioned by 
 the Duke (of Queensberry), and they (perhaps in my great-grand- 
 father's time, about 1720) were ousted. Date and circumstances 
 for the tale are all wanting. This is my remotest outlook into the 
 past, and itself but a cloudy half or whole hallucination ; farther 
 on there is not even a hallucination. I now return. These things 
 are secular and unsatisfactory. 
 
 Bred up in such circumstances, the boys were accustomed to all 
 manner of hardship, and must trust for upbringing to nature, to 
 the scanty precepts of their poor mother, and to what seeds or in- 
 fluences of culture were hanging, as it were, in the atmosphere of 
 their environment. Poor boys ! they had to scramble, scrafifle for 
 their very clothes and food. They knit, they thatched for hire, 
 above all, they hunted. My father had tried all these things al- 
 most in boyhood. Every dell and burn-gate and cleugh of that dis- 
 trict he had traversed, seeking hares and the like. He used to tell 
 of these pilgrimages. Once I remember his gun-flint was tied on 
 with a hat-band. He was a real hunter, like a wild Indian, from 
 necessity. The hare's flesh was food. Hare-skins (at some six- 
 pence each) would accumulate into the purchase-money of a coat. 
 All these things he used to speak of without either boasting or 
 complaining, not as reproaches to us, but as historical merely. On 
 the whole, he never complained either of the past, the present, or 
 the future. He observed and accurately noted all : he made the 
 most and the best of all. His hunting years were not useless to 
 him. Misery was early training the rugged boy into a stoic, that 
 one day he might be the assurance of a Scottish man. 
 
 One Macleod, Sandy Macleod, a wandering pensioner invalided 
 out of some Highland regiment (who had served in America, I must 
 think with General Wolfe), had strayed to Brownknowe with his 
 old wife and taken a cottage of my grandfather. He, with his 
 wild foreign legends and strange, half- idiotic, half- genial ways, 
 was a great figure with the young ones, and I think acted not a 
 little on their character, — least of any, however, on my father, 
 whose early turn for the practical and real made him more heed- 
 less of Macleod and his vagaries. The old pensioner had quaint 
 sayings not without significance. Of a lachrymose, complaining 
 man, for example, he said (or perhaps to him), "he might be thank- 
 ful he was not in purgatory." 
 
 The quaint fashion of speaking, assumed for humor, and most 
 noticeable in my uncle Frank, least or hardly at all in my father, 
 
20 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 was, no doubt, partly derived from this old wanderer, wlio was 
 much about their house, working for his rent and so forth, and was 
 partly laughed at, partly wondered at, by the young ones. Tinkers 
 also, nestling in outhouses, making pot-metal, and with rude feuds 
 and warfare, often came upon the scene. These, with passing High- 
 land drovers, were perhaps their only visitors. Had there not been 
 a natural goodness and indestructible force iu my father, I see not 
 how he could have bodied himself forth from these mean impedi- 
 ments. I suppose good precepts were not wanting. There was 
 the Bible to read. Old John Orr, the schoolmaster, used from time 
 to time to lodge with them; he was religious and enthusiastic 
 (though iu practice irregular with drink). In my grandfather, 
 also, there seems to have been a certain geniality ; for instance, he 
 and a neighbor, Thomas Hogg, read '' Anson's Voyages ;" also the 
 "Arabian Nights," for which latter my father, armed with zealous 
 conviction, scrupled not to censure them openly. By one means 
 and another, at an early age he had acquired principles, lights that 
 not only flickered, but shone steadily to guide his way. 
 
 It must have been in his teens, perhaps rather early, that he and 
 his elder brother John, with William Bell (afterwards of Wylie 
 Hill, and a noted drover) and his brother, all met in the kiln at 
 Relief to play cards. The corn was dried then at home. There 
 was a fire, therefore, and perhaps it was both heat and light. The 
 boys had played, perhaps, often enough for trifling stakes, and al- 
 ways parted in good humor. One night they came to some disa- 
 greement. My father spoke out what was in him about the folly, 
 the sinfulness, of quarrelling over a perhaps sinful amusement. 
 The earnest mind persuaded other minds. They threw the cards 
 into the fire, and (I think the younger Bell told my brother James) 
 no one of the four ever touched a card again through life. My fa- 
 ther certainly^ never hinted at such a game since I knew him. I 
 cannot remember that I, at that age, had any such force of belief. 
 Which of us can ? 
 
 \_Friday night. My father is now in his grave, sleeping by the 
 side of his loved ones, his face to the east, under the hope of meet- 
 ing the Lord when He shall come to judgment, when the times 
 shall be fulfilled. Mysterious life ! Yes, there is a God in man. 
 Silence ! since thou hast no voice. To imitate him, I will pause 
 here for the night. God comfort my brother. God guard them 
 all.] 
 
 Of old John Orr I must say another word. My father, who often 
 spoke of him, though not so much latterly, gave me copious de- 
 
# 
 
 JAMES CARLYLE. 21 
 
 scription Df that and other antiquarian matters in one of the pleas- 
 autest days I remember, the last time but one (or perhaps two) that 
 we talked together. A tradition of poor old Orr, as of a man of bound- 
 less love and natural worth, still faintly lives in Annaudale. If I 
 mistake not, he worked also as a shoemaker. He was heartily de- 
 vout, yet subject to fits of irregularity. He would vanish for 
 weeks into obscure tippling-houses ; then reappear, ghastly and 
 haggard in body and mind, shattered in health, torn with gnawing 
 remorse. Perhaps it was in some dark interval of this kind (he 
 was already old) that he bethought him of his father, and how he 
 was still lying without a stone of memorial. John had already or- 
 dered a tombstone for him, and it was lying worked, and, I sup- 
 pose, lettered and ready, at some mason's establishment (up the 
 water of Mein), but never yet carried to the place. Probably Orr 
 had not a shilling of money to hire any carter with, but he hur- 
 ried off to the spot, and desperately got the stone on his back. It 
 was a load that had nigh killed him. He had to set it down ever 
 and anon and rest, and get it u]3 again. The night fell. I think 
 some one found him desperately struggling with it near Main Hill, 
 and assisted him, and got it set in its place. 
 
 Though far above all quackery, Orr was actually employed to 
 exorcise a house ; some house or room at Orchard, in the xjarish of 
 Hoddam. He entered the haunted place; was closeted in it for 
 some time, speaking and praying. The ghost was really and truly 
 laid, for no one heard more of it. Beautiful reverence, even of the 
 rude and ignorant, for the infinite nature of wisdom in the infinite 
 life of man. 
 
 Orr, as already said, used to come much about Brownknowe, be- 
 ing habitually itinerant, and (though schoolmaster of Hoddam) 
 without settled home. He commonly, my father said, slept with 
 some of the boys; in a jjlace where, as usual, there were several 
 beds. He would call out from the bed to my grandfather, also in 
 his, *' Gudeman, I have found it ;" found the solution of some x)rob- 
 lem or other, perhaps arithmetical, which they had been struggling 
 with ; or, " Gudeman, what d'ye think of this ?" 
 
 I represent him to myself as a squat, pursy kind of figure, grim, 
 dusky ; the blandest and most bounteous of cynics. Also a form of 
 the past. He was my father's sole teacher in schooling. 
 
 It might be in the year, I think, 1773, that one William Brown, a 
 mason from Peebles, came down into Auuandale to do some work ; 
 perhaps boarded in my grandfather's house ; at all events, married 
 his eldest daughter's child, my now old and vehement, then young 
 
22 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 and spirited, aunt Fanny. This worthy man, whose nephew is still 
 minister of Eskdalemuir (and author of a book on the Jews), proved 
 the greatest blessing to that household. My father would, in any 
 case, have saved himself. Of the other brothers, it may be doubted 
 whether William Brown was not the primary preserver. They all 
 learned to be masons from him, or from one another ; instead of mis- 
 cellaneous laborers and hunters, became regular tradesmen, the best 
 in all their district, the skilfuUest and faithfuUest, and the best-re- 
 warded every way. Except my father, none of them attained a 
 decisive religiousness. But they all had prudence and earnestness, 
 love of truth, industry, and the blessings it brings. My father, be- 
 fore my time, though not the eldest, had become, in all senses, the 
 head of the house. The eldest was called John. He early got 
 asthma, and for long could not work, though he got his share of 
 the wages still. I can faintly remember him as a pallid, sickly 
 figure ; and even one or two insignificant words, and the breathless 
 tone he uttered them in. When seized with extreme fits of sick- 
 ness, he used to gasp out, " Bring Jamie ; do send for Jamie." He 
 died, I think, in 1802. I remember the funeral, and perhaps a day 
 before it, how an ill-behaving servant wench lifted up the coverlid 
 from off his pale, ghastly, befilleted head to show it to some crony 
 of hers ; unheeding of me, who was alone with them, and to whom 
 the sight gave a new pang of horror. He was the father of two 
 sous and a daughter, beside whom our boyhood was passed, none of 
 whom have come to anything but insignificance. He was a well- 
 doing man, and left them well ; but their mother was not wise, nor 
 they decidedly so. The youngest brother — my uncle Tom — died 
 next ; a fiery, passionate, self-secluded, warm, loving, genuine soul, 
 without fear and without guile : of whom it is recorded, he never, 
 from the first tones of speech, "told any lies." A true old-Roman 
 soul, yet so marred and stunted, who well deserves a chapter to 
 himself, especially from me, who so lovingly admired him. He de- 
 parted in my father's house, in my presence, in the year 1815, the 
 first death I had ever understood and laid with its whole emphasis 
 to heart. Frank followed next, at an interval of some five years ; 
 a quaint, social, cheerful man, of less earnestness but more open- 
 ness, fond of genealogies, old historic poems, queer sayings, and all 
 curious and humane things he could come at. 
 
 This made him the greatest favorite. The rest were rather 
 feared ; my father, ultimately at least, universally feared and re- 
 spected. Frank left two sons, as yet young ; one of whom, my 
 namesake, gone to be a lawyer, is rather clever, how clever I have 
 
JAMES CARLYLE. 23 
 
 not fully seen. All these brothers were men of evidently rather 
 peculiar endowment. They were (consciously) noted for their 
 brotherly affection and coherence, for their hard sayings and hai^d 
 strikings, which only my father ever grew heartily to detest. All of 
 them became prosperous ; got a name and possessions in their de- 
 gree. It was a kindred warmly liked, I believe, by those near it ; 
 by those at a distance, viewed at worst and lowest, as something 
 dangerous to meddle with, something not to be meddled with. 
 
 What are the rich or the poor ? and how do the simple annals of 
 the poor differ from the complex annals of the rich, were they never 
 so rich? What is thy attainment compared with an Alexander's, 
 a Mahomet's, a Napoleon's ? And what was theirs ? A temporary 
 fraction of this plauetkin, the whole round of which is but a sand- 
 grain in the all, its whole duration but a moment in eternity. The 
 poorer life or the rich one are but the larger or smaller (very little 
 smaller) letters in which we write the apothegms and golden say- 
 ings of life. It may be a false saying or it may be a true one. 
 TJiere lies it all. This is of quite infinite moment ; the rest is, 
 verily and indeed, of next to none. 
 
 Perhaps my father was William Brown's first apprentice. Some- 
 where about his sixteenth year, early in the course of the engage- 
 ment, work grew scarce in Anuandale. The two " slung their tools " 
 (mallets and irons hung in two equipoised masses over the shoul- 
 der), and crossed the hills into Nithsdale to Auldgarth, where a 
 bridge was building. This was my father's most foreign adventure. 
 He never again, or before, saw anything so new ; or, except when 
 he came to Craigenputtoch on visits, so distant. He loved to speak 
 of it. That talking day we had together I made him tell it me all 
 over again from the beginning, as a whole, for the first time. He 
 was a " hewer," and had some few pence a day. He could describe 
 with the lucidest distinctness how th® whole work went on, and 
 " headers " and " closers," solidly massed together, made an impreg- 
 nable pile. He used to hear sermons in Closeburn church ; some- 
 times too in Dunscore. The men had a refreshment of ale, for 
 which he too used to table his twopence ; but the grown-up men 
 generally, for the most part, refused them. A superintendent of the 
 work, a mason from Edinburgh, who did nothing but look on, and, 
 rather decidedly, insist on terms of contract, "took a great notion" 
 of him ; was for having him to Edinburgh along with him. The 
 master builder, pleased with his ingenious diligence, once laid a 
 shilling on his "banker" (stone bench for hewing on), which he 
 rather ungraciously refused. A flood once carried off all the centres 
 
24 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 and woodwork. He saw the master auxiously, tremulously, watch 
 through the rain as the Avaters rose. When they prevailed, and all 
 went headlong, the poor man, wringing his hands together, spread 
 them out with open palms down the river, as if to say, " There !" 
 
 It was a noble moment, which I regret to have missed, when my 
 father going to look at Craigenputtoch saw this work for the first 
 time again after a space of more than fifty years. How changed 
 was all else, this thing yet the same. Then he was a poor boy, now 
 he was a respected old man, increased in worldly goods, honored in 
 himself and in his household. He grew alert (Jamie said) and 
 eagerly observant, eagerly yet with sadness. Our country was all 
 altered ; browsing knowes were become seed-fields ; trees, then not 
 so much as seeds, now waved out broad boughs. The houses, the 
 fields, the men, were of another fashion. There was little that he 
 could recognize. On reaching the bridge itself, he started up to his 
 knees in the cart, sat wholly silent, and seemed on the point of 
 weeping. 
 
 Well do I remember the first time I saw this bridge twelve years 
 ago in the d nsk of a May day. I had walked from Muirkirk, sickly, 
 forlorn, of saddest mood (for it was then my days of darkness). A 
 rustic answered me, " Auldgarth." There it lay, silent, red in the 
 red dusk. It was as if half a century of past time had fatefully for 
 moments turned back. 
 
 The master builder of this bridge was one Stewart of Minniyve, 
 who afterwards became my uncle John Aitken's father-in-law. 
 Him I once saw. My Craigenputtoch mason, James Hainning's 
 father, was the smith that " sharpened the tools." A noble craft it 
 is, that of a mason ; a good building will last longer than most 
 books, than one book of a million. The Auldgarth bridge still spans 
 the water silently, defies its chafing. There hangs it, and will hang, 
 grim and strong, when of all the cunning hands that piled it to- 
 gether, perhaps the last now is powerless in the sleep of death. O 
 Time ! O Time ! wondrous and fearful art thou ; yet there is in man 
 what is above thee. 
 
 Of my father's youth and opening manhood; and with what spe- 
 cialities this period was marked, I have but an imperfect notion. 
 He was now master of his own actions, possessed of means by his 
 own earning, and had to try the world on various sides, and ascer- 
 tain wherein his own " chief end" in it actually lay. The first im- 
 pulse of man is to seek for enjoyment. He lives with more or less 
 impetuosity, more or less irregularity, to conquer for himself a home 
 and blessedness of a mere earthly kind. Not till later (in how 
 
JAMES CAELYLE. 
 
 25 
 
 many cases never !) does he ascertain that on earth there is no such 
 home : that his true home lies beyond the world of sense, is a celes- 
 tial home. Of these experimenting and tentative days my father 
 did not speak with much pleasure ; not at all with exultation. He 
 considered them days of folly, perhaps sinful days. Yet I well 
 know that his life even then was marked by temperance (in all 
 senses), that he was abstemious, prudent, industrious as very few. 
 
 I have a dim picture of him in his little world. In summer 
 season diligently, cheerfully laboring with trowel and hammer, 
 amused by grave talk and grave humor with the doers of the craft. 
 Building, walling, is an operation that beyond most other manual 
 ones requires incessant consideration — even new invention. I 
 have heard good judges say that he excelled in it all persons they 
 had seen. In the depth of winter I figure him with the others 
 gathered round his father's hearth (now no longer so poor and des- 
 olate), hunting (but now happily for amusement, not necessity), 
 present here and there at some merry meetings and social doings, as 
 poor Annandale, for poor yet God-created men, might then offer. 
 Contentions occur. In these he was no man to be i)layed with : 
 fearless, formidable (I think to all). 
 
 In after-times he looked back with sorrow on such things — yet 
 to me they were not, and are not, other than interesting and inno- 
 cent — scarcely ever, perhaps never, to be considered as aggressions, 
 but always as defences, manful assertions of man's rights against 
 men that would infringe them — and victorious ones. I can faintly 
 picture out one scene which I got from him many years ago ; per- 
 haps it was at some singing-school ; a huge rude peasant was rudely 
 insulting and defying the party my father belonged to, and the oth- 
 ers quailed and bore it till he could bear it no longer, but clutches 
 his rough adversary (who had been standing, I think, at some dis- 
 tance on some sort of height) by the tv^o flanks, swings him with 
 ireful force round in the air, hitting his feet against some open door, 
 and hurled him to a distance, supine, lamed, vanquished, and utterly 
 humbled. The whole business looks to me to have passed physi- 
 cally in a troubless moonlight. 
 
 In the same environment and hue does it now stand in my mem- 
 ory, sad and stern. He could say of such things, "I am wae to 
 think on't:" wae from repentance. Happy he who has nothing 
 worse to repent of. 
 
 In the vanities and gallantries of life (though such as these would 
 come across him), he seems to have very sparingly mingled. One 
 Robert Henderson, a dashing projector and devotee, with a dashing 
 
 2 
 
26 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 daughter, came often up in conversation. This was perhaps (as it 
 were) my father's introduction to the "pride of life:" from which, 
 as his wont was, he appears to have derived little but instruction^ 
 but expansion and experience. I have good reason to know he 
 never addressed any woman except with views that were pure and 
 manly. But happily he had been enabled very soon in this choice 
 of the false and present against the true and future, to " choose the 
 better part." Happily there still existed in Annandale an influence 
 of goodness, pure emblems of a religion. There were yet men liv- 
 ing from whom a youth of earnestness might learn by example how 
 to become a man. Old Robert Brand, my father's maternal uncle, 
 was probably of very great influence on him in this respect. Old 
 Robert was a rigorous religionist, thoroughly filled with a celestial 
 philosophy of this earthly life, which showed impressively through 
 his stout decision and somewhat cross-grained deeds and words. 
 Sharp sayings of his are still recollected there, not unworthy of 
 preserving. He was a man of iron firmness, a just man, and of wise 
 insight. I think my father, consciously and unconsciously, may 
 have learnt more from him than from any other individual. From 
 the time when he connected himself openly with the religions, be- 
 came a Burgher (strict, not strictest species of Presbyterian Dis- 
 senter), may be dated his spiritual majority ; his earthly life was 
 now enlightened and overcanopied by a heavenly. He was hence- 
 forth a man. 
 
 Annandale had long been a lawless Border country. The people 
 had ceased from foray riding, but not from its effects. The " gal- 
 lant man" of those districts was still a wild, natnral, almost animal 
 man. A select few had only of late united themselves. They had 
 built a little meeting-house at Ecclefechan, thatched with heath, 
 and chosen them a priest, by name John Johnston, the ijriestliest man 
 I ever, under any ecclesiastical guise, was privileged to look upon. 
 He, in his last years, heliied me well with my Latin (as he had done 
 many), and otherwise produced me far higher benefit. This pleas- 
 ant union, this little heath-thatched house, this simple evangelist, 
 together constituted properly the church of that district. They 
 were the blessing and the saving of many. On me too their pious 
 heaven-sent influences still rest and live. Let them employ them 
 well. There was in those days a " teacher of the people." He 
 sleeps not far from my father (who built his monument) in the Ec- 
 clefechan church-yard ; the teacher and the taught. " Blessed," I 
 again say, " are the dead that die in the Lord. They do rest from 
 their labors ; their works follow them." 
 
JAMES CARLYLE. 27 
 
 My father, I think, was of the second race of religious men in 
 Annandale. Old Robert Brand, an ancient herdsman, old John Brit- 
 ton, and some others that I have seen, were perhaps among the first. 
 There is no third rising. Time sweeps all away with it so fast at this 
 epoch. The Scottish Church has been short-lived, and was late in 
 reaching thither. 
 
 Perhaps it was in 1791 that my father married one Janet Carlyle, 
 a very distant kinswoman of his own (her father yet, I believe, 
 lives, a professor of religion, but long time suspected to be none of 
 the most perfect, though not without his worth). She brought 
 him one son, John, at present a well-doing householder at Cocker- 
 mouth. She left him and this little life in little more than a year. 
 A mass of long fair woman's hair which had belonged to her long 
 lay in a secret drawer at our house (perhaps still lies) ; the sight 
 of it used to give me a certain faint horror. It had been cut from 
 her head near death, when she was in the height of fever. She was 
 delirious, and would let none but my father cut it. He thought 
 himself sure of infection, nevertheless consented readily, and es- 
 caped. Many ways, I have understood, he had much to suffer then, 
 yet he never spoke of it, or only transiently, and with an historical 
 stoicism. Let me here mention the reverent custom the old men 
 had in Annandale of treating death even in their loosest thoughts. 
 It is noAV passing away ; with my father it was quite invariable. 
 Had he occasion to speak in the future, he would say I will do so 
 and so, never failing to add (were it only against the morrow), 
 " if I be spared," '' if I live." The dead, again, he spoke of with 
 perfect freedom, only with serious gravity (perhaps a lowering of 
 the voice), and always, even in the most trivial conversation, add- 
 ing, " that's gane ;" " my brother John that's gane" did so and so. 
 Ernst ist das Lebeii. 
 
 He married again, in the beginning of 1795, my mother, Margaret 
 Aitken (a woman of to me the fairest descent — that of the pious, 
 the just, and wise). She was a faithful helpmate to him, toiling 
 unweariedly at his side ; to us the best of all mothers ; to whom, 
 for body and soul, I owe endless gratitude'. By God's great mercy 
 she is still left as a head and centre to us all, and may yet cheer us 
 with her pious heroism through many toils, if God so please. I am 
 the eldest child, born in 1795, December 4, and trace deeply in my- 
 self the character of both parents, also the upbringing and example 
 of both ; the inheritance of their natural health, had not I and the 
 time beat on it too hard. 
 
 It must have been about the period of the first marriage that my 
 
28 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 father and his brothers, already master masons, established them- 
 selves in Ecclefechan. They all henceforth began to take on a civil 
 existence, to "accumulate" in all senses, to grow. They were 
 among the best and truest men of their craft (perhaps the very best) 
 in that whole district, and recompensed accordingly. Their gains 
 were the honest wages of industry, their savings were slow, but 
 constant, and in my father's, continued (from one source or other) 
 to the end. He was born and brought up the poorest ; by his own 
 right hand he had become wealthy, as he accounted wealth, and in 
 all ways plentifully supplied. His household goods, valued in 
 money, may perhaps somewhat exceed £1000. In real inward 
 worth that value was greater than that of most kingdoms, than all 
 Napoleon's conquests, which did not endure. He saw his children 
 grow up round him to guard him and to do him honor. He had, 
 ultimately, a hearty respect from all ; could look forward from his 
 verge of this earth, rich and increased in goods, into an everlasting 
 country, where, through the immeasurable deeps, shone a solemn, 
 sober hope. I must reckon my father one of the most prosperous 
 men I have ever in my life known. 
 
 Frugality and assiduity, a certain grave composure, an earnest- 
 ness (not without its constraint, then felt as oppressive a little, yet 
 which now yields its fruit), were the order of our household. We 
 were all particularly taught that work (temporal or spiritual) was 
 the only thing we had to do, and incited always by precept and ex- 
 ample to do it well. An inflexible element of authority surrounded 
 us all. We felt from the first (a useful thing) that our own wish 
 had often nothing to say in the matter. . 
 
 It was not a joyful life (what life is ?), yet a safe, quiet one ; above 
 most others (or any other I have witnessed) a wholesome one. We 
 were taciturn rather than talkative. But if little was said, that 
 little had generally a meaning. I cannot be thankful enough for 
 my parents. My early, yet not my earliest, recollections of my fa- 
 ther have in them a certain awe which ouly now or very lately has 
 passed into free reverence. I was parted from him in my tenth 
 year, and never Jiahitually lived with him afterwards. Of the very 
 earliest I have saved some, and would not for money's worth lose 
 them. All that belongs to him has become very precious to me. 
 
 I can remember his carrying me across Mein Water, over a pool 
 some few yards below where the present Meinfoot bridge stands. 
 Perhaps I was in my fifth year. He was going to Luce, I think, 
 to ask after some joiner. It was the loveliest summer evening I 
 recollect. My memory dawns (or grows light) at the first aspect 
 
JAMES CARLYLE. 29 
 
 of tlie stream ; of the pool spanned by a wooden bow without rail- 
 ing, and a single plank broad. He lifted me against his thigh 
 with his right hand, and walked careless along till we were over. 
 My face was turned rather downwards. I looked into the deep, 
 clear water and its reflected skies with terror, yet with confidence 
 that he could save me. Directly after, I, light of heart, asked of 
 him what those little black things were that I sometimes seemed 
 to create by rubbing the palms of my hands together ; and can at 
 this moment (the mind having been doubtless excited by the past 
 peril) remember that I described them in these words, "little 
 penny rows" (rolls), " but far less." He explained it wholly to me j 
 " my hands were not clean." He was very kind, and I loved him. 
 All around this is dusk or night before and after. It is not my 
 earliest recollection, not even of him. My earliest of all is a mad 
 passion of rage at my elder brother John (on a visit to us likely 
 from his grandfather) in which my father too figures, though 
 dimly, as a kind of cheerful comforter and soother. I had broken 
 my little brown stool, by madly throwing it at my brother, and 
 felt, for perhaps the first time, the united pangs of loss and of re- 
 morse. I was perhaps hardly more than two years old, but can 
 get no one to fix the date for me, though all is still quite legible 
 for myself with many of its features. I remember the first " new 
 half-pence " (brought from Dumfries by my father and mother for 
 Alick and me), and words that my uncle John said about it, in 
 1799! Backwards beyond all, dim riiddy images of deeper and 
 deeper brown shade into the dark beginnings of being. 
 
 I remember, perhaps in my fifth year, his teaching me arithmet- 
 ical things, especially how to divide (my letters, taught me by 
 my mother, I have no recollection of whatever ; of reading scarcely 
 any). He said. This is the divider (divisor) ; this, etc. ; and gave 
 me a quite clear notion how to do it. My mother said I would for- 
 get it all ', to which he answered, " Not so much as they that have 
 never learnt it." Five years or so after, he said to me once, " Tom, 
 I do not grudge thy schooling now, when thy uncle Frank owns 
 thee to be a better arithmetician than himself." 
 
 He took me down to Annan Academy on the Whitsunday morn- 
 ing, 1806 ; I trotting at his side in the way alluded to in Teufels- 
 drockh. It was a bright morning, and to me full of movement, of 
 fluttering, boundless hopes, saddened by parting with mother, 
 with home, and which afterwards were cruelly disappointed. He 
 called once or twice in the grand schoolroom, as he chanced to 
 have business at Annan j once sat down by me (as the master was 
 
30 EEMINISCENCES. 
 
 out) and asked whether I was all well. The boys did not laugh, 
 as I feared ; perhaps durst not. 
 
 He was always generous to me in my school expenses ; never by 
 grudging look or word did he give me any j)ain. With a noble 
 faith he lauuched me forth into a world which himself had never 
 been permitted to visit. Let me study to act worthily of him 
 there. 
 
 He wrote to me duly and affectionately while I was at college. 
 Nothing that was good for me did he fail with his best ability to 
 provide. His simple, true counsel and fatherly admonitions have 
 now first attained their fit sacredness of meaning. Pity for me if 
 they be thrown away. 
 
 His tolerance for me, his trust in me, was great. When I de- 
 clined going forward into the church (though his heart was set 
 upon it), he respected my scruples, my volition, and patiently let 
 me have my way. In after-years, when I had peremptorily ceased 
 from being a schoolmaster, though he inwardly disapproved of the 
 step as imprudent, and saw me in successive summers lingering 
 beside him in sickliness of body and mind, without outlook tow- 
 ards any good, he had the forbearance to say at worst nothing, 
 never once to whisper discontent with me. 
 
 If my dear mother, with the trustfulness of a mother's heart, min- 
 istered to all my woes, outward and inward, and even against hope 
 kept prophesying good, he, with whom I communicated far less, 
 who could not approve my schemes, did nothing that was not kind 
 and fatherly. His roof was my shelter, which a word from him 
 (in those sour days of wounded vanity) would have deprived me 
 of. He patiently let me have my way, helping when he could, 
 when he could not help never hindering. When hope again 
 dawned for me, how hearty was his joy, yet how silent ! I have 
 been a happy son. 
 
 On my first return from college (in the spring, 1810), I met him 
 in the Langlands road, walking out to try whether he would not 
 happen to see me coming. He had a red plaid about him ; was 
 recovering from a fit of sickness (his first severe one) and there 
 welcomed me back. It was a bright April day. Where is it now ? 
 
 The great world-revolutions send in their disturbing billows to 
 the remotest creek, and the overthrow of thrones more slowly over- 
 turns also the households of the lowly. Nevertheless, in all cases 
 the wise man adjusts himself. Even in these times the hand of 
 the diligent maketh rich. My father had seen the American War, 
 the French Revolution, the rise and fall of Napoleon. The last 
 
JAMES CAELYLE. 31 
 
 arrested him strongly. In the Eussian Campaign he bought a 
 London newspaper, which I read aloud to a little circle twice 
 weekly. He was struck with Napoleon, and would say and look 
 pregnant things about him. Empires won and empires lost (while 
 his little household held together), and now it was all vanished 
 like a tavern brawl. For the rest, he never meddled with politics. 
 He was not there to govern, but to be governed ; could still live, 
 and therefore did not revolt. I have heard him say in late years, 
 with an impressiveness which all his perceptions carried with 
 them, that the lot of a poor man was growing worse and worse ; 
 that the world would not and could not last as it was; that 
 mighty changes of which none saw the end were on the way. To 
 him, as one about to take his departure, the whole was but of 
 secondary moment. He was looking towards " a city that had 
 foundations." 
 
 In the " dear years " (1799 and 1800) when the oatmeal was as high 
 as ten shillings a stone, he had noticed the laborers (I have heard 
 him tell) retire each separately to a brook, and there drink in- 
 stead of dining, without complaint, anxious only to hide it. 
 
 At Langholm he once saw a heap of smuggled tobacco publicly 
 burned. Dragoons were ranged round it with, drawn swords ; some 
 old women stretched through their old withered arms to snatch a 
 little of it, and the dragoons did not hinder them. A natural artist ! 
 
 The largest sum he ever earned in one year was, I think, £100, by 
 the building of Cressfield House. He wisely quitted the mason 
 trade at the time when the character of it had changed, when uni- 
 versal poverty and vanity made show and cheapness (hero as every- 
 where) be preferred to substance ; when, as he said emphatically, 
 honest trade " was done." He became farmer (of a wet, clayey 
 spot called Main Hill) in 1815, that so " he might keep all his family 
 about him," struggled with his old valor, and here, too, prevailed. 
 
 Two ears of corn are now in many places growing where he found 
 only one. Unworthy, or little worthy, men for the time reap the 
 benefit ; but it was a benefit done to God's earth, and God's mankind 
 will year after year get the good of it. 
 
 In his contention with an unjust, or, perhaps, only a mistaken, 
 landlord, he behaved with prudent resolution, not like a vain brag- 
 gart, but like a practically brave man. It was I that iunocently 
 (by my settlement at Hoddam Hill) had involved him in it. I 
 must admire now his silence, while we were all so loud and vitu- 
 perative. He spoke nothing in that matter except only what had 
 practical meaning in it, and in a practical tone. His answers to un- 
 
32 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 jast proposals, meanwhile, were resolute as ever, memorable for 
 their emphasis. "I will not do it," said he, once; "I will rather 
 go to Jerusalem seeking farms, and die without finding one." "We 
 can live Avithout Sharpe," said he once in my hearing (such a thing, 
 only once) " and the whole Sbarpe creation." On getting to Scots- 
 hrig, the rest of us all triumphed — not he. He let the matter stand 
 on its own feet ; was there, also, not to talk, hut to work. He even 
 addressed a conciliatory letter to General Sharpe (which I saw right 
 to write for him, since he judged prudence better than pride) ; hut 
 it produced no result except, indeed, the ascertainment that none 
 could be produced, which itself was one. 
 
 When he first entered our house at Craigenputtoch, he said, in 
 his slow, emphatic way, with a certain rustic dignity, to my wife 
 (I had entered without introducing him), "I am grown an old fel- 
 loiv" (never can we forget the pathetic slow earnestness of these 
 tw^o wortls) ; " I am grown an old fellow, and wished to see ye all 
 once more while I had opportunity." Jane* was greatly struck 
 with him, and still farther opened my eyes to the treasure I pos- 
 sessed in a fjither. 
 
 The last thing I gave him was a cake of Cavendish tobacco, sent 
 down by Alick about this time twelvemonth. Through life I had 
 given him very little, having little to give. He needed little, and 
 from me expected nothing. Thou who w^ouldst give, give quickly. 
 In the grave thy loved one can receive no kindness. I once bought 
 him a pair of silver spectacles, of the receipt of which and the let- 
 ter that accompanied them (John told me), he was very glad, and 
 nigh weeping. " What I gave, I have." He read with these spec- 
 tacles till his last days, and, no doubt, sometimes thought of me in 
 using them. 
 
 The last time I saw him was about the first of August last, a few 
 days before departing hither. He was very kind, seemed prouder 
 of me than ever. What he had never done the like of before, he 
 said, on hearing me express something which he admired, "Man, 
 it's surelj^ a pity that thou shouldst sit yonder with nothing but 
 the eye of Omniscience to see thee, and thou with such a gift to 
 speak." His eyes were sparkling mildly, with a kind of deliberate 
 joy. Strangely, too, he offered me on one of those mornings (know- 
 ing that I was poor) "two sovereigns" which he had of his own, 
 and pressed them on my acceptance. They were lying in his desk ; 
 none knew of them. He seemed really anxious and desirous that 
 
 • Miss Jane Welsh, whom Carlyle mairiecl. 
 
JAMES CARLYLE. 33 
 
 I should take them, should take his little hoard, his all that he had 
 to give. I said, jokingly, afterwards, that surely he was fey. So 
 it has proved. 
 
 I shall now no more behold my dear father with these bodily 
 eyes. With him a whole threescore and ten years of tie past has 
 doubly died for me. It is as if a new leaf in the great book of time 
 ■were turned over. Strange time — endless time ; or of which I see 
 neither end nor beginning. All rushes on. Man follows man. 
 His life is as a tale that has been told ; yet under Time does there 
 not lie Eternity ? Perhaps my father, all that essentially was my 
 father, is even now near me, with me. Both he and I are with God. 
 Perhaps, if it so please God, we shall in some higher state of being 
 meet one another, recognize one another. As it is written, We 
 shall be forever with God. The possibility, nay (in some way), the 
 certainty, of perennial existence daily grows plainer to me. " The 
 essence of whatever was, is, or shall be, even now is." God is 
 great. God is good. His will be done, for it will be right. 
 
 As it is, I can think peaceably of the departed love. All that 
 was earthly, harsh, sinful, in our relation has fallen away; all that 
 was holy in it remains. I can see my dear father's life in some 
 measure as the sunk pillar on which mine was to rise and be built ; 
 the waters of time have now swelled up round his (as they will 
 round mine) ; I can see it all transfigured, though I touch it no long- 
 er. I might almost say his spirit seems to have entered into me 
 (so clearly do I discern and love him) ; I seem to myself only the 
 continuation and second volume of my father. These days that I 
 have spent thinking of him and of his end are the peaceablest, the 
 only Sabbath that I have had in London. One other of the uni- 
 versal destinies of man has overtaken me. Thank Heaven, I know, 
 and have known, what it is to be a son ; to love a father, as spirit 
 can love spirit. God give me to live to my father's honor and to 
 His. And now, beloved father, farewell for the last time in this 
 world of shadows ! In the world of realities may the Great Fa- 
 ther again bring us together in perfect holiness and perfect love! 
 Amen! 
 
 Sunday night, Jan. 2a, 1S32. 
 
EDWARD IRVING 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 
 
 Cheyne Row, Autumu, 1S66. 
 
 Edward Irving died thirty-two years ago (December, 1834) in 
 tlie first mouths of our adventurous settlement here. The memo- 
 ry of him is still clear and vivid with me in all points : that of his 
 first and only visit to us in this house, in this room, just before leav- 
 ing for Glasgow (October, 1834), which was the last we saw of him, 
 is still as fresh as if it had been yesterday; and he has a solemn, 
 massive, sad, and even pitiable though not much blamable, or iu heart 
 even blamable, and to me always dear and most friendly aspect, in 
 those vacant kingdoms of the past. He was scornfully forgotten 
 at the time of his death, having, iudeed, sunk a good while before 
 out of the notice of the more intelligent classes. There has since 
 been, and now is, in the new theological generation, a kind of re- 
 vival of him, on rather, weak and questionable terms, sentimental 
 mainly, and grounded on no really correct knowledge or insight. 
 Which, however, seems to bespeak some continuance of bygone re- 
 membrances for a good while yet by that class of people and the 
 many that hang by them. Being very solitary, and, except for con- 
 verse with the spirits of my vanished ones, very idle in these hours 
 and days, I have bethought me of throwing down (the more rai)id- 
 ly the better) something of my recollections of this, to me, very 
 memorable man, in hopes they may by possibility be worth some- 
 thing by-and-by to some — not worth less than nothing to anybody 
 (viz. not true and candid according to my best thoughts) if I can 
 help it. 
 
 The Irvings, Edward's father and uncles, lived all within a few 
 miles of my native place, and were of my father's acquaintance. 
 Two of the uncles, whose little farm establishments lay close upon 
 Ecclefechan, were of his familiars, and became mine niore or less, 
 especially one of them (George, of Bogside), who was further a co- 
 religionist of ours (a " Burgher Seceder," not a " Kirkman," as the 
 other was). They were all cheerfully quiet, rational, and honest 
 
38 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 people, of good - natured and prudent turn. Something of what 
 might he called a kindly \'auity, a very harmless self-esteem, do- 
 ing pleasure to the proprietor and hurt to nobody else, was trace- 
 able in all of them. They were not distinguished by intellect, any 
 of them, except it might be intellect in the unconscious or instinc- 
 tive condition (coming out as prudence of conduct, etc.), of which 
 there were good indications; and of Uncle George, who was pru- 
 dent enough, and successfully diligent in his affairs (no bad proof 
 of "intellect" in some shape), though otherwise a most taciturn, 
 dull, and almost stupid-looking man, I remember this other fact, 
 that he had one of the largest heads in the district, and that my fa- 
 ther, he, and a clever and original Dr. Little, their neighbor, never 
 could be fitted at a hat-shop in the village, but had always to send 
 their measure to Dumfries to a hat-maker there. Whether George 
 had a round head or a long, I don't recollect. There was a fine lit- 
 tle spice of innocent, faint, but genuine and kindly banter in him 
 now and then. Otherwise I recollect him only as heavy, he betat- 
 ed, elderly or old, and more inclined to quiescence and silence than 
 to talk of or care about anything exterior to his own interests, 
 temporal or spiritual. 
 
 Gavin, Edward's father (name pronounced Gayin=rGuyon, as Ed- 
 ward once remarked to me), a tallish man of rugged countenance, 
 which broke out oftenest into some innocent fleer of merriment, or 
 readiness to be merry when you addressed him, was a prudent, hon- 
 est-hearted, rational person, but made no pretension to superior 
 gifts of mind, though he too, perhaps, may have had such in its un- 
 developed form. Thus, on ending his apprenticeship, or by some 
 other lucky opportunity, he had formed a determination of seeing 
 a little of England in the first place, and actually got mounted on 
 a stout pony, accoutrements succinctly complete (road-money in a 
 belt round his own body), and rode and wandered at his will de- 
 liberately southward, I think, for about six weeks, as far as Wilt- 
 shire at least, for I have heard him speak of Devizes, " The De- 
 vizes " he called it, as one of his halting-places. What his precise 
 amount of profit from this was I know not at all, but it bespeaks 
 something ingenuous and adventurous in the young man. lie was 
 by craft a tanner, had settled in Annan, soon began to be prosper- 
 ous, wedded well, and continued all his life there. He was among 
 the younger of these brothers, but was clearly the head of them, 
 and, indeed, had been the making of the principal two, George and 
 John, whom we knew. Gavin was baillie in Annan when the fu- 
 rious election sung by Burns ("There were five carlins in the 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 39 
 
 south " — five burgbs, namely) took place. Gavin voted the right 
 way (Duke of Queensberry's way) and got for his two brothers each 
 the lease of a snug Queensberry farm, which grew even the snug- 
 ger as dissolute old Queensberry developed himself more and more 
 into a cynical egoist, sensualist, and hater of his next heir (the Buc- 
 cleuch, not a Douglas, but a Scott, who now holds both dukedoms), 
 a story well known over Scotland, and of altogether lively interest 
 in Annandale (where it meant entail - leases and large sums of 
 money) during several years of my youth. 
 
 These people, the Queensberry farmers, seem to me to have been 
 the happiest set of yeomen I ever came to see, not only because 
 they sat easy as to rent, but because they Mew fully how to sit so, 
 and were pious, modest, thrifty men, who neither fell into laggard 
 relaxation of diligence nor were stung by any madness of ambition, 
 but faithfully continued to turn all their bits of worldly success 
 into real profit for soul and body. They disappeared (in chancery 
 lawsuit) fifty years ago. I have seen various kinds of farmers, 
 scientific, etc., etc., but as desirable a set not since. 
 
 Gavin had married well, perhaps rather above his rank, a tall, 
 black-eyed, handsome woman, sister of certain Lowthers in that 
 neighborhood, who did most of the inconsiderable corn trade of 
 those parts, and were considered a stiff-necked, faithful kind of 
 people, apter to do than to speak, originally from Cumberland, I be- 
 lieve. For her own share, the mother of Edward Irving had much 
 of fluent speech in her, and of management ; thrifty, assiduous, 
 wise, if somewhat fussy ; for the rest, an excellent house mother, I 
 believe, full of affection and tender anxiety for her children and 
 husband. By degrees she had developed the modest prosperity of 
 her household into something of decidedly "genteel" (Annan "gen- 
 tility "), and having left the rest of the Irving kindred to their 
 rustic solidities, had probably but little practical familiarity with 
 most of them, though never any quarrel or estrangement that I 
 heard of. Her Gavin was never careful of gentility ; a roomy sim- 
 plicity and freedom (as of a man in a dressing-gown) his chief aim. 
 In my time he seemed mostly to lounge about ; superintended his 
 tanning only from afar, and at length gave it up altogether. There 
 were four other brothers, three of them small farmers, and a fourth 
 who followed some cattle traffic in Annan, and was well esteemed 
 there for his honest, simple ways. No sister of theirs did I ever 
 hear of; nor what their father had been ; som^e honest little farm- 
 er he, too, I conclude. 
 
 Their mother, Edward Irving's aged grandmother, I well remem- 
 
40 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 ber to have seen ; once, perhaps twice, at her son George's fireside ; 
 a good old woman, half in dotage, and the only creatnre I ever saw 
 spinniug with a distaff and no other apparatus but tow or wool. 
 All these Irvings were of blond or even red complexion — red hair 
 a prevailing or sole color in several of their families. Gavin him- 
 self was reddish, or at least sandy blond ; but all his children had 
 beautifully coal-black hair, except one girl, the youngest of the set 
 but two, who was carroty, like her cousins. The brunette mother 
 with her swift black eyes had prevailed so far. Enough now for 
 the genealogy — superabundantly enough. 
 
 One of the circumstances of Irviug's boyhood ought not to be 
 neglected by his biograj)her — the remarkable schoolmaster he had. 
 '' Old Adam Hope," perhaps not yet fifty in Irviug's time, was all 
 aloug a notability iu Annau. 
 
 What had been his specific history or employment before this of 
 schoolmastering I do not know, nor was he ever my schoolmaster 
 except incidentally for a few weeks, once or twice, as substitute for 
 some absentee who had the office. But I can remember on one such 
 occasion reading in Sallust with him, and how he read it and drilled 
 us in it ; and I have often enough seen him teach, and knew him 
 well enough. A strong-built, bony, but lean kind of man, of brown 
 complexion, and a pair of the sharpest, not the sweetest, black eyes. 
 Walked in a lounging, stooping figure ; in the street broad-brimmed 
 and iu clean frugal rustic clothes ; in his schoolroom bare-headed, 
 hands usually crossed over back, and with his effective leather 
 strap (" cat,^' as he called it, not tawse, for it was not slit at all) 
 hanging ready over his thumb if requisite anywhere. In my time 
 he had a couple of his front teeth quite black, which was very visi- 
 ble, as his mouth usually wore a settled humanly contemptuous 
 grin. "Nothing good to be expected from you or from those you 
 came of, ye little whelps ; but we must get from you the best you 
 have, and not complain of anything." This was what the grin 
 seemed to say ; but the black teeth (jet-TjlacTc, for he chewed tobac- 
 co also to a slight extent, never spitting) were always mysterious 
 to me, till at length I found they were of cork, the product of 
 Adam's frugal penknife, and could be removed at pleasure. He 
 was a man humanly contemptuous of the world, and valued "suf- 
 frages " at a most low figure in comparison. I should judge an ex- 
 tremely proud man ; for the rest, an inexorable logician, a Calvinist 
 at all points, and Burgher Scotch Seceder to the backbone. He 
 had written a tiny English grammar latterly (after Irving's time 
 and before mine) which was a very compact, lucid, and complete 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 41 
 
 little piece; and was regarded by the natives, especially the young 
 natives who had to learn from it, with a certain awe, the feat of 
 authorship in print being then somewhat stupendous and beyond 
 example in those parts. He did not know very much, though still 
 a good something ; geometry (of Euclid), Latin, arithmetic, Eng- 
 lish syntax. But what he did profess or imagine himself to know, 
 he knew in every fibre, and to the very bottom. More rigorously 
 solid teacher of the young idea, so far as he could carry it, you 
 might have searched for through the world in vaiu. Self-delusion, 
 half-knowledge, sham instead of reality, could not get existed in 
 his presence. He had a Socratic way with him ; would accept the 
 hopeless pupil's half-knowledge, or plausible sham of knowledge, 
 with a kind of welcome. " Rm ! hm ! yes ;" and then gently enough 
 begin a chain of inquiries more and more surprising to the poor pu- 
 pil, till he had reduced him to zero — to mere nonplus ultra, and the 
 dismal perception that his sham of knowledge had been flat mis- 
 knowledge, with a spice of dishonesty added. This was what he 
 called "making a boy fast." For the poor boy had to sit in hia 
 place under arrest all day, or day after day, meditating those dismal 
 new-revealed facts, and beating ineffectually his poor brains for 
 some solution of the mystery and feasible road out. He might ap- 
 ply again at pleasure. " I have made it out, sir." But if again 
 found self-deluded, it was only a new padlock to those fastenings 
 of his. They were very miserable to the poor penitent, or impeni- 
 tent, wretch. 
 
 I remember my father once describing to us a call he had made 
 on Hope during the mid-day hour of interval, whom he found read- 
 ing or writing something, not having cared to lock the door and to 
 go home, with three or four bits of boys sitting prisoners, " made 
 fast " in different parts of the room ; all perfectly miserable, each 
 with a rim of black worked out round his eye-sockets (the effect of 
 salt tears wiped by knuckles rather dirty). Adam, though not cat- 
 like of temper or intention, had a kind of cat-pleasure in surveying 
 and playing with these captive mice. He was a praise and glory 
 to well-doing boys, a beneficent terror to the ill-doing or dishonest 
 blockhead sort ; and did what was in his power to educe (or edu- 
 cate) and make available the net amount of faculty discoverable 
 in each, and separate firmly the known from the unknown or mis- 
 known in those young heads. On Irving, who always spoke of 
 him with mirthful affection, he had produced quietly not a little 
 effect ; prepared him well for his triumphs in geometry and Latin 
 at college, and through life you could always notice, overhung by 
 
42 • REMINISCENCES, 
 
 such strange draperies and huge superstructures so foreign to it, 
 something of that primeval basis of rigorous logic and clear artic- 
 ulation laid for him in boyhood by old Adam Hope. Old Adam, 
 indeed, if you know the Annanites and him, will be curiously found 
 visible there to this day ; an argumentative, clear-headed, sound- 
 hearted, if rather conceited and contentious, set of people, more 
 given to intellectual pursuits than some of their neighbors. I con- 
 sider Adam an original meritorious kind of man, and regret to think 
 that his sphere was so limited. In my youngest years his brown, 
 quietly severe face was familiar to me in Ecclefechau Meeting-house 
 (my venerable Mr. Johnston's hearers on Sundays, as will be after- 
 wards noted). Younger cousins of his, excellent honest people, I 
 have since met (David Hope, merchant in Glasgow ; William Hope, 
 scholar in Edinburgh, etc.) ; and one tall, straight old uncle of his, 
 very clean always, brown as mahogany and with a head white as 
 snow, I remember very clearly as the picture of gravity and pious 
 seriousness in that poor Ecclefechan place of worship, concerning 
 whom I will report one anecdote and so end. Old David Hope- 
 that was his name — lived on a little farm close by Solway shore a 
 mile or two east of Annan. A wet country, with late harvests; 
 which (as in this year 1866) are sometimes incredibly difficult to 
 save. Ten days continuously pouring ; then a day, perhaps two 
 days, of drought — part of them, it may be, of roaring wind — during 
 which the moments are golden for you, and perhaps you had better 
 work all night, as presently there will be deluges again. David's 
 stuff, one such morning, was all standing dry again, ready to be 
 saved still, if he stood to it, which was much his intention. Break- 
 fast (wholesome hasty-porridge) was soon over, and next in course 
 came family worship, what they call taking the Book (or Books, 
 i.e. taking your Bible, Psalm and chapter always part of the ser- 
 vice). David was putting on his spectacles when somebody rushed 
 in. "Such a raging w^ind risen as will drive the stooks (shocks) 
 into the sea if let alone." " Wind !" answered David, " wind canua 
 get ae straw that has been appointed mine. Sit down and let us 
 worship God" (that rides in the whirlwind)! There is a kind of 
 citizen which Britain used to have, very different from the million- 
 aire Hebrews, Rothschild money-changers, Demosthenes Disraelis, 
 and inspired young Goscheus and their " unexampled prosperity." 
 Weep, Britain, if the latter are among the honorable you now 
 have! 
 
 One other circumstance that peculiarly deserves notice in Irving's 
 young life, and perhaps the only other one, is also connected with 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 43 
 
 Adam Hope — Irving's young religion. Annandale was not an irre- 
 ligious country, though Auuan itself (owing to a drunken clergy- 
 man and the logical habits they cultivated) was more given to 
 sceptical freethiukiug than other places. The greatly prevailing 
 fashion was a decent form of devoutuess, and pious theoretically 
 anxious regard for things sacred, in all which the Irving household 
 stood fairly on a level with its neighbors, or perhaps above most of 
 them. They went duly to Kirk, strove still to tolerate and almost 
 to respect their unfortunate minister (who had succeeded a father 
 greatly esteemed in that office, and was a man of gifts himself, and 
 of much good-nature, though so far gone astray). Nothing of pro- 
 fane, or of the least tendency that way, was usually seen, or would 
 have been suffered without protest and grave rebuke in Irving's en- 
 vironment, near or remote. At the same time, this other fact was 
 visible enough if you examined. A man who awoke to the belief 
 that he actually had a soul to be saved or lost was apt to be found 
 among the Dissenting people, and to have given up attendance on 
 the Kirk. It was uugenteel for him to attend the meeting-house? 
 but he found it to be altogether salutary. This was the case 
 throughout in Irving's district and mine. As I had remarked for 
 myself, nobody teaching me, at an early period of my investiga- 
 tions into men and things, I concluded it would be generally so 
 over Scotland, but found when I went north to Edinburgh, Glas- 
 gow, Fife, etc., that it was not, or by no means so perceptibly Avas. 
 For the rest, all Dissent in Scotland is merely a stricter adherence 
 to the National Kirk in all points ; and the then Dissenterage is de- 
 finable to moderns simply as a " i^ree KirJc, making no noise J' It had 
 quietly (about 1760), after much haggle and remonstrance, "se- 
 ceded," or walked out of its stipends, officialities, and dignities, 
 greatly to the mute sorrow of religious Scotland, and was still, in 
 a strict manner, on the united voluntary principle, preaching to 
 the people what of best and sacred est it could. Not that there was 
 not something of rigor, of severity, a lean - minded controversial 
 spirit, among certain brethren, mostly of the laity, I think ; nar- 
 row nebs (narrow of neb, i. e. of nose or bill), as the outsiders called 
 them ; of flowerage, or free harmonious beauty, there could not well 
 be much in this system. But really, except on stated occasions 
 (annual fast-day, for instance, when you were reminded that " a 
 testimony had been lifted up," of which you were now the bearers), 
 there was little, almost no talk, especially no preaching at all, about 
 "patronage," or secular controversy, but all turned on the weight- 
 ier and universal matters of the law, and was considerably entitled 
 
44 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 to say for itself, " Hear, all men." Very venerable are those old 
 Seceder clergy to me now when I look back on them. Most of the 
 chief figures among them in Irving's time and mine were hoary old 
 men ; men so like what one might call antique Evangelists in ruder 
 vesture, and "poor scholars and gentlemen of Christ," I have no- 
 where met with in monasteries or churches, among Protestant or 
 Papal clergy, in any country of the world. All this is altered ut- 
 terly at present, I grieve to say, and gone to as good as nothing, or 
 worse. It began to alter just about that very period, on the death 
 of those old hoary heads, and has gone on with increasing velocity 
 ever since. Irving and I were probably among the last products 
 it delivered before gliding off, and then rushing off into self-con- 
 sciousness, arrogancy, insincerity, jangle, and vulgarity, which, I 
 fear, are now very much the definition of it. Irving's concern with 
 the matter had been as follows, brief, but, I believe, ineffaceable 
 through life. 
 
 Adam Hope was a rigid Seceder, as all his kin and connections 
 were ; and in and about Annan, equally rigid some of them, less 
 rigid others, were a considerable number of such, who, indeed, some 
 few years hence, combined themselves into an Annan Burgher con- 
 gregation, and set up a meeting-house and minister of their own. 
 For the present they had none, nor had thought of such a thing. 
 Venerable Mr. Johnston of Ecclefechau, six miles off, was their only 
 minister, and to him duly on Sunday Adam and a select group were 
 in the habit of pilgriming for sermon. Less zealous brethren would 
 perhaps pretermit in bad weather, but I suppose it had to be very 
 bad when Adam and most of his group failed to appear. The dis- 
 tance — six miles twice — was nothing singular in this case ; one 
 family, whose streaming plaids, hung up to drip, I remember to 
 have noticed one wet Sunday, pious Scotch weavers settled near 
 Carlisle, I was told, were in the habit of walking fifteen miles twice 
 for their sermon, since it was not to be had nearer. A curious pha- 
 sis of things, quite vanished now, with whatever of divinity and 
 good was in it, and whatever of merely human and not so good. 
 From reflection of his own, aided, or perhaps awakened, by study of 
 Adam Hope and his example (for I think there could not be direct 
 speech or persuasion from Adam in such a matter), the boy Edward 
 joined himself to Adam's pilgriming group, and regularly trotted 
 by their side to Ecclefechau for sermon-listening, and occasional- 
 ly joining in their pious discourse thither and back. He might 
 be then in his tenth year ; distinguished hitherto, both his elder 
 brother John and he, by their wild- love of sport as well as readi- 
 
EDWAED IRVING. 45 
 
 ness in school lessons. John had quite refused this Ecclefechau 
 adventure. And, no doubt, done Tvhat he could to prevent it ; for 
 father and mother looked on it likewise with dubious or disap- 
 proving eyes — " Why run into these ultra courses, sirrah ?" — and 
 Edward had no furtherance in it except from within. How long 
 he persisted I do not know, possibly a year or two, or occasionally, 
 almost till he went to college. I have heard him speak of the 
 thing long afterwards in a genially mirthful way ,• well recogniz= 
 ing what a fantastic, pitifully pedantic, and serio - ridiculous set 
 these road companions of his mostly were. I myself remember 
 two of them who were by no means heroic to me. " Willie Drum- 
 mond," a little man with mournful goggle-eyes, a tailor, I almost 
 think, and " Joe Blacklock " (Blai-lock), a rickety stocking-weaver, 
 with protruding chin and one leg too short for the other short one, 
 who seemed to me an abundantly solemn and much too infallible and 
 captious little fellow. Edward threw me off with gusto outline 
 likenesses of these among the others, and we laughed heartily 
 without malice. Edward's religion in after-years, though it ran 
 always in the blood and life of him, Avas never shrieky or narrow ; 
 but, even in his last times, with their miserable troubles aud con- 
 fusions, spoke always with a sonorous deep tone, like the voice of 
 a man frank and sincere addressing men. To the last, or almost 
 to the last, I could occasionally raise a genial old Anuandale laugh 
 out of him which is now pathetic to me to remember. 
 
 I will say no more of Irving's boyhood. He must have sat often 
 enough in Ecclefechan meeting-house along with me, but I never 
 noticed or knew, aud had not indeed heard of him till I went to 
 Annan school (1806,- a new "Academy," forsooth, with Adam Hope 
 for "English master"), and Irving, perhaps two years before, had 
 left for college. I must bid adieu also to that poor temple of my 
 childhood, to me more sacred at this moment than perhaps the big- 
 gest cathedral then extant could have been ; rude, rustic, bare — no 
 temple in the world was more so — but there were sacred lamben- 
 cies, tongues of authentic flame from heaven, which kindled what 
 was best in one, what has not yet gone out. Strangely vivid to 
 me some twelve or twenty of those old faces whom I used to see 
 every Sunday, whose names, employments, precise dwelling-places, 
 I never knew, but whose i)ortraits are yet clear to me as a mirror — 
 their heavy -laden, patient, ever- attentive faces. Fallen solitary 
 most of them. Children all away, wife away forever, or, it might 
 be, wife still there (one such case I well remember), constant like a 
 shadow, aud grown very like her old man — the thrifty, cleanly pov- 
 
46 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 erty of these good people, their well-saved old coarse clothes (tailed 
 waistcoats down to mid-thigh, a fashion quite dead twenty years 
 before) ; all this I occasionally see as with eyes sixty or sixty-five 
 years off, and hear the very voice of my mother upon it when some- 
 times I would he questioning about the persons of the drama and 
 endeavoring to describe and identify them to her for that purpose. 
 O ever-miraculous time ! O death ! O life ! 
 
 Probably it was in 1808, April or May, after college time, that I 
 first saw Irving. I had got over my worst miseries in that doleful 
 and hateful " Academy " life of mine, which lasted three years in 
 all ; had begun, in spite of precept, to strike about me, to defend 
 myself by hand and voice ; had made some comradeship with one 
 or two of my own age, and was reasonably becoming alive in the 
 place and its interests. I remember to have felt some human curi- 
 osity and satisfaction when the noted Edward Irving, English Mr. 
 Hope escorting — introduced himself in our Latin class-room one 
 bright forenoon. Hope was essentially the introducer; this was 
 our rector's class-room. Irving's visit to the school had been spe- 
 cially to Adam Hope, his own old teacher, who now brought him 
 down nothing loath. Perhaps our mathematics gentleman, one 
 Morley (an excellent Cumberlaud man, whom I loved much and 
 who taught me well), had also stepped in in honor of such a stranger. 
 The road from Adam's room to ours lay through Mr. Morley's. Ours 
 was a big airy room lighted from both sides, desks and benches oc- 
 cupying scarcely the smaller half of the floor ; better half belonged 
 to the rector, and to the classes he called up from time to time. It 
 was altogether vacant at that moment, and the interview perhaps 
 of ten to fifteen minutes transacted itself in a standing posture 
 there. We were all of us attentive with eye and ear, or as atten- 
 tive as we durst be, while by theory " preparing our lessons." Ir- 
 ving was scrupulously dressed ; black coat, ditto tight pantaloons in 
 the fashion ■of the day ; clerically black his prevailing hue ; and 
 looked very neat, self-possessed, and enviable. A flourishing slip 
 of a youth, with coal-black hair, swarthy clear complexion, very 
 straight on his feet, and, except for the glaring squint alone, decid- 
 edly handsome. We didn't hear everything; indeed, we heard 
 nothing that was of the least moment or worth remembering. 
 Gathered, in general, that the talk was all about Edinburgh, of this 
 professor and of that, and their merits and method ("wonderful 
 world up yonder, and this fellow has been in it and can talk of it 
 in that easy cool way"). The last professor touched upon, I think, 
 must have been mathematical Leslie (at that time totally non-ex- 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 47 
 
 tant to me), for the one particular I clearly recollect was some- 
 thing from Irving about new doctrines by somebody (doubtless Les- 
 lie) " concerning the circle/' which last ATord he pronounced " cir- 
 cul"with a certain preciosity which was noticeable slightly in 
 other parts of his behavior. Shortly after this of " circul," he 
 courteously (had been very courteous all the time, and unassuming 
 in the main) made his bow, and the interview melted instantly 
 away. For years I don't remember to have seen Irving's face 
 again. 
 
 Seven years come and gone. It was now the winter of 1815. I 
 had myself been in Edinburgh College, and above a year ago had 
 duly quitted it. Had got (bj'- competition at Dumfries, summer 
 1814) to be " mathematical master " in Annan Academy, with some 
 potential outlook on divinity as ultimatum (a rural divinity 
 student visiting Edinburgh for a few days each year, and " de- 
 livering" certain "discourses"). Six years of that would bring 
 you to the church gate, as four years of continuous " divinity hall" 
 would ; unlucky only that in jny case I had never had the least 
 enthusiasm for the business (and there were even grave prohibitive 
 doubts more and more rising ahead) : both branches of my situa- 
 tion flatly contradictory to all ideals or wishes of mine, especially 
 the Annan one, as the closely actual and the daily and hourly 
 pressing on me, while the other lay theoretic, still well ahead and 
 perhaps avoidable. One attraction — one only — there was m my 
 Annan business. I was supporting myself, even saving some few 
 pounds of my poor £60 or £70 annually, against a rainy day, and 
 not a burden to my ever-generous father any more. But in all 
 other points of view I was abundantly lonesome, uncomfortable, 
 and out of place there. Didn't go and visit the peoi^le there. 
 (Ought to have pushed myself in a little silently, and sought in- 
 vitations. Such their form of special politeness, which I was far 
 too shy and proud to be able for.) Had the character of morose 
 dissociableness ; in short, thoroughly detested my function and 
 position, though understood to be honestly doing the duties of it, 
 and held for solacement and company to the few books I could 
 command, and an accidental friend I had in the neighborhood (Mr. 
 Cherch and his wife, of Hitchill ; Rev. Henry Duncan, of Ruthwell, 
 and ditto. These were the two bright and brightest houses for 
 me. My thanks to them, now and always). As to my schoolmas- 
 ter function, it was never said I miscUd it much ; a clear and cor- 
 rect expositor and enforcer. But from the first, especially with 
 such adjuncts, I disliked it, and by swift degrees grew to hate it 
 
48 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 more and more. Some four years in all I bad of it ; two in Annan, 
 two in Kirkcaldy under mncli improved social accompaniments. 
 And at the end my solitary desperate conclusion was fixed : tliat 
 I, for my own part, would prefer to i^erisli in the ditch, if neces- 
 sary, rather than continue living by such a trade, and peremptorily 
 gave it up accordingly. This long preface will serve to explain 
 the small passage of collision that occurred between Irving and 
 me on our first meeting in this world. 
 
 I had heard much of Irving all along; how distinguished in 
 studies, how splendidly successful as teacher, how two professors 
 had sent him out to Haddington, and how his new Academy and 
 new methods were illuminating and astonishing everything there. 
 (Alas ! there was one little pupil he had there, with her prettiest 
 little 2ycnna penncB from under the table, and let me be a boy, too, 
 papa! who was to be of endless moment, and who alone was of 
 any moment to me in all that!) I don't remember any malicious 
 envy whatever towards this great Irving of the distance. For his 
 greatness in study and learning I ce]:tainly might have had a ten- 
 dency, hadn't I struggled against it, and tried to make it emula- 
 tion : " Do the like, do thou the like under difficulties ! " As to his 
 schoolmaster success, I cared little about that, and easily flung 
 that out when it came across me. But naturally all this be- 
 trumpeting of Irving to me (in which I could sometimes trace 
 some touch of malice to myself) had not awakened in me any love 
 towards this victorious man. " Ich gonnte ihn," as the Germans 
 phrase it ; but, in all strictness, nothing more. 
 
 About Ghristmas-time (1815) I had gone with great pleasure to 
 see Edinburgh again, and read in Divinity Hall a Latin discourse 
 — " exegesis " they call it there — on the question " JSfum detur reli- 
 gio naturalisf" It was the second, and proved to be the last, of 
 my performances on that treatise. My first, an English sermon on 
 the words " Before I was afflicted I went astray, but now," etc., 
 etc., a very weak, flowery, and sentimental piece, had been 
 achieved in 1814, a few months after my leaving for Annan. Piece 
 second, too, I suppose, was weak enough, but I still remember the 
 kind of innocent satisfaction I had in turning it into Latin in my 
 solitude, and my slight and momentary (by no means deep or 
 sincere) sense of pleasure in the bits of compliments and flimsy 
 approbation from comrades and professors on both these occasions. 
 Before Christmas-day I had got rid of my exegesis, and had still 
 a week of holiday ahead for old acquaintances and Edinburgh 
 things, which was the real charm of my official errand thither. 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 49 
 
 One nigbt I had gone over to Rose Street, to a certain Mr. (after- 
 wards Dr.) Waugli's there, who was a kind of maternal cousin or 
 half-consin of my own. Had heen my school comrade; several 
 years older; item: my predecessor in the Annan "mathematical 
 mastership ;" immediate successor he of Morley, and a great favor- 
 ite in Annan society in comparison with some ; and who, though 
 not without gifts, proved gradually to be intrinsically a fool, and, 
 by his insolvencies and confused futilities as doctor there in his 
 native place, has left a kind of remembrance, ludicrous, partly con- 
 temptuous, though not without kindliness, too, and even some- 
 thing of respect. His father, with whom I had been boarded while 
 a scholar at Annan, was one of the most respectable and yet laugh- 
 able of mankind; a ludicrous/ caricature of originality, honesty, 
 and faithful discernment and practice — all in the awkward form. 
 Took much care of his money, however, which this, his only son, 
 had now inherited, and did not keep very long. Of Waugh senior, 
 and even of Waugh junior, there might be considerable gossiping 
 and quizzical detailing. They failed not to rise now and then, 
 especially Waugh senior did not, between Irving and me, always 
 with hearty ha-ha's, and the finest recognition on Irving's part 
 when we came to be companions afterwards. But whither am I 
 running with so interminable a preface to one of the smallest inci- 
 dents conceivable ? 
 
 I was sitting in Waugh junior's that evening, not too vigorous- 
 ly conversing, when Waugh's door went open, and there stepped in 
 Irving, and one Nichol, a mathematical teacher in Edinburgh, an 
 intimate of his, a shrewd, merry, and very social kind of person, 
 whom I did not then know, except by name. Irving was over, 
 doubtless from Kirkcaldy, on his holidays, and had probably been 
 dining with Nichol. The party was to myself not unwelcome, 
 though somewhat alarming. Nichol, I perceived, might be by 
 some three or four years the eldest of us ; a sharp man, with mouth 
 rather quizzically close. I was by some three or four years the 
 youngest ; and here was Trismegistus Irving, a victorious bashaw, 
 while poor I was so much the reverse. The conversation in a min- 
 ute or two became quite special, and my unwilling self the centre 
 of it ; Irving directing upon me a whole series of questions about 
 Annan matters, social or domestic mostly ; of which I knew little, 
 and had less than no wish to speak, though I strove politely to an- 
 swer succinctly what I could. In the good Irving all this was very 
 natural, nor was there in him, I am well sure, the slightest notion 
 to hurt me or be tyrannous to me. Far the reverse his mood at all 
 
 3 
 
60 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 times towards all men. But there was, I coDJectnre, something of 
 conscious unquestionable siiperioritj^, of careless natural de Jiaut en 
 has which fretted on me, and might be rendering my answers 
 more and more and more succinct. Nay, my small knowledge 
 was failing; and I had more than once on certain points — as " Has 
 Mrs. got a baby ? is it son or daughter V and the like — an- 
 swered candidly, " I donH know." 
 
 I think three or two such answers to such questions had followed 
 in succession, when Irving, feeling uneasy, and in a dim manner 
 that the game was going wrong, answered in gruffish yet not ill- 
 natured tone, "You seem to know nothing!" To which I with 
 prompt emphasis, somewhat provoked, replied, "Sir, by what right 
 do you try my knowledge in this way ? Are you grand inquisitor, 
 or have you authority to question people and cross-question at dis- 
 cretion ? 1 have had no interest to inform myself about the births 
 in Annan, and care not if the process of birth and generation there 
 should cease and determine altogether!" "A bad example that," 
 cried Nichol, breaking into laughter ; " that would never do for me 
 (a fellow that needs pupils) ;" and laughed heartily, joined by 
 Waugh, and perhaps Irving, so that the thing passed off more 
 smoothly than might have been expected ; though Irving, of course, 
 felt a little hurt, and, I think, did not altogether hide it from me 
 while the interview still lasted, Avhicli was only a short while. 
 This was my first meeting with the man whom I had afterwards, 
 and very soon, such cause to love. We never spoke of this small un- 
 pleasant passage of fence, I believe, and there never was another 
 like it between us in the world. Irving did not want some due 
 heat of temper, and there was a kind of joyous swagger traceable 
 in his manner in this prosperous young time; but the basis of him 
 at all times was fine manly sociality, and the richest, truest good- 
 nature. Very different from the new friend he was about picking up. 
 No swagger in this latter, but a want of it which was almost still 
 worse. Not sanguine and diffusive he, but biliary and intense. "Far 
 too sarcastic" for a young man," said several in the years now coming. 
 
 Within six or eight months of this, probably about the end of 
 July, 1816, happened a new meeting with Irving. Adam Hope's 
 wife had died of a sudden. I went up the second or third evening 
 to testify my silent condolence with the poor old man. Can still 
 remember his gloomy look, speechless, and the thankful pressure 
 of his hand. A number of people were there ; among the rest, to 
 my surprise, Irving — home on his Kirkcaldy holidays — who seemed 
 to be kindly taking a sort of lead in the little managements. He 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 
 
 51 
 
 conducted worship, I remember, " taking the Book," which was the 
 only fit thing he could settle to; and he did it in a free, flowing, 
 modest, and altogether appropriate manner, "precenting," or lead- 
 ing off the Psalm too himself, his voice melodiously strong, and his 
 tune, " St. Paul's," truly sung, which was a new merit in him to 
 me. Quite beyond my own capacities at that time. If I had 
 been in doubts about his reception of me, after that of Rose Street, 
 Edinburgh, he quickly and forever ended them by a friendliness 
 which, in wider scenes, might have been called chivalrous. At 
 first sight he heartily shook my hand, welcomed me as if I had 
 been a valued old acquaintance, almost a brother, and before my 
 leaving, after worship was done, came up to me again, and with 
 the frankest tone said, " You are coming to Kirkcaldy to look 
 about you in a month or two. You know I am there. My house 
 and all that I can do for you is yours : two Annandale people must 
 not be strangers in Fife!" The "doubting Thomas" durst not 
 quite believe all this, so chivalrous was it, but felt pleased and re- 
 lieved by the fine and sincere tone of it, and thought to himself, 
 '^ Well, it would be pretty !" 
 
 But to understand the full chivalry of Irving, know first what 
 my errand to Kirkcaldy now was. 
 
 Several months before this, rumors had come of some break-up 
 in Irving's triumphant Kirkcaldy kingdom. "A terribly severe 
 master, isn't he ? Brings his pupils on amazingly. Yes, truly, 
 but at such an expense of cruelty to them. Very proud, too ; no 
 standing of him ;" him, the least cruel of men, but obliged and ex- 
 pected to go at high-pressure speed, and no resource left but that 
 of spurring on the laggard. In short, a portion, perhaps between 
 a third and fourth part, of Irving's Kirkcaldy patrons, feeling these 
 griefs, and finding small comfort or result in complaining to Ir- 
 ving, had gradually determined to be off from him, and had hit upon 
 a resource which they thought would serve. " Buy off the old 
 parish head schoolmaster," they said ; " let Hume have his £25 of 
 salary and go, the lazy, effete old creature. We will apply again 
 to Professors Christison and Leslie, the same who sent us Irving, 
 to send us another 'classical and mathematical' who can start 
 fair." And accordingly, by a letter from Christison, who had never 
 noticed me while in his class, nor could distinguish me from an- 
 other Mr. Irving Carlyle, an older, considerably bigger boy, with 
 red hair, wild buck-teeth, and scorched complexion, and the worst 
 Latinist of all my acquaintance (so dark was the good professor's 
 class-room, physically and otherwise), I learned, much to my sur- 
 
52 REMINISCENCES, 
 
 prise and gratification, " that Professor Leslie bad been witb bim ; 
 that, etc., etc., as above ; and, in brief, tbat I was the nominee if I 
 would accept." Several letters passed on the subject, and it bad 
 l^een settled, sbortly before this meeting witb Irving, tbat I was 
 in my near vacation -time — end of August — to visit Kirkcaldy, 
 take a personal view of everything, and then say yes if I could, as 
 seemed likely. 
 
 Thus stood matters when Irving received me in the way de- 
 scribed. Noble, I must say, when you put it all together ! Room 
 for plenty of the vulgarest peddliug feelings there was, and there 
 must still have been between us, had either of us, especially bad 
 Irving, been of peddler nature. And I can say there could no two 
 Kaisers, nor Charlemagne and Barbarossa, bad they neighbored one 
 another in the empire of Europe, have been more completely rid of 
 all that sordes than were we two schoolmasters in the burgh of Kirk- 
 caldy. I made my visit, August coming, which was full of interest 
 to me. Saw St. Andrews, etc. ; saw a fine, frank, wholesome-look- 
 ing people of the Burgher grandees ; liked Irving more and more, 
 and settled to return in a couple of months "for good," which I 
 may well say it was, thanks to Irving principally. 
 
 George Irving, Edward's youngest brother (who died in London 
 as M.D., beginning practice about 1833), had met me as he returned 
 from his lessons, when I first came along the street of Kirkcaldy on 
 that sunny afternoon (August, 1816), and with blithe looks and 
 w^ords had pointed out where his brother lived — a biggish, simple 
 house on the sands. The ivhen of my first call there I do not now 
 remember, but have still brightly in mind how exuberantly good 
 Irving was ; how he took me into his library, a rough, littery, but 
 considerable collection — far beyond what I had — and said, cheerily 
 flinging out bis arms, " Upon all these you have will and waygate," 
 an expressive Anuandale phrase of the completest welcome, which 
 I failed not of using by-and-by. I also recollect lodging with him 
 for a night or two nights about that time. Bright moonshine ; 
 waves all dancing and glancing out of window, and beautifully 
 humming and luUabying on that fine long sandy beach, where be 
 and I so often walked and communed afterwards. Fiom the first 
 we honestly liked one another and grew intimate ; nor was there 
 ever, while we both lived, any cloud or grudge between us, or an 
 interruption of our feelings for a day or hour. Blessed conquest of 
 a friend in this world! That was mainly all the wealth I had for 
 five or six years coming, and it made my life in Kirkcaldy (i. e., till 
 near 1819, 1 think) a happy season in comparison, and a genially 
 
EARLY PORTRAIT OF THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 53 
 
 useful. Youth itself — healthy, well-intending youth — is so full of 
 opulences. I always ratlier liked Kirkcaldy to this day. Annan 
 the reverse rather still when its gueuseries come into my head, and 
 my solitary quasi-enchanted position among them — unpermitted to 
 kick them into the sea. 
 
 Irving's library was of great use to me ; Gibbon, Hume, etc. I 
 think I must have read it almost through. Inconceivable to me 
 now with what ardor, with what greedy velocii^^y, literally above 
 ten times the speed I can now make with any book. Gibbon, in 
 particular, I recollect to have read at the rate of a volume a day 
 (twelve volumes in all) ; and I have still a fair recollection of it, 
 though seldom looking into it since. It was, of all the books, per- 
 haps the most impressive on me in my then stage of investigation 
 and state of mind. I by no means completely admired Gibbon, per- 
 haps not more than I now do ; but his winged sarcasms, so quiet and 
 yet so conclusively transpiercing and killing dead, were often ad- 
 mirable potent and illuminative to me. Nor did I fail to recognize 
 his great power of investigating, ascertaining, grouping, and nar- 
 rating ; though the latter had always, then as now, something of a 
 Drury Lane character, the colors strong but coarse, and set off by 
 lights from the side scenes. We had books from Edinburgh Col- 
 lege Library, too. (I remember Bailly's " Histoire de I'Astronomie," 
 ancient and also modern, which considerably disappointed me.) On 
 Irving's shelves were the small Didot French classics in quantity. 
 With my appetite sharp, I must have read of French and English 
 (for I don't recollect much classicality, only something of mathe- 
 matics in intermittent spasms) a great deal during those years. 
 
 Irving himself, I found, was not, nor had been, much of a reader ; 
 but he had, with solid ingenuity and judgment, by some briefer 
 process of his own, fished out correctly from many books the sub- 
 stance of what they handled, and of what conclusions they came to. 
 This he possessed, and could produce in an " honest " manner, al- 
 ways when occasion came. He delighted to hear me give accounts 
 of my reading, which were often enough a theme between us, and 
 to me as well a profitable and pleasant one. He had gathered by 
 natural sagacity and insight, from conversation and inquiry, a 
 great deal of practical knowledge and information on things extant 
 round him, which was quite defective in me the recluse. We never 
 wanted for instructive and pleasant talk while together. He had 
 a most hearty, if not very refined, sense of the ludicrous; a broad 
 genial laugh in him always ready. His wide just sympathies, his 
 native sagacity, honest-heartedness, and good-humor, made him the 
 
64 EEMINISCENCES. 
 
 most delightful of companions. Such colloquies and such rovings 
 about in bright scenes, in talk or in silenc^, I have never had since. 
 
 The beach of Kirkcaldy in summer twilights, a mile of the smooth- 
 est sand, with one long wave coming on gently, steadily, and break- 
 ing in gradual explosion into harmless melodious white, at your 
 hand all the way ; the break of it rushing along like a mane of 
 foam, beautifully sounding and advancing, ran from south to north, 
 from the West Burn to Kirkcaldy harbor, through the whole mile's 
 distance. This was a favorite scene, beautiful to me still, in the 
 far away. We roved in the woods too, sometimes till all was dark. 
 I remember very pleasant strolls to Dysart, and once or twice to the 
 caves and queer old salt-works of Wemyss. Once, on a memorable 
 Saturday, we made a pilgrimage to hear Dr. Chalmers at Dunferm- 
 line the morrow. It was on the inducting young Mr. Chalmers as 
 minister there ; Chalmers minimus, as he soon got named. The 
 great Chalmers was still in the first flush of his long and always 
 high popularity. " Let us go and hear him once more," said Irving. 
 The summer afternoon was beautiful ; beautiful exceedingly our 
 solitary walk by Burntisland and the sands and rocks to Inverkei- 
 thing, where we lodged, still in a touchingly beautiful manner (host 
 the schoolmaster, one Douglas from Haddington, a clever old ac- 
 quaintance of Irving's, in after -years a Eadical editor of mark; 
 whose wife, for thrifty order, admiration of her husband, etc., etc., 
 was a model and exemplar). Four miles next morning to Dunferm- 
 line and its crowded day, Chalmers maxiraus not disappointing; 
 and the fourteen miles to Kirkcaldy ending in late darkness, in 
 rain, and thirsty fatigue, which were cheerfully borne. 
 
 Another time, military tents were noticed on the Lomond Hills 
 (on the eastern of the two). " Trigonometrical survey," said we; 
 *' Ramsden's theodolite, and what not ;" let us go. And on Saturday 
 we went. Beautiful the airy prospect from that eastern Lomond 
 far and wide. Five or six tents stood on the top ; one a black- 
 stained cooking one, with a heap of coals close by, the rest all closed 
 and occupants gone, except one other, partly open at the eaves, 
 through which you could look in and see a big circular mahogany 
 box (which we took to be the theodolite), and a saucy -looking, 
 cold official gentleman, diligeutly walking for exercise, no obser- 
 vation being possible, though the day was so bright. No admit- 
 tance, however. Plenty of fine country - people had come up, to 
 whom the official had been coldly monosyllabic, as to us also he 
 was. Polite, with a shade of contempt, and unwilling to let him- 
 self into speech. Irving had great skill in these cases. He re- 
 
EDWAKD IRVING. 55 
 
 marked — and led us into remarking — courteously, this and tkat 
 about the famous Eamsden and liis instrument, about the famous 
 Trigonometrical Survey, and so forth, till the official, in a few min- 
 utes, had to melt ; invited us exceptionally in for an actual inspec- 
 tion of his theodolite, which we reverently enjoyed, and saw through 
 it the signal column, a great, broad plank, he told us, on the top of 
 Ben Lomond, sixty miles off, wavering and shivering like a bit of 
 loose tape, so that no observation could be had. 
 
 We descended the hill r& facta. Were to lodge in Leslie with 
 the minister there, where, possibly enough, Irving had engaged to 
 preach for him next day. I remember a sight of Falkland ruined 
 palace, black, sternly impressive on me, as we came down ; like a 
 black old bit of coffin or " protrusive shin-bone," sticking through 
 from the soil of the dead past. The kirk, too, of next day, I remem- 
 ber, and a certain tragical Countess of Rothes. She had been at 
 school in London; fatherless. In morning walk in the Regent's 
 Park she had noticed a young gardener, had transiently glanced 
 into him, he into her ; and had ended by marrying hiuf, to the hor- 
 ror of society, and ultimately of herself, I suppose; for he seemed 
 to be a poor little commonplace creature, as he stood there beside 
 her. She was now an elderly, a stately woman, of resolute look, 
 though slightly sad, and didn't seem to solicit pity. Her I clearly 
 remember, but not who preached, or what ; and, iudeed, both ends 
 of this journey are abolished to me as if they had never been. 
 
 Our voyage to Inchkeith one afternoon was again a wholly 
 pleasant adventure, though oue of the rashest. There were three 
 of us ; Irving's assistant the third, a hardy, clever kiud of man 
 named Donaldson, of Aberdeen origin— Professor Christison's neph- 
 ew — whom I always rather liked, but who before long, as he could 
 never burst the shell of expert schoolmastering and gerund-grind- 
 ing, got parted from me nearly altogether. Our vessel was a row- 
 boat belonging to some neighbors ; in fact, a trim yawl with two 
 oars in it and a bit of helm, reputed to be somewhat crazy and 
 cranky hadn't the weather been so fine. Nor was Inchkeith our 
 original aim. Our aim had been as follows. A certain Mr. Glen, 
 Burgher minister at Annan, with whom I had lately boarded there, 
 and been domestically very happy in comparison, had since, after 
 very painful and most undeserved treatment from his congregation, 
 seen himself obliged to quit the barren wasp's nest of a thing alto- 
 gether, and with his wife and young family embark on a missiona- 
 ry career, which had been his earliest thought, as conscience now 
 reminded him, among other considerations. He was a most pure 
 
56 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 and excellent man, of correct superior intellect, and of much mod- 
 est piety and amiability. Things were at last all ready, and he 
 and his were come to Edinburgh to embark for Astrachan ; where, 
 or whereabouts, he continued diligent and zealous for many years ; 
 and was widely esteemed, not by the missionary classes alone. Ir- 
 ving, as well as I, had an affectionate regard for Glen, and, on Sat- 
 urday eve of Glen's last Sunday in Edinburgh, had come across with 
 me to bid his brave wife and him farewell ; Edinburgh from Satur- 
 day afternoon till the last boat on Sunday evening. This was eve- 
 ry now and then a cheery little adventure of ours, always possible 
 again after due pause. We found the Glens in an inn in the Grass 
 Market, only the mistress, who was a handsome, brave, and cheery- 
 hearted woman, altogether keeping up her spirits. I heard Glen 
 preach for the last time in " Peddie's Meeting-house," a large, fine 
 place behind Bristo Street — night just sinking as he ended, and the 
 tone of his voice betokening how full the heart was. At the door 
 of Peddie's house I stopped to take leave. Mrs. Glen alone was 
 there for m€f(Gleu not to be seen farther). She wore her old bright 
 saucily -affectionate smile, fearless, superior to trouble; but, in a 
 moment, as I took her hand and said, "Farewell, then, good be 
 ever with you," she shot all pale as paper, and we parted mourn- 
 fully without a word more. This sudden paleness of the spir- 
 ited woman stuck in my heart like an arrow. All that night 
 and for some three days more I had such a bitterness of sor- 
 row as I hardly recollect otherwise. "Parting sadder than by 
 death," thought I, in my foolish inexperience ; " these good peo- 
 ple are to live, and we are never to behold each other more." 
 Strangely, too, after about four days it went quite off, and I felt it 
 no more. This was, perhaps, still the third day ; at all events, it 
 was the day of Glen's sailing for St. Petersburg, while Irving and 
 I went watching from Kirkcaldy sands the Leith ships outward 
 bound, afternoon sunny, tide ebbing, and settled with ourselves 
 which of the big ships was Glen's. " That one surely," we said at 
 last ; " and it bends so much this way one might, by smart rowing, 
 cut into it, and have still a word with the poor Glens." Of nauti- 
 cal conclusions none could be falser, more ignorant, but we instant- 
 ly set about executing it; hailed Donaldson, who was somewhere 
 within reach, shoved " Robie Greg's" poor green-painted, rickety 
 yawl into the waves (Robie, a good creature who would rejoice 
 to have obliged us), and pushed out with our best speed to inter- 
 cept that outward-bound big ship. Irving, I think, though the 
 strongest of us, rather preferred the helm part then and afterwards, 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 57 
 
 and did not mnch take the oar when he could honorably help it. 
 His steering, I doubt not, was perfect, but in the course of half an 
 hour it became ludicrously apparent that we were the tortoise 
 chasing the hare, and that we should or could in no wise ever in- 
 tercept that big ship. Short counsel thereupon, and determina- 
 tion, probably on my hint, to make for Inchkeith at least, and treat 
 ourselves to a visit there. 
 
 We prosperously reached Inchkeith, ran ourselves into a wild, 
 stony little bay (west end of the island towards the lighthouse), 
 and stept ashore. Bay in miniature was prettily savage, every 
 stone in it, big or little, lying just as the deluges had left them in 
 ages long gone. Whole island was prettily savage. Grass on it 
 mostly wild and scraggy, but equal to the keep of seven cows. 
 Some patches (little bedquilts as it were) of weak dishevelled bar- 
 ley trying to grow under difficulties ; these, except perhaps a square 
 yard or two of potatoes equally ill off, were the only attempt at 
 crop. Inhabitants none except these seven cows, and the light- 
 house-keeper and his family. Conies probably abounded, but these 
 were ferce natiirce, and didn't show face. In a slight hollow about 
 the centre of the island (which island I think is traversed by a kind 
 of hollow of which our little bay was the western end) were still 
 traceable some ghastly remnants of "Russian graves," graves from 
 a Russian squadron which had wintered thereabouts in 1799 and 
 had there buried its dead. Squadron we had often heard talked 
 of, what foul creatures these Russian sailors were, how (for one 
 thing) returning from their sprees in Edinburgh at late hours, they 
 used to climb the lamp-posts in Leith Walk and drink out the train 
 oil irresistible by vigilance of the police, so that Leith Walk fell 
 ever and anon into a more or less eclipsed condition during their 
 stay ! Some rude wooden crosses, rank wild grass, and poor sad 
 grave hillocks almost abolished, were all of memorial they had 
 left. The lighthouse was curious to us ; the only one I ever saw 
 before or since. The "revolving light" not produced by a single 
 lamp on its axis, but by ten or a dozen of them all set in a wide 
 glass cylinder, each with its hollow mirror behind it, cylinder alone 
 slowly turning, was quite a discovery to us. Lighthouse-keeper too 
 in another sphere of inquiry was to me quite new ; by far the most 
 life-weary looking mortal I ever saw. Surely no lover of the pict- 
 uresque, for in nature there was nowhere a more glorious view. 
 He had seven cows too, was well fed, I saw, well clad, had wife 
 and children fairly eligible looking. A shrewd healthy Aberdeen 
 native ; his lighthouse, especially his cylinder and lamps, all kept 
 
 3* 
 
58 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 shiniug like a new shilling — a kindly man withal — yet in every 
 feature of face and voice telling you, " Behold the victim of un- 
 speakable ennui." We got from him down below refection of the 
 best, biscuits and new milk I think almost better in both kinds 
 than I have tasted since. A man not greedy of money either. 
 We left him almost sorrowfully, and never heard of him more. 
 
 The scene in our little bay, as we were about proceeding to 
 launch our boat, seemed to me the beautifullest I had ever beheld. 
 Sun about setting just in face of us, behind Ben Lomond far away. 
 Edinburgh with its towers ; the great silver mirror of the Frith 
 girt by such a framework of mountains; cities, rocks and fields 
 and wavy landscapes on all hands of us ; and reaching right un- 
 derfoot, as I remember, came a broad pillar as of gold from the just 
 sinking sun ; burning axle as it were going down to the centre of 
 the world ! But we had to bear a hand and get our boat launched, 
 daylight evidently going to end by-aud-by. Kirkcaldy was some 
 five miles off, and probably the tide not in our favor. Gradually 
 the stars came out, and Kirkcaldy crept under its coverlid, show- 
 ing not itself but its lights. We could still see one another in the 
 fine clear gray, and pulled along what we could. We had no ac- 
 cident ; not the least ill-luck. Donaldson, and x^erhaps Irving too, 
 I now think, wore some air of anxiety. I myself by my folly felt 
 nothing, though I now almost shudder on looking back. We leapt 
 out on Kirkcaldy beach about eleven p.m., and then heard sufficient- 
 ly what a misery and tremor for us various friends had been in. 
 
 This was the small adventure to Inchkeith. Glen and family re- 
 turned to Scotland some fifteen years ago ; he had great approval 
 from his public, but died in a year or two, and I had never seen 
 him again. His widow, backed by various Edinburgh testimoni- 
 als, applied to Lord Aberdeen (Prime Minister) for a small pension 
 on the "Literary list." Husband had translated the Bible (or New 
 Testament) into Persic, among other public merits non -literary: 
 and through her sou solicited and urged me to help, which I did 
 zealously, and by continual dunning of the Duke of Argj^ll (whom I 
 did not then personally know, and who was very good and patient 
 with me), an annual £50 was at last got; upon which Mrs. Glen, 
 adding to it some other small resources, could frugally but comfort- 
 ably live. Tbis must have been in- 1853. I remember the young 
 Glen's continual importunity in the midst of my Friedrich incii)i- 
 encies was not always pleasant, and my chief comfort in it was 
 the pleasure which success would give my mother. Alas, my good 
 mother did hear of it, but pleasure even in this was beyond her in 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 59 
 
 the dark valley slie was now travelling ! When she died (Christ- 
 mas, 1853), one of my reflectioDs was : " Too late for Jie?' that little 
 bit of kindness ; my last poor effort, and it came too late." Yoang 
 Glen with his too profuse thanks, etc., was again rather importu- 
 nate. Poor young soul, he is since dead. His mother appeared in 
 person one morning at my door in Edinburgh (last spring [1866], 
 in those Rector hurries and hurlyburlies now so sad to me) ; T.Ers- 
 kine just leading me off somewhither. An aged decent widow, 
 looking kindly on me and modestly thankful ; so changed I could 
 not have recognized a feature of her. How tragic to one is the 
 sight of "old friends f a thing I always really shrink from. Such 
 my lot has been ! 
 
 Irving's visits and mine to Edinburgh were mostly together, and 
 had always their attraction for us in the meeting with old ac- 
 quaintances and objects of interest, but except from the books 
 procured could not be accounted of importance. Our friends were 
 mere ex-students, cleverish people mostly, but of no culture or in- 
 formation ; no aspiration beyond (on the best possible terms) bread 
 and cheese. Their talk in good part was little else than gossii> and 
 more or less ingenious giggle. We lived habitually by their means 
 in a kind of Edinburgh element, not in the still baser Kirkcaldy 
 one, and that was all. Irving now and then perhaps called on 
 some city clergyman, but seemed to have little esteem of them by 
 his reports to me afterwards. I myself by this time was indiffer- 
 ent on that head. On one of those visits my last feeble tatter of 
 connection with Divinity Hall affairs or clerical outlooks was al- 
 lowed to snap itself and fall definitely to the ground. Old Dr.. 
 Ritchie "not at home" when I called to enter myself. "Good!" 
 answered I; "let the omen be fulfilled." Irving on the contrary 
 was being licensed — probably through Annan Presbytery; but I 
 forget the when and where, and indeed conjecture it may have 
 been before my coming to Kirkcaldy. What alone I well remem- 
 ber is his often and ever notable preaching in those Kirkcaldy 
 years of mine. This gave him an interest in conspicuous clergy- 
 men — even if stupid — which I had not. Stupid those Edinburgh 
 clergy were not at all by any means ; but narrow, ignorant, and 
 barren to us two, they without exception Avere. 
 
 In Kirkcaldy circles (for poor Kirkcaldy had its circles and even 
 its West end, much more genial to me than Annan used to be) Ir- 
 ving and I seldom or never met ; he little frequented them, I hard- 
 ly at all. The one house where I often met him, besides his own, 
 was the Manse, Rev. Mr. Martin's, which was a haunt of his, and 
 
60 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 where, for Lis sake partly, I was always welcome. There was a 
 feeble intellectuality current here; the minister was a precise, 
 innocent, didactic kind of man, and I now and then was willing 
 enough to step in, though various boys and girls went cackling 
 about, and Martin himself was pretty much the only item I really 
 liked. The girls were some of them grown up, not quite ill-look- 
 ing, and all thought to be or thinking themselves '^clever and 
 learned;" yet even these, strange to say, in the great rarity of the 
 article and my ardent devotion to it, were without charm to me. 
 They were not the best kind of children ; none of them I used to 
 think quite worthy of such a father. Martin himself had a kind 
 of cheery grace and sociality of way (though much afflicted by dys- 
 pepsia), a clear-minded, brotherly, well-intentioned man, and bating 
 a certain glimmer of vanity which always looked through, alto- 
 gether honest, wholesome as Scotch oatmeal. His wife, who had 
 been a beauty, perhaps a wit, and was now grown a notable man- 
 ager of house and children, seemed to me always of much inferior 
 type, visibly proud as well as vain, of a snappish rather uncom- 
 fortable manner, betokening, even in her kindness, steady egoism 
 and various splenetic qualities. A big burly brother of hers, a 
 clergyman whom I have seen, a logical enough, sarcastic, swashing 
 kind of man in his sphere, struck me as kneaded out of precisely 
 the same clay. All Martin's children, I used to fancy, had this bad 
 cross in the birth ; it is certain that none of them came to much 
 good. The eldest Miss Martin, perhaps near twenty by this time, 
 was of bouncing, frank, gay manners and talk, studious to be amia- 
 ble, but never quite satisfactory on the side of genuineness. Some- 
 thing of affected you feared always in these fine spirits and smiling 
 discourses, to which however you answered with smiles. She was 
 very ill-looking withal ; a skin always under blotches and discolor- 
 ment ; muddy gray eyes, which for their part never laughed with 
 the other features ; pock-marked, ill-shapen triangular kind of face, 
 with hollow cheeks and long chin ; decidedly unbeautiful as a 
 young woman. In spite of all which (having perhaps the arena 
 much to herself) she had managed to charm poor Irving for the 
 time being, and it was understood they were engaged, which un- 
 fortunately proved to be the fact. Her maternal ill-qualities came 
 out in her afterwards as a bride (an engaged young lady), and 
 still more strongly as a wife. Poor woman, it was never with her 
 will ; you could perceive she had always her father's strong and 
 true wish to be good, had not her difficulties been quite too strong. 
 But it was and is very visible to me, she (unconsciously for much 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 61 
 
 the greater part) did a good deal aggravate all that was bad in 
 Irving's " London position/' and impeded his wise profiting by what 
 was really good in it. Let this be enough said on that subject for 
 the present. 
 
 Irving's preachings as a licentiate (or probationer waiting for 
 fixed appointment) were always interesting to whoever had ac- 
 quaintance with him, especially to me who was his intimate. 
 Mixed with but little of self-comparison or other dangerous ingre- 
 dient, indeed with loyal recognition on the part of most of us, and 
 without any grudging or hidden envy, we enjoyed the broad po- 
 tency of his delineations, exhortations, and free flowing eloquences, 
 which had all a manly and original turn; and then afterwards 
 there was sure to be on the part of the public a great deal of criti- 
 cising pro and contra, which also had its entertainment for us. 
 From the first Irviug read his discourses, but not in a servile man- 
 ner ; of attitude, gesture, elocution there was no neglect. His voice 
 was very fine ; melodious depth, strength, clearness, its chief char- 
 acteristics. I have heard more pathetic voices, going more direct 
 to the heart both in the way of indignation and of pity, but recol- 
 lect none that better filled the ear. He affected the Miltonic or 
 old English Puritan style, and strove visibly to imitate it more and 
 more till almost the end of his career, when indeed it had become 
 his own, and was the language he used in utmost heat of business 
 for expressing his meaning. At this time and for years afterwards 
 there was something of preconceived intention visible in it, in fact 
 of real affectation, as there could not well help being. To his ex- 
 ample also I suppose I owe something of my own poor affectations 
 in that matter, which are now more or less visible to me, much re- 
 pented of or not. We were all taught at that time by Coleridge, 
 etc., that the old English dramatists, divines, philosophers, judicious 
 Hooker, Milton, Sir Thomas Browne, were the genuine exemplars, 
 which I also tried to believe, but never rightly could as a whole. 
 The young must learn to speak by imitation of the older who al- 
 ready do it, or have done it. The ultimate rule is : learn so far as 
 possible to be intelligible and transparent — no notice taken of your 
 style, but solely of what you express by it. This is your clear rule, 
 and if you have anything which is not quite trivial to express to 
 your contemporaries, you will find such rule a great deal more dif- 
 ficult to follow than many people think. 
 
 On the whole, poor Irviug's style was sufficiently surprising to 
 .his hidebound public, and this was but a slight circumstance to 
 the novelty of the matter he set forth upon them. Actual practice. 
 
62 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 " If this thing is true, why not do it ? You had better do it. There 
 will be nothing but misery and ruin in not doing it." That was 
 the gist and continual purport of all his discoursing, to the aston- 
 ishment and deep offence of hidebound mankind. There was 
 doubtless something of rashness in the young Irving's way of preach- 
 ing ; not perhaps quite enough of pure, complete, and serious con- 
 viction (which ought to have lain silent a good while before it took 
 to speaking). In general I own to have felt that there was pres- 
 ent a certain inflation or spiritual bombast in much of this, a trifle 
 of unconscious playactorism (highly unconscious but not quite 
 absent) which had been unavoidable to the brave young prophet 
 and reformer. But brave he was, and bearing full upon the truth 
 if not yet quite attaining it. And as to the offence he gave, our 
 withers were unwrung. I for one was perhaps rather entertained 
 by it, and grinned in secret to think of the hides it was piercing! 
 Both in Fife and over in Edinburgh, I have known the offence very 
 rampant. Once in Kirkcaldy Kirk, which was well filled and all 
 dead silent under Irving's grand voice, the door of a pew a good 
 way in front of me (ground floor — right-hand as you fronted the 
 preacher), banged suddenly open, and there bolted out of it a mid- 
 dle-aged or elderly little man (an insignificant baker by position), 
 who with long swift strides, and face and big eyes all in wrath, 
 came tramping and sounding along the flags close past my right 
 hand, and vanished out of doors with a slam ; Irving quite victo- 
 riously disregarding. I remember the violently angry face well 
 enough, but not the least what the offence could have been. A 
 kind of "Who are you, sir, that dare to tutor us in that man- 
 ner, and harrow up our orthodox quiet skin with your novelties ?" 
 Probably that was all. In Irving's preaching there was present or 
 prefigured generous opulence of ability in all kinds (except per- 
 haps the very highest kind not even prefigured), but much of it 
 was still crude; and this was the reception it had for a good few 
 years to come ; indeed, to the very end he never carried all the 
 world along with him, as some have done with far fewer qual- 
 ities. 
 
 In vacation time, twice over, I made a walking tour with him. 
 First time I think was to the Trosachs, and home by Loch Lo- 
 mond, Greenock, Glasgow, etc., many parts of which are still visible 
 to me. The party generally was to be of four ; one Piers, who was 
 Irving's housemate or even landlord, schoolmaster of Abbotshall, 
 i. 6., of " The Links," at the southern extra-burghal part of Kirk- 
 caldy, a cheerful scatterbrained creature who went ultimately aa 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 63 
 
 preacher or professor of something to the Cape of Good Hope, and 
 one Brown (James Brown), who had succeeded Irving in Hadding- 
 ton, and was now tutor somewhere. The full rally was uot to be 
 till Stirling ; even Piers was gone ahead ; and Irving and I, after 
 an official dinner with the hurghal dignitaries of Kirkcaldy, who 
 strove to be pleasant, set out together one gray August evening by 
 Forth sands towards Torryburn. Piers was to have beds ready for 
 us there, and we cheerily walked along our mostly dark and intri- 
 cate twenty-two miles. But Piers had nothing serviceably ready ; 
 we could not even discover Piers at that dead hour (2 a.m.), and 
 had a good deal of groping and adventuring before a poor inn 
 opened to us with two coarse clean beds in it, in which we instant- 
 ly fell asleep. Piers did in person rouse us next morning about 
 six, but we concordantly met him with mere ha-ha's ! and inarticu- 
 late hootings of satirical rebuke, to such extent that Piers, con- 
 victed of nothing but heroic punctuality, flung himself out into 
 the rain again in momentary indignant puff, and strode away for 
 Stirling, where we next saw him after four or five hours. I re- 
 member the squalor of our bedroom in the dim rainy light, and 
 how little we cared for it in our opulence of youth. The sight of 
 giant Irving in a shortish shirt on the sanded floor, drinking pa- 
 tiently a large tankard of " penny whaup " (the smallest beer in 
 creation) before beginning to dress, is still present to me as comic. 
 Of sublime or tragic, the night before a mysterious great red glow 
 is much more memorable, which had long hung before us in the 
 murky sky, growing gradually brighter and bigger, till at last we 
 found it must be Carron Ironworks, on the other side of Forth, one 
 of the most impressive sights. Our march to Stirling was under 
 pouring rain for most part, but I recollect enjoying the romance 
 of it; Kincardine, Culross (Cu'ros), Clackmannan, here they are 
 then ; what a wonder to be here ! The Links of Forth, the Ochills, 
 Grampians, Forth itself, Stirling, lion - shaped, ahead, like a lion 
 couchant with the castle for his crown ; all this was beautiful in 
 spite of rain. Welcome too was the inside of Stirling, with its fine 
 warm inn and the excellent refection and thorough drying and re- 
 fitting we got there. Piers and Brown looking pleasantly on. Stroll- 
 ing and sight-seeing (day now very fine — Stirling all washed) till 
 we marched for Doune in the evening (Brig of Teith, " blue and 
 arrowy Teith," Irving and I took that byway in the dusk) ; break- 
 fast in Callander next morning, and get to Loch Katrine in an hour 
 or two more. I have not been in that region again till August last 
 year, four days of magnificently perfect hospitality with Stirling 
 
64 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 of Keir. Almost surprising how mournful it was to " look on this 
 picture and on that " at interval of fifty years. 
 
 Irving was in a sort the captain of our expedition : had been 
 there before, could recommend everything ; was made, unjustly by 
 us, responsible for everything. The Trosachs I found really grand 
 and impressive. Loch Katrine exquisitely so (my first taste of the 
 beautiful in scenery). Not so, any of us, the dirty smoky farm hut 
 at the entrance, with no provision in it but bad oatcakes and un- 
 acceptable whiskey, or the "Mrs. Stewart" who somewhat royally 
 presided over it, and dispensed these dainties, expecting to be flat- 
 tered like an independency as well as paid like an innkeeper. Poor 
 Irving could not helj) it ; but in tine, the rains, the hardships, the 
 ill diet was beginning to act on us all, and I could perceive that 
 we were in danger of splitting into two parties. Brown, leader of 
 the Opposition — myself considerably flattered by him, though not 
 seduced by him into factious courses, only led to see how strong 
 poor Piers was for the Government interest. This went to no 
 length, never bigger than a summer cloud or the incipiency of one. 
 But Brown in secret would never quite let it die out (a jealous 
 kind of man, I gradually found ; had been much commended to us 
 by Irving, as of superior intellect and honesty ; which qualities I 
 likewise found in him, though with the above abatement), and 
 there were divisions of vote in the walking parliament, two 
 against two ; and had there not been at this point, by a kind of 
 outward and legitimate reason, which proved very sanatory in the 
 case, an actual division of routes, the folly might have lasted lon- 
 ger and become audible and visible — which it never did. Sailing 
 up Loch Katrine in top or unpicturesque part, Irving and Piers 
 settled with us that only we two should go across Loch Lomond, 
 round by Tarbert, Roseneath, Greenock, they meanwhile making 
 direct for Paisley country, where they had business. And so on 
 stepping out and paying our boatmen they said adieu, and at once 
 struck leftwards, we going straight ahead ; rendezvous to be at 
 Glasgow again on such and such a day. (What feeble trash is all 
 this. . . . Ah me ! no better than Irving's penny whaup with the 
 gas gone out of it. Stop to-day, October 4, 1866.) 
 
 The heath was bare, trackless, sun going almost down. Brown 
 and I (our friends soon disappearing) had an interesting march, 
 good part of it dark, and flavored just to the right pitch with 
 something of anxiety and something of danger. The sinking sun 
 threw his reflexes on a tame-looking house with many windows 
 some way to our right, the "Eharrison of Infersnaidt," an ancient 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 65 
 
 anti-Rob Roy establishment, as two rough Highland wayfarers had 
 lately informed us. Other house or persons we did not see, but 
 made for the shoulder of Ben Lomond and the boatman's hut, partly, 
 I think, by the stars. Boatman and huthold were in bed, but he, 
 with a ragged little sister or wife, cheerfully roused themselves ; 
 cheerfully and for most part in silence, rowed us across (under 
 the spangled vault of midnight ; which, with the lake waters 
 silent as if in deep dream, several miles broad here, had their 
 due impression on us) correctly to Tarbert, a most hospitable, 
 clean, and welcome little country inn (now a huge " hotel" I hear, 
 worse luck to it, with its nasty "Hotel Company limited"). On 
 awakening next morning, I heard from below the sound of a 
 churn ; prophecy of new genuine butter, and even of ditto rustic 
 buttermilk. 
 
 Brown and I did very well on our separate branch of pilgrim- 
 age; pleasant walk and talk down to the west margin of the loch 
 (iucomparable among lakes or lochs yet known to me) ; past 
 Smollett's pillar ; emerge on the view of Greenock, on Helens- 
 burgh, and across to Roseneath Manse, where with a Rev. Mr. 
 Story, not yet quite inducted, whose "Life" has since been pub- 
 lished, who was an acquaintance of Brown's, we were warmly wel- 
 comed and well entertained for a couple of days. Story I never 
 saw again, but he, acquainted in Haddiugton neighborhood, saw 
 some time after incidentally a certain bright figure, to whom I am 
 obliged to him at this moment for speaking favorably of me. 
 " Talent plenty ; fine vein of satire in him !" something like this. 
 I suppose they had been talking of Irving, whom both of them knew 
 and liked well. Her, probably at that time I had still never seen, 
 but she told me long afterwards. 
 
 At Greenock I first saw steamers on the water ; queer little dumpy 
 things with a red sail to each, and legible name, " Defiance," and 
 such like, bobbing about there, and making continual passages to 
 Glasgow as their business. Not till about two years later (1819 if 
 I mistake not) did Forth see a steamer ; Forth's first was far big- 
 ger than the Greenock ones, and called itself " The Tug," being in- 
 tended for towing ships in those narrow waters, as I have often 
 seen it doing ; it still, and no rival or congener, till (in 1825) Leith, 
 spurred on by one Bain, a kind of scientific half-pay Master R. N., 
 got up a large finely appointed steamer, or pair of steamers, for 
 London ; which, so successful were they, all ports then set to imi- 
 tating. London alone still held back for a good few years ; Lon- 
 don was notably shy of the steamship, great as are its doings now 
 
66 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 in that line. An old friend of mine, the late Mr. Strachey,* has 
 told me that in his school days he at one time — early in the Nine- 
 ties I should guess, say 1793 — used to see, in crossing Westminster 
 Bridge, a little model steamship paddling to and fro between him 
 and Blackfriars Bridge, with steam funnel, paddle wheels, and the 
 other outfit, exhibitiug and recommending itself to London and 
 whatever scientific or other spirit of marine adventure London 
 might have. London entirely dead to the phenomenon — which 
 had to duck under and dive across the Atlantic before London saw 
 it again, when a new generation had risen. The real inventor of 
 steamships, I have learned credibly elsewhere, the maker and pro- 
 prietor of that fruitless model on the Thames, was Mr. Miller, Laird 
 of Dalswinton in Dumfriesshire (Poet Burns's landlord), who spent 
 his life and his estate in that adventure, and is not now to be heard 
 of in those parts ; having had to sell Dalswinton and die quasi- 
 bankrupt (and I should think broken-hearted) after that complet- 
 ing of his painful invention and finding London and mankind dead 
 to it. MiUer's assistant and work-hand for many years was John 
 Bell, a joiner in the neighboring village of Thornhill. Miller being 
 ruined, Bell was out of work and connection : emigrated to New 
 York, and there speaking much of his old master, and glorious un- 
 heeded invention well known to Bell in all its outlines or details, 
 at length found one Fulton to listen to him ; and by " Fulton and 
 Bell" (about 1809) an actual packet steamer was got launched, 
 and, lucratively plying on the Hudson River, became the miracle 
 of Yankee - land, and gradually of all lands. These I believe are 
 essentially the facts. Old Robert McQueen of Thornhill, Strachey 
 of the India House, and many other bits of good testimony and in- 
 dication, once far apart, curiously coalescing and corresponding for 
 me. And as, possibly enough, the story is not now known in whole 
 to anybody but myself, it may go in here as a digression — a projjos 
 of those brisk little Greenock steamers which I first saw, and still 
 so vividly remember ; little " Defiance," etc., saucily bounding 
 about with their red sails in the sun, on this my tour with Irving. 
 
 Those old three days at Roseneath are all very vivid to me, and 
 marked in white. The quiet blue mountain masses, giant Cobler 
 overhanging, bright seas, bright skies, Roseneath new mansion 
 .(still unfinished and standing as it did), the grand old oaks, and a 
 
 • Late Charles Biiller's uucle. Somersetshire geutleman, ex -Indian, died iu 
 1831, an examiner iu the India House; colleague of John S. Mill and his father 
 there. 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 67 
 
 certain handfast, middle-aged, practical and most polite "Mr. 
 Campbell" (the Argyll factor there) and his two sisters, excellent 
 lean old ladies, with their wild Highland accent, wiredrawn bnt 
 genuine good manners and good principles, and not least their as- 
 tonishment, and shrill interjections at once of love and fear, over 
 the talk they contrived to get out of me one evening and perhaps 
 another when we went across to tea ; all this is still pretty to me 
 to remember. They are all dead, the good souls — Campbell him- 
 self, the Duke told me, died only lately, very old — but they were to 
 my rustic eyes of a superior, richly furnished stratum of society ; 
 and the thought that I too might perhaps be " one and somewhat " 
 (Ein und Etwas) among my fellow creatures by-and-by, was secretly 
 very welcome at their hands. We rejoined Irving and Piers at Glas- 
 gow ; I remember our glad embarkation towards Paisley by canal 
 trackboat ; visit preappointed for ns by Irving, in a good old lady's 
 house, whose son was Irving's boarder ; the dusty, sunny Glasgow 
 eveniug ; and my friend's joy to see Brown and me. Irving was 
 very good and jocnud-hearted : most blithe his good old lady, whom 
 I had seen at Kirkcaldy before. We had a pleasant day or two in 
 those neighborhoods ; the picturesque, the comic, and the genially 
 common all prettily combining ; particulars now much forgotten. 
 Piers went to eastward, Dunse, his native country; " born i' Dunse," 
 equal in sound to born a dunce, as Irviug's laugh would sometimes 
 remind him ; " opposition party " (except it were in the secret of 
 Brown's jealous heart) there was now none ; Irving in truth was 
 the natural king among us, and his qualities of captaincy in such a 
 matter were indisputable. 
 
 Brown, he, and I went by the Falls of Clyde ; I do not recollect 
 the rest of our route, except that at New Lanark, a green silent 
 valley, with cotton works turned by Clyde waters, we called to see 
 Robert Owen, the then incipient arch-gomeril, " model school," and 
 thought it (and him, whom after all we did not see, and knew only 
 by his pamphlets and it) a thing of wind not worth considering 
 farther ; and that after sight of the Falls, which probably was next 
 day, Irving came out as captain in a fine new phase. The Falls 
 were very grand and stormful — nothing to say against the Falls ; 
 but at the last of them, or j)ossibly at Bothwell Banks farther on, 
 a woman who officiated as guide and cicerone, most superfluous, 
 unwilling too, but firmly persistent in her purpose, happened to 
 be in her worst humor; did nothing but snap and snarl, and being 
 answered by bits of quiz, towered at length into foam. She inti- 
 mated she would bring somebody who would ask us how we could 
 
68 KEMINISCENCES. 
 
 so treat an uuprotected female, and vanished to seek the champion 
 or champions. As our business was done, and the woman paid too, 
 I own (with shame if needed) my thought would have been to 
 march with decent activity on our way, not looking back unless 
 summoned to do it, and prudently evading discrepant circles of 
 that sort. Not so Irving, who drew himself up to his full height 
 and breadth, cudgel in hand, and stood there, flanked by Brown 
 and me, waiting the issue. 
 
 Issue was, a thickish kind of man, seemingly the woman's hus- 
 band, a little older than any of us, stept out with her, calmly enough 
 surveying, and at a respectful distance ; asked if we would buy ap- 
 ples ? Upon which with negatory grin we did march. I recollect 
 too that we visited lead hills and descended into the mines ; that 
 Irving prior to Annan must have struck away from us at some 
 point. Brown and I, on arriving at Mainhill, found my dear good 
 mother in the saddest state ; dregs of a bad fever hanging on her ; 
 my profound sorrow at which seemed to be a surprise to Brown, 
 according to his letters afterwards. With Brown, for a year or two 
 ensuing, I continued to have some not unpleasant correspondence ; a 
 conscientious, accurate, clear-sighted, but rather narrow and unfruit- 
 ful man, at present tutor to some Lockhart of Lee, and wintering 
 in Edinburgh. Went afterwards to India as Presbyterian clergy- 
 man somewhere, and shrank gradually, we heard, into complete 
 aridity, phrenology, etc., etc., and before long died there. He had, 
 after Irving, been my dear little Jeannie's teacher and tutor; she 
 never had but these two, and the name of her, like a bright object 
 far above me like a star, occasionally came up between them ou 
 that journey ; I dare say at other times. She retained a child's 
 regard for James Brown, and in this house he was always a mem- 
 orable object. 
 
 My second tour with Irving had nothing of circuit in it : a mere 
 walk homeward through the Peebles-Moffat moor country, and is not 
 worth going into in any detail. The region was without roads, of- 
 ten without foot-tracks, had no vestige of an inn, so that there was 
 a kind of knight-errantry in threading your way through it ; not to 
 mention the romance that naturally lay in its Ettrick and Yarrow, 
 and old melodious songs and traditions. We walked up Meggat 
 Water to beyond the sources, emerged into Yarrow, not far above St. 
 Mary's Loch ; a charming secluded shepherd country, with excellent 
 shepherd population — nowhere setting up to be picturesque, but 
 everywhere honest, comely, well done to, peaceable and useful. Nor 
 anywhere without its solidly characteristic features, hills, mountains, 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 69 
 
 clear rushing streams, cosy nooks and liomesteads, all of fine rustic 
 type ; and presented to you in natiird, not as in a Drury Lane with 
 stage-lights and for a purpose ; the vast and yet not savage soli- 
 tude as an impressive item, long miles from farm to farm, or even 
 from one shepherd's cottage to another. No company to you but 
 the rustle of the grass underfoot, the tinkling of the brook, or the 
 voices of innocent primsBval things. I repeatedly walked through 
 that country up to Edinburgh aud down by myself iu subsequent 
 years, aud nowhere remember such affectionate, sad, and thought- 
 ful, and iu fact, interesting and salutary journeys. I have had 
 days clear as Italy (as in this Irving case), days moist and drip- 
 ping, overhung with the iniinite of silent gray — and perhaps the 
 latter were the preferable iu certain moods. You had the world 
 and its waste imbroglios of joy and woe, of light and darkness, to 
 yourself alone. You could strip barefoot if it suited better, carry 
 shoes aud socks over shoulder, huug on your stick ; clean shirt and 
 comb were iu your pocket ; omnia mea mecum porto. You lodged 
 with shepherds who had clean solid cottages; wholesome eggs, 
 milk, oatbread, porridge, clean blankets to their beds, and a great 
 deal of human sense and unadulterated natural politeness. Canty, 
 shrewd aud witty fellows, when you set them talking ; knew from 
 their hill tops every bit of country between Forth and Solway, and 
 all the shepherd inhabitants within fifty miles, being a kind of con- 
 fraternity of shepherds from father to sou. No sort of peasant 
 laborers I have ever come across seemed to me so happily situated, 
 morally and physically well-developed, and deserving to be happy, 
 as those shepherds of the Cheviots. fortunatos nimium! But 
 perhaps it is all altered not a little now, as I sure enough am who 
 speak of it ! 
 
 Irving's course and mine was from bonny Yarrow onwards by 
 Loch Skene and the " Grey Mare's Tail " (finest of all cataracts, 
 lonesome, simple, grand, that are now in my memory) down into 
 Moffat dale where we lodged iu a shepherd's cottage. Gaplegill, 
 old Walter Welsh's farm, must have been near, though I knew not 
 of it then. From the shepherd people came good talk; Irving 
 skilful to elicit topography ; Poet Hogg (who was then a celebrity), 
 "Shirra Scott" (Sir Walter, Sheriff of Selkirkshii'e, whose borders 
 we had just emerged from); then gradually stores of local anec- 
 dote, personal history, etc. These good people never once asked 
 us whence, whither, or what are you ? but waited till perhaps it 
 voluntarily came, as generally chanced. Moffat dale with its 
 green holms and hill ranges, " Correyran Saddle -yoke" (actual 
 
70 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 quasi-saddle, you can sit astride anywhere, and a stone dropped 
 from either hand will roll and l3ound a mile), with its pleasant 
 groves and farmsteads, voiceful limpid waters rushing fast /or An- 
 nan, all was very beautiful to us ; but what I most remember is 
 Irving's arrival at Mainhill with me to tea, and how between my 
 father and him there was such a mutual recognition. My father 
 had seeu Loch Skene, the Grey Mare's Tail, etc., in his youth, and 
 now gave in few words such a picture of it, forty years after sight, 
 as charmed and astonished Irving; who on his side was equally 
 unlike a common man, definitely true, intelligent, frankly courte- 
 ous, faithful in whatever he spoke about. My father and he saw 
 one another (on similar occasions) twice or thrice again, always 
 with increasing esteem ; and I rather think it was from Irving on 
 this particular occasion that I was first led to compare my father 
 with other men, and see how immensely superior he, altogether un- 
 consciously, was. No intellect equal to his, in certain important 
 respects, have I ever met with in the world. Of my mother, Irving 
 never made any reading for himself, or could well have made, but 
 only through me, and that too he believed in and loved well ; gen- 
 erally all recognizing Irving. 
 
 The Kirkcaldy population were a pleasant, honest kind of fellow- 
 mortals ; something of quietly fruitful, of good old Scotch in their 
 works and ways ; more vernacular, peaceable, fixed, and almost gen- 
 ial in their mode of life than I had been used to in the Border 
 home-land. Fife generally we liked, those ancient little burghs 
 and sea villages, with their poor little havens, salt pans, and weath- 
 erbeaten bits of Cyclopean breakwaters and rude innocent ma- 
 chineries, are still kindly to me to think of. Kirkcaldy itself had 
 many looms, had Baltic trade, had whale - fishery, etc., and was a 
 solidly diligent, yet l)y no means a panting, puffing, or in any way 
 gambling "Lang Town." The flaxmill - machinery, I remember, 
 was turned mainly by ivind ; and curious blue painted wheels, with 
 oblique vans (how working I never saw) rose from many roofs for 
 that end. We all, I in particular, always rather liked the people, 
 though from the distance chiefly, chagrined and discouraged by the 
 sad trade one had! Some hospitable humau firesides I found, and 
 these were at intervals a fine little element, but in general we were 
 but onlookers (the one real society our books and our few selves). 
 Not even with the bright " young ladies " (which was a sad feature) 
 were we on speaking terms. By far the cleverest and brightest, 
 however, an ex-pupil of Irving's, and genealogically and otherwise 
 ^being poorish, proud, and well-bred) a kind of alien in the place, I 
 
EDWAED IRVING. 71 
 
 did at last make some acquaintance with (at Irving's first, I tliink, 
 though she rarely came thither) ; some acquaintance, and it might 
 easily have been more, had she and her aunt and our economics and 
 other circumstances liked. She was of the fair-complexioued, softly 
 elegant, softly grave, witty and comely type, and had a good deal of 
 gracefulness, intelligence, and other talent. Irving too, it was some- 
 times thought, found her very interesting, could the Miss Martiu 
 bonds have allowed, w^hich they never would. To me who had 
 only known her for a few months, and who within twelve or fifteen 
 months saw the last of her, she continued for perhaps some three 
 years a figure hanging more or less in my fancy on the usual ro- 
 mantic, or latterly quite elegiac and silent terms, and to this day 
 there is in me a goodwill to her, a candid and gentle pity for her, 
 if needed at all. She was of the Aberdeenshire Gordons, a far-off 
 Huntly I doubt not; '' Margaret Gordon," born I think in New 
 Brunswick, wiiere her father, probably in some official post, had 
 died young and poor. Her accent was prettily English and her 
 voice very fine. An aunt (widow in Fife, childless, with limited 
 resources, but of frugal cultivated turn, a lean, proud elderly dame, 
 once a "Miss Gordon " herself, sang Scotch songs beautifully, and 
 talked shrewd Aberdeenish in accent and otherwise) had adopted 
 her and brought her hither over seas ; and here as^ Irving's ex-pu- 
 pil, she now, cheery though with dim outlooks, was. Irving saw 
 her again in Glasgow one summer, touring, etc., he himself accom- 
 panying joyfully, not joining (so I understood it) the retinue of 
 suitors or potential suitors, rather perhaps indicating gently " No, 
 I must not," for the last time. A year or so after we heard the fair 
 Margaret had married some rich insignificant Aberdeen Mr. Some- 
 thing, who afterwards got into Parliament, thence out to "Nova Sco- 
 tia " (or so) as " Governor," and I heard of her no more, except that 
 lately she was still living about Aberdeen, childless, as tbe Dowager 
 Lady, her Mr. Something having got knighted before dying. Poor 
 Margaret! Speak to her since the "good-bye then" at Kirkcaldy 
 in 1819 I never did or could. I saw her, recognizably to me, here 
 in her London time, twice (1840 or so), once with her maid in Pic- 
 cadilly, promenading, little altered ; a second time, that same year 
 or next, on horseback both of us, and meeting in the gate of Hyde 
 Park, when her eyes (but that was all) said to me almost touch- 
 ingly, " Yes, yes, that is you." Enough of that old matter, which 
 but half concerns Irving and is now quite extinct. 
 
 In the space of two years we had all got tired of schoolmaster- 
 ing and its mean contradictions and i)oor results : Irving and I 
 
72 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 quite resolute to give it up for good ; tlie headlong Piers disinclined 
 for it on the then terms longer, and in the end of 1818 we all three 
 went away ; Irving and I to Edinburgh, Piers to his own east coun- 
 try, whom I never saw again with eyes, poor, good rattling soul. 
 Irving's outlooks in Edinburgh were not of the best, considerably 
 checkered with dubiety, opposition, and even flat disfavor in some 
 quarters ; but at least they were far superior to mine, and indeed, 
 I was beginning my four or five most miserable, dark, sick, and 
 heavy-laden years ; Irving, after some staggerings aback, his seven 
 or eight healthiest and brightest. He had as one item several good 
 hundreds of money to wait upon. My peculium I don't recollect, 
 but it could not have exceeded £100. I was without friends, ex- 
 perience, or connection in the sphere of human business, was of shy 
 humor, proud enough and to spare, and had begun my long curric- 
 ulum of dyspepsia which has never ended since ! 
 
 Irving lived in Bristo Street, more expensive rooms than mine, 
 used to give breakfasts to intellectualities he fell in with, I often a 
 guest with them. They were but stupid intellectualities, and the 
 talk I got into there did not please me even then ; though it was 
 well enough received. A visible gloom occasionally hung over Ir- 
 ving, his old strong sunshine only getting out from time to time. 
 He gave lessons in mathematics, once for a while to Captain Basil 
 Hall, who had a kind of thin celebrity then, and did not seem to 
 love too well that small lion or his ways with him. Small lion came 
 to propose for me at one stage ; wished me to go out with him "to 
 Dunglas," and there do "lunars" in his name, he looking on and 
 learning of me what would come of its own will. "Lunars" 
 meanwhile were to go to the Admiralty, testifying there what a 
 careful studious Captain he was, and help to get him promotion, so 
 the little wretch smilingly told me. 
 
 I remember the figure of him in my dim lodging as a gay, crack- 
 ling, sniggering spectre, one dusk, and endeavoring to seduce my 
 affability in lieu of liberal wages into this adventure. Wages, I 
 think, were to be smallish ("so poor are we "), but then the great 
 Playfiiir is coming on visit. " You will see Professor Playfair." I 
 had not the least notion of such an enterprise on these shining 
 terms, and Captain Basil with his great PI ay fair in posse vanished 
 for me into the snades of dusk for good. I don't think Irving ever 
 had any other pupil but this Basil for perhaps a three months. I 
 had not even Basil, though private teaching, to me the poorer, was 
 much the more desirable if it would please to come; which it gen- 
 erally would not in the least. I was timorously aiming towards 
 
EDWARD mviNG. 73 
 
 " literature/' too ; thought in audacious moments I might perhaps 
 earn some trifle that way by honest labor to help my finauce ; but 
 in that, too, I was painfully sceptical (talent and opportunity alike 
 doubtful, alike incredible, to me poor downtrodden soul), and in fact 
 there came little enough of produce or finance to me from that 
 source, and for the first years absolutely none in spite of my dili- 
 gent and desperate efforts, which are sad to me to think of even 
 now. Acti labores; yes, but of such a futile, dismal, lonely, dim and 
 chaotic kind, in a scene all ghastly-chaos to one, sad, dim and ugly 
 as the shores of Styx and Phlegethon, as a nightmare-dream be- 
 come real ! No more of that ; it did not conquer me, nor quite kill 
 me, thank God. Irving thought of nothing as ultimate but a cler- 
 ical career, obstacles once overcome ; in the meanwhile we heard 
 of robust temporary projects. " Tour to Switzerland," glaciers, 
 Geneva, " Lake of Thun," very grand to think of, was oue of them ; 
 none of which took effect. 
 
 I forget how long it was till the then famed Dr. Chalmers, fallen 
 in want of an assistant, cast his eye on Irving. I think it was in 
 the summer following our advent to Edinburgh. I heard duly 
 about it, how Rev. Andrew Thomson, famous malleus of theology in 
 that time, had mentioned Irving's name, had engaged to get Chal- 
 mers a hearing of him in his (Andrew's) church ; how Chalmers 
 heard incognito, and there ensued negotiation. Once I recollect 
 transiently seeing the famed Andrew on occasion of it (something 
 Irving had forgotten with him, and wished me to call for), and what 
 a lean-minded, iracund, ignorant kind of man Andrew seemed to 
 me ; also much more vividly, in autumn following, one fine airy 
 October day in Anuandale, Irving on foot on his way to Glasgow 
 for a month of actual trial. Had come by Mainhill, and picked me 
 up to walk with him seven or eight miles farther into Dryfe Water 
 (i. e. valley watered by clear swift Dryfe, quasi Drive, so impetuous 
 and swift is it), where was a certain witty comrade of ours, one 
 Frank Dickson, preacher at once and farmer (only son and heir of 
 his father who had died in that latter capacity). We found Frank 
 I conclude, though the whole is now dim to me, till we arrived aU 
 three (Frank and I to set Irving on his road and bid him good 
 speed) on the top of a hill commanding all upper Anuandale, and 
 the grand mass of Moffat hills, where we paused thoughtful a few 
 moments. The blue sky was beautifully spotted with white clouds, 
 which, and their shadows on the wide landscape, the wind was 
 beautifully chasing. Like life, 1 said with a kind of emotion, on 
 which Irving silently pressed my arm with the hand near it or per- 
 
 4 
 
74 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 haps on it, and a moment after, with no word but his "farewell" 
 and ours, strode swiftly away. A mail coach would find him at 
 Moffat that same eveniug (after his walk of about thirty miles), and 
 carry him to Glasgow to sleep. And the curtains sink again on 
 Frank and me at this time. 
 
 Frank was a notable kind of man, and one of the memorabilities 
 to Irviug as well as me ; a most quizzing, merry, entertaining, guile- 
 less, and unmalicious man ; with very considerable logic, reading, 
 contemptuous observation and intelligence, much real tenderness 
 too, when not obstructed, aud a mournfal true affection especially 
 for the friends he had lost by death ! No mean impediment there 
 any more (that was it), for Frank was very sensitive, easily moved 
 to something of envy, and as if surprised when contempt was not 
 possible ; easy banter was what he habitually dwelt in ; for the 
 rest an honorable, bright, amiable man; alas, and his end was very 
 tragic ! I have hardly seen a man with more opulence of conver- 
 sation, wit, fantastic bantering, ingenuity, and genial human sense 
 of the ridiculous in men and things : Charles Buller, perhaps, but 
 he was of far more refined, delicately managed, and less copious 
 tone ; finer by nature, I should say, as well as by culture, and had 
 nothing of the fine Annandale Rabelais turn which had grown up, 
 partly of will and at length by industry as well, in poor Frank 
 Dickson in the valley of Dryfe amid his little stock of books and 
 rustic phenomena. A slightly built man, nimble-looking, and yet 
 lazy-looking, our Annandale Rabelais; thin, neatly expressive aqui- 
 line face, gray genially laughing eyes, something sternly serious and 
 resolute in the squarish fine brow, nose specially aquiline, tbin, and 
 rather small. I well remember the play of point and nostrils there, 
 while his wild home-grown Gargantuisms went on. He rocked 
 rather, and negligently wriggled in walking or standing, something 
 slightly twisted in the spine, I think ; but he made so much small 
 involuntary tossing and gesticulating while he spoke or listened, you 
 never noticed the twist. What a childlike and yet half imp-like 
 volume of laughter lay in Frank ; how he would fling back his fine 
 head, left cheek up, not himself laughing much or loud even, but 
 showing you such continents of inward gleesome mirth and victo- 
 rious mockery of the dear stupid ones who had crossed his sphere 
 of observation. A wild roll of sombre eloquence lay in him too^ 
 and I have seen in his sermons sometimes that brow and aquiline 
 face grow dark, sad, and thunderous like the eagle of Jove. I al- 
 ways liked poor Frank, and he me heartily. After having tried to 
 banter me down and recognized the mistake, which he loyally did 
 
EDWARD IRVING. '75 
 
 for himself and never repeated, we had much pleasant talk together 
 first and last. 
 
 His end was very tragic, like that of a sensitive, gifted man, too 
 much based on laughter. Having no good prospect of Kirk pro- 
 motion in Scotland (I think his Edinburgh resource had been 
 mainly that of teaching under Mathematical Nichol for certain 
 hours daily), he perhaps about a year after Irving went to Glas- 
 gow had accepted some offer to be Presbyterian chaplain and 
 preacher to the Scotch in Bermuda, and lifted anchor thither with 
 many regrets and good wishes from us all. I did not correspond 
 with him there, my own mood and posture being so dreary and 
 empty. But before Irving left Glasgow, news came to me (from 
 Irving I believe) that Frank, struck quite miserable and lame of 
 heart and nerves by dyspepsia and dispiritment, was home again, 
 or on his way home to Dryfesdale, there to lie useless, Irving rec- 
 omraendiDg me to do for him what kindness I could, and not re- 
 member that he used to disbelieve and be ignorantly cruel in my 
 own dyspeptic tribulations. This I did not fail of, nor was it bur- 
 densome, but otherwise, while near him in Annandale. 
 
 Frank was far more wretched than I had been ; sunk in spir- 
 itual dubieties too, which I by that time was getting rid of. He 
 had brought three young Bermuda gentlemen home with him as 
 pupils (had been much a favorite in society there). With these 
 in his rough farm-house, Belkat hill,* he settled himself to live. 
 Farm was Jiis, but in the hands of a rough-spun sister and her 
 ploughing husband, who perhaps was not over glad to see Frank 
 return, with new potientiality of ownership if he liked, which truly 
 I suppose he never did. They had done some joinering, plank- 
 flooring in the farm-house, which was weather-tight, newish though 
 straight and dim, and there on rough rustic terms, perhaps with a 
 little disappointment to the young gentlemen, Frank and his Ber- 
 mudians lived, Frank himself for several years. He had a nimble, 
 quick pony, rode latterly (for the Bermudians did not stay above 
 a year or two) much about among his cousinry of friends, always 
 halting and baiting with me when it could be managed. I had at 
 once gone to visit him, found Bell Top Hill on the new terms as in- 
 teresting as ever. A comfort to me to administer some comfort, 
 interesting even to compare dyspeptic notes. Besides, Frank by 
 degrees would kindle into the old coruscations, and talk as well as 
 ever. I remember some of those visits to him, still more the lonely, 
 
 * Bell Top nil], near Hook, head part of the pleasant vale of Dryfe. 
 
76 EEMINISCENCES. 
 
 silent rides thither, as humanly impressive, wholesome, not unpleas- 
 ant ; especially after my return from Buller tutorship, and my first 
 London visit (in 1824), v^hen I was at Hoddam Hill, idly high and 
 dry like Frank (or only translating German romance, etc.), and 
 had a horse of my own. Frank took considerably to my mother; 
 talked a great deal of his bitter Byrouic scepticism to her, and 
 seemed to feel like oil poured into his wounds her beautifully 
 pious contradictions of him and it. " Really likes to be contra- 
 dicted, poor Frank !" she would tell me afterwards. He might be 
 called a genuine bit of rustic dignity — modestly, frugally, in its 
 simplest expression, gliding about among us there. This lasted 
 till perhaps the beginning of 1826. I do not remember him at 
 Scotsbrig ever. I suppose the lease of his farm may have run out 
 that year, not renewed, and that he was now farther away. After 
 my marriage, perhaps two years after it, from Craigenputtoch I 
 wrote to him, but never got the least answer, never saw him or 
 distinctly heard of him more. Indistinctly I did, with a shock, hear 
 of him once, and then a second, a final time, thus. My brother Ja- 
 mie,* riding to Moffat in 1828 or so, saw near some poor cottage 
 (not a farm at all, a bare place for a couple of cows, perhaps it was 
 a turnpike-keeper's cottage), not far from Moffat, a forlornly miser- 
 able-looking figure, walking languidly to and fro, parted from him 
 by the hedge, Avhom in spite of this sunk condition he recognized 
 clearly for Frank Dickson, who, however, took no notice of him. 
 " Perhaps refuses to know me," thought Jamie ; " they have lost 
 their farm — sister and husband seem to have taken shelter here, 
 and there is the poor gentleman and scholar Frank sauntering 
 miserably with an old plaid over his head, slipshod in a pair of 
 old clogs." That was Jamie's guess, which he reported to me ; 
 and a few mouths after grim whisper came, low but certain — no 
 inquest of coroner there — that Frauk was dead, and had gone in the 
 Roman fashion. What other could he do now — the silent, valiant, 
 though vanquished man? He was hardly yet thirty-five, a man 
 richer iu gifts than nine-tenths of the vocal and notable are. I 
 remember him with sorrow and affection, native - countryman 
 Frank, and his little life. What a strange little island fifty years 
 off; sunny, homelike, pretty in the memory, yet with tragic thun- 
 ders waiting it ! 
 
 Irving's Glasgow news from the first were good. Approved of, 
 accepted by the great Doctor and his congregation, preaching 
 
 * Yonngest brother, teu'yeai's my juulor. 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 77 
 
 heartily, laboring with the "visiting deacons" (Chalmers's grand 
 parochial anti-pauperism apparatus much an object with the Doc- 
 tor at this time), seeing and experiencing new things on all hands 
 of him in his new wide element. He came occasionally to Edin- 
 burgh on visit. I remember him as of prosperous aspect ; a little 
 more carefully, more clerically dressed than formerly (ample black 
 frock, a little longer skirted than the secular sort, hat of gravish 
 breadth of brim, all very simple and correct). He would talk 
 about the Glasgow Radical weavers, and their notable receptions 
 of him and utterances to him while visiting their lanes ; was not 
 copious upon his great Chalmers, though friendly in what he did 
 say. All this of his first year must have been in 1820 or late in 
 1819 ; year 1819 comes back into my mind as the year of the Radi- 
 cal " rising " in Glasgow ; and the kind of altogether imaginary 
 "fight" they attempted on Bonny Muir against the Yeomanry 
 which had assembled from far and wide. A time of great rages 
 and absurd terrors and expectations, a very fierce Radical and 
 anti-Radical time. Edinburgh endlessly agitated by it all round 
 me, not to mention Glasgow in the distance — gentry people full of 
 zeal and foolish terror and fury, and looking disgustingly busy and 
 important. Courier hussars would come in from the Glasgow re- 
 gion covered with mud, breathless, for head-quarters, as you took 
 your walk in Princes Street ; and you would hear old powdered 
 gentlemen in silver spectacles talking with low-toned but exultant 
 voice about " cordon of troops, sir," as you went along. The mass 
 of the people, not the populace alone, had a quite different feeling, 
 as if the danger from those West-country Radicals was small or 
 imaginary, and their grievances dreadfully real ; which was with 
 emphasis my own iDrivate notion of it. One bleared Sunday morn- 
 ing, perhaps seven or eight a.m., I had gone out for my walk. At 
 the riding-house in Nicholson Street was a kind of straggly group, 
 or small crowd, with red-coats interspersed. Coming up I per- 
 ceived it was the " Lothian Yeomanry," Mid or East I know not, 
 just getting under way for Glasgow to be part of "the cordon." 
 I halted a moment. They took their way, very ill ranked, not nu- 
 merous or very dangerous-looking men of war ; but there rose from 
 the little crowd by way of farewell cheer to them the strangest 
 shout I have heard human throats utter, not very loud, or loud 
 even for the small numbers ; but it said as plain as words, and with 
 infinitely more emphasis of sincerity, " May the devil go with you, 
 ye peculiarly contemptible and dead to the distresses of your fel- 
 low-creatures." Another morning, months after, spring and sun 
 
78 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 now come, and tlie " cordon," etc., all over, I met an advocate slight- 
 ly of my acquaintance hurrying along musket in hand towards the 
 Links, there to be drilled as item of the " gentlemen " volunteers 
 now afoot. " You should have the like of this," said he, cheerily 
 patting bis musket. " H'm, yes ; but I baven't yet quite settled on 
 which side " — which probably he hoped was quiz, though it really 
 expressed my feeling. Irving too, and all of us juniors, had the 
 same feeling in different intensities, and spoken of only to one an- 
 other; a sense that revolt against such a load of unveracities, im- 
 postures, and quietly inane formalities would one day become in- 
 dispensable ; sense w^hich had a kind of rash, false, and quasi-inso- 
 lent joy in it ; mutiny, revolt, being a light matter to the young. 
 
 Irving appeared to take great interest iu his Glasgow visitings 
 about among these poor weavers and free communiugs with them 
 as man with man. He was altogether human we heard and could 
 well believe ; he broke at once into sociality and frankness, would 
 pick a potato from their pot, and in eating it get at once into free 
 and kindly terms. " Peace be with you here " was his entering sal- 
 utation one time in some weaving-shop which had politely paused 
 and silenced itself on sight of him ; " peace be with you." " Ay, 
 sir, if there's plenty wi't!" said an angry little weaver who hap- 
 pened to be on the floor, and who began indignant response and 
 remonstrance to the minister and his fine words. " Quite angry 
 and fiery," as Irving described him to us ; a fine thoughtful brow, 
 with the veins on it swollen and black, and the eyes under it spar- 
 kling and glistening, whom however he succeeded in pacifying, and 
 parting with on soft terms. This was one of his anecdotes to us. 
 I remember that fiery little weaver and his broad brow and swollen 
 veins, a vanished figure of those days, as if I had myself seen him. 
 
 By-and-by, after repeated invitations, which to me were permis- 
 sions rather, the time came for my paying a return visit. I well 
 remember the first visit and pieces of the others ; probably there 
 were three or even four in all, each of them a real holiday to me. 
 By steamer to Bo'ness and then by canal. Skipper of canal-boat 
 and two Glasgow scamps of the period, these are figures of the first 
 voyage ; very vivid these, the rest utterly out. I think I always 
 went by Bo'ness and steam so far, coach the remainder of the road 
 in all subsequent journeys. Irving lived in Kent Street, eastern 
 end of Glasgow, ground floor, tolerably spacious room. I think lie 
 sometimes gave up his bedroom (me the bad sleeper) and went out 
 himself to some friend's house. David Hope (cousin of old Adam's, 
 but much younger, an excellent guileless man and merchant) was 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 79 
 
 warmly intimate and attached ; the like William Graham of Burns- 
 wark, Aunandale, a still more interesting character ; with both of 
 whom I made or renewed acquaintance which turned out to be 
 agreeable and lasting. These two were perhaps Irving's most do- 
 mestic and practically trusted friends, but he had already many in 
 the better Glasgow circles ; and in generous liking and apprecia- 
 tion tended to excess, never to defect, with one and all of them. 
 " Philosophers " called at Kent Street whom one did not find so 
 extremely philosophical, though all were amiable and of polite and 
 partly religious turn ; and in fact these reviews of Glasgow in its 
 streets, in its jolly Christmas dining-rooms and drawing -rooms, 
 were cordial and instructive to me ; the solid style of comfort, free- 
 dom, and plenty was new to me in that degree. The Tontine (my 
 first evening in Glasgow) was quite a treat to my rustic eyes ; sev- 
 eral hundreds of such fine, clean, opulent, and enviable or amiable- 
 looking good Scotch gentlemen sauntering about in truthful gossip 
 or solidly reading their newspapers. I remember the shining bald 
 crowns and serene white heads of several, and the feeling, fortii- 
 natos nimium, which they generally gave me. Irving was not with 
 me on this occasion ; had probably left me there for some half- 
 hour, and would come to pick me up again when ready. We made 
 morning calls together too, not very many, and found once, I recol- 
 lect, an exuberant bevy of young ladies which I (silently) took as 
 sample of great and singular privilege in my friend's way of life. 
 Oftenest it was crotchety, speculative, semi- theological elderly gen- 
 tlemen whom we met, with curiosity and as yet without weariness 
 on my part, though of course their laughing, chatting daughters 
 would have been better. The Glasgow women of the young lady 
 stamp seemed to me well-looking, clever enough, good-humored : 
 but I noticed (for my own behoof and without prompting of any 
 kind) that they were not so ivell dressed as their Edinburgh sisters ; 
 something flary, glary, colors too flagrant and ill-assorted, want of 
 the harmonious transitions, neatnesses, and soft Attic art which I 
 now recognized or remembered for the first time. 
 
 Of Dr. Chalmers I heard a great deal; naturally the continual 
 topic, or one of them ; admiration universal, and as it seemed to 
 me slightly wearisome, and a good deal indiscriminate and over- 
 done, which probably (though we were dead silent on that head) 
 was on occasions Irving's feeling too. But the great man was him- 
 self truly lovable, truly loved ; and nothing personally could be 
 more modest, intent on his good industries, not on himself or his 
 fame. Twice that I recollect I specially saw him ; once at his own 
 
80 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 house, to breakfast ; company Irving, one Crosby, a young licenti- 
 ate, witb glaring eyes and no speculation in them, who went after- 
 wards to Birmingham, and thirdly myself. It was a cold vile 
 smoky morning ; house and breakfast-room looked their worst in 
 the dismal light. Doctor himself was hospitably kind, but spoke 
 little and engaged none of us in talk. Oftenest, I could see, he 
 was absent, wandering in distant fields of abstruse character, to 
 judge by the sorrowful glaze which came over his honest eyes and 
 face. I was not ill-pleased to get away, ignotus, from one of whom 
 I had gained no new knowledge. The second time was in a fine 
 drawing-room (a Mr. Parker's) in a rather solemn evening party, 
 where the doctor, perhaps bored by the secularities and trivialities 
 elsewhere, put his chair beside mine in some clear space of floor, 
 and talked earnestly for a good while on some scheme he had for 
 proving Christianity by its visible fitness for human nature. " All 
 written in us already," he said, "wt sympatlwtic inJc. Bible awakens 
 it ; and you can read." I listened respectfully, not with any real 
 conviction, only with a clear sense of the geniality and goodness of 
 the man. I never saw him again till within a few months of his 
 death, when he called here, and sate wtth us an hour, very agreea- 
 ble to her and to me after the long abeyance. She had been with 
 him once on a short tour in the Highlands ; me too he had got an 
 esteem of — liked the "Cromwell" especially, and Cromwell's self 
 ditto, which I hardly reckoned creditable of him. He did not 
 speak of that, nor of the Free Kirk war, though I gave him a 
 chance of that which he soon softly let drop. The now memora- 
 blest point to me was of Painter Wilkie, who had been his familiar 
 in youth, and whom he seemed to me to understand well. " Paint- 
 er's language," he said, " was stinted and difficult." Wilkie had 
 told him how in painting his Bent Day he thought long, and to no 
 purpose, by what means he should signify that the sorrowful wom- 
 an with the children there, had left no husband at home, but was 
 a widow under tragical self-management ; till one morning, push- 
 ing along the Strand, he met a small artisan family going evident- 
 ly on excursion, and in one of their hands or pockets somewhere 
 was visible the house-key. "That will do," thought Wilkie, and 
 prettily introduced the house -key as coral in the poor baby's 
 mouth, just drawn from poor mammy's pocket, to keep her uncon- 
 scious little orphan peaceable. He warmly agreed with me in 
 thinking Wilkie a man of real genius, real vivacity and simplicity. 
 Chalmers was himself very beautiful to us during that hour, grave 
 ■ — not too grave — earnest, cordial face and figure very little altered, 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 81 
 
 only the head had grown white, and in the eyes and features you 
 could read something of a serene sadness, as if evening and star- 
 crowned night were coming on, and the hot noises of the day grow- 
 ing unexpectedly insignificant to one. We had little thought this 
 would he the last of Chalmers ; but in a few weeks after he sud- 
 denly died. ... He was a man of much natural dignity, ingenuity, 
 honesty, and kind affection, as well as sound intellect and imagina- 
 tion. A very eminent vivacity lay in him, which could rise to com- 
 plete impetuosity (growing conviction, passionate eloquence, fiery 
 play of heart and head), all in a kind of rustic type, one might say, 
 though wonderfully true and tender. He had a hurst of genuine 
 fun, too, I have heard, of the same honest hut most plebeian broad- 
 ly natural character ; his laugh was a hearty low guffaw ; and his 
 tones in preaching would rise to the piercingly pathetic — no 
 preacher ever went so into one's heart. He was a man essentially 
 of little culture, of narrow sphere, all his life ; such an intellect 
 professing to be educated, and yet so ill read, so ignorant in all 
 that lay beyond the horizon in place or in time, I have almost no- 
 where met with. A man capable of much soaking indolence, lazy 
 brooding and do-nothingism, as the first stage of his life well indi- 
 cated ; a man thought to be timid almost to the verge of cowardice, 
 yet capable of impetuous activity and blazing audacity, as his lat- 
 ter years showed. 
 
 I suppose there will never again be such a preacher in any Chris- 
 tian church. 
 
 [A slip from a newspaper is appended here, with a note to it in 
 Carlyle's hand. 
 
 " It is a favorite speculation of mine that if spared to sixty we 
 then enter on the seventh decade of human life, and that this if 
 possible should be turned into the Sabbath of our earthly pilgrim- 
 age and spent sabbatically, as if on the shores of an eternal world, 
 or in the outer courts as it were of the temple that is above, the 
 tabernacle in Heaven. What enamors me all the more of this idea 
 is the retrospect of my mother's widowhood. I long, if God should 
 spare me, for such an old age as she enjoyed, spent as if at the gate 
 of heaven, and with such a fund of inward peace and hope as made 
 her nine years' widowhood a perfect feast and foretaste of the bless- 
 edness that awaits the righteous." — Dr. Chalmers. 
 
 Carlyle writes : 
 
 "Had heard it before from Thomas Erskine (of Linlathen), with 
 pathetic comment as to what Chalmers's own sabbath-decade had 
 been."] 
 
 4* 
 
82 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 Irving's discourses were far more opulent in ingenious thought 
 than Chalmers's, which inSeed were usually the triumphant on-rush 
 of one idea with its satellites and supporters. But Irving's wanted 
 in definite head and Mckbone, so that on arriving you might see 
 clearly where and how. That was mostly a defect one felt in trav- 
 ersing those grand forest-avenues of his with their multifarious out- 
 looks to right and left. He had many thoughts pregnantly express- 
 ed, but they did not tend all one way. The reason was there were 
 in him infinitely jnore thoughts than in Chalmers, and he took far 
 less pains in setting them forth. The uniform custom was, he shut 
 himself up all Saturday, became invisible all that day ; and had his 
 sermon ready before going to bed. Sermon an hour long or more ; 
 it could not be done in one day, except as a kind of extempore thing. 
 It flowed along, not as a swift flowing river, but as a broad, deep, 
 and bending or meandering one. Sometimes it left on you the im- 
 pression almost of a fine noteworthy lal-e. Noteworthy always ; 
 nobody could mistake it for the discourse of other than an uncom- 
 mon man. Originality and truth of purpose were undeniable in it, 
 but there was withal, both in the matter and the manner, a some- 
 thing which might be suspected of affectation, a noticeable prefer- 
 ence and search for striking quaint and ancient locutions ; a style 
 modelled on the Miltonic old Puritan ; something too in the deliv- 
 ering which seemed elaborate and of forethought, or might be sus- 
 pected of being so. He (still) always read, but not in the least 
 slavishly; and made abundant rather strong gesticulations in the 
 right places; voice one of the finest and powerfullest, but not a 
 power quite on the heart as Chalmers's was, which you felt to be 
 coming direct /rojn the heart. Irving's preaching was accordingly 
 a thing not above criticism to the Glasgowites, and it got a good 
 deal on friendly terms, as well as admiration plenty, in that tem- 
 pered form ; not often admiration pure and simple, as was now 
 always Chalmers's lot there. Irving no doubt secretly felt the dif- 
 ference, and could have wished it otherwise ; but the generous 
 heart of him was incapable of envying any human excellence, and 
 instinctively would either bow to it and to the rewards of it withal, 
 or rise to loyal emulation of it and them. He seemed to be much 
 liked by many good x)eople ; a fine friendly and wholesome element 
 I thought it for him ; and the criticisms going, in connection with 
 the genuine admiration going, might be taken as handsomely near 
 the mark. 
 
 To me, for his sake, his Glasgow friends were very good, and I 
 liked their ways (as I might easily do) much better than some I had 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 83 
 
 been used to. A romauce of novelty lay in them too. It was the 
 first time I had looked into opulent burgher life in any such com- 
 pleteness and composed solidity as here. We went to Paisley sev- 
 eral times, to certain "Carliles" (so they spelt their name; An- 
 nan people of a century back), rich enough old men of religious 
 moral turn, who received me as " a cousin ;" their daughters good 
 if not pretty, and one of the sons ( Warrand Carlile, who afterwards 
 became a clergyman ) not quite uninteresting to me for some years 
 coming. He married the youngest sister of Edward Irving, and I 
 think is still preaching somewhere in the West Indies. Wife long 
 since died, but one of their sons, "Gavin Carlile" (or now Carlyle), 
 a Free Kirk minister here in London, editing his uncle's select 
 •works just now (1868). David Hope, of Glasgow, always a little 
 stuck to me afterwards, an innocent, cheerful Nathaniel, ever ready 
 to oblige. The like much more emphatically did William Graham 
 of Burns wark, whom I first met in the above city under Irving's 
 auspices, and who might in his way be called a friend both to Ir- 
 ving and me so long as his life lasted, which was thirty odd years 
 longer. Other conquests of mine in Glasgow I don't recollect. 
 Graham of Burnswark perhaps deserves a paragraph. 
 
 Graham was turned of fifty when I first saw him, a lumpish, 
 heavy, but stirring figure ; had got something lamish about one of 
 the knees or ankles, which gave a certain rocking motion to his 
 gait ; firm jocund affectionate face, rather reddish with good cheer, 
 eyes big, blue and laughing, nose defaced with snuff, fine bald broad- 
 browed head, ditto almost always with an ugly brown scratch wig. 
 He was free of hand and of heart, laughed with sincerity at not 
 very much of fun, liked widely yet with some selection, and was 
 widely liked. The history of him was curious. His father, first 
 some small farmer in " Corrie Water " perhaps, was latterly for 
 many years (I forget whether as farmer or as shepherd, but guess 
 the former) stationary at Burnswark, a notable tabular hill, of no 
 great height, but detached a good way on every side, far seen al- 
 most to the shores of Liverpool, indeed commanding all round the 
 whole of that large saucer , fifty to thirty miles in radius, the brother 
 point of which is now called Gretna (" Gretan How," Big Hollow, 
 at the head of Solway Frith) ; a Burnswark beautiful to look on 
 and much noted from of old. Has a glorious Roman camp on the 
 south flank of it, "the best preserved in Britain except one" (says 
 General Roy) ; velvet sward covering the whole, but trenches, prse- 
 torium (three conic mounds), etc., not altered otherwise ; one of the 
 finest limpid wells within it ; and a view to Liverpool as was said, 
 
84 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 and into Tynedale, to the Cumberlaud and even Yorkshire moun- 
 tains on the one side, and on the other into the Moffat ditto and 
 the Selkirkshire and Eskdale. 
 
 The name " Burnswark " is probably Birrenswark (or fortifica- 
 tion work). Three Roman stations, with Carlisle (Caer Lewel, as 
 old as King Solomon) for mother : Netherbie, Middlebie, and Ower- 
 bie (or Upperby) in Eskdale. The specific Roman town of Middle- 
 bie is about half a mile below the Kirk (i. e. eastward of it) and is 
 called by the country people " tbe Birrens " (i. e. the Scrags or Hag- 
 gles, I should think), a place lying all in dimples and wrinkles, with 
 ruined houses if you dig at all, grassy but inarable part of whicb is 
 still kept sacred in lea by "the Duke" (of Queensberry, now of 
 Buccleuch and Queensberry), while the rest has been all dug to 
 powder in the last sixty or seventy years by the adjoining little 
 lairds. Many altars, stone figures, tools, axes, etc, were got out of 
 the dug part, and it used to be one of the tasks of my boyhood to 
 try what I could do at reading the inscriiMons found there ; which 
 was not much, nor almost ever wholly enough, though the country 
 folk were thankful for my little Latin faithfully applied, like the 
 light of a damp windlestraw to them in what was total darkness. 
 The fable went that from Birrens to Birrenswark, two and a half 
 miles, there ran a " subterranean passage," complete tunnel, equal 
 to carts, perhaps, but nobody pretended even to have seen a trace 
 of it, or indeed did believe it. 
 
 In my boyhood, passing Birrens for the first time, I noticed a 
 small conduit (cloaca, I suppose) abruptly ending or issuing in the 
 then recent precipice which had been left by those diggers, and 
 recollect nothing more, except my own poor awe and wonder at the 
 strange scene, strange face to face vestige of the vanished £Eons. 
 The Caledonian Railway now screams and shudders over this dug 
 part of Birrens ; William Graham, whom I am (too idly) writing of, 
 was born at the north-east end of Burnswark, and passed in la- 
 bor, but in health, frugality, and joy, the first twenty-five years of 
 his life. 
 
 Graham's father and mother seem to have been of the best kind 
 of Scottish peasant ; he had brothers two or perhaps three, of whom 
 William was the youngest, who were all respected in their state, 
 and who all successively emigrated to America on the following 
 slight first-cause. John Graham, namely the eldest of the brothers, 
 had been balloted for the militia (Dumfriesshire Militia), and on 
 private consideration with himself preferred expatriation to soldier- 
 ing, and quietly took ship to push his fortune in the New World 
 
EDWAED IRVING. 85 
 
 instead. John's adventures, -which probably were rugged enough, 
 are not on record for me ; only that in no great length of time he 
 found something of success, a solid merchant's clerkship or the like, 
 with outlooks towards merchant's business of his own one day; and 
 invited thither one by one all his brothers to share with him or 
 push like him there. Philadelphia was the place, at least the ulti- 
 mate place, and the firm of " Graham Brothers " gradually rose to 
 be a considerable and well-reputed house in that city. William, 
 probably some fifteen years junior of John, was the last brother that 
 went ; after him their only sister, parents having now died at Burns- 
 wark, was sent for also, and kept house for William or for another 
 of the bachelor brothers — one at least of them had wedded and has 
 left Pennsylvanian Grahams. William continued bachelor for life ; 
 and this only sister returned ultimately to Annandale, and was Wil- 
 liam's house-manager there. I remember her well, one of the amia- 
 blest of old maids ; kind, true, modestly polite to the very heart ; 
 and in such a curious style of polite culture ; Pennsylvanian Yan- 
 kee grafted on Annandale Scotch. Used to "expect" instead of 
 " suppose^" would " guess " now and then, and commonly said pas- 
 tor (which she pronounced "paustor") to signify clergyman or 
 minister. 
 
 The Graham Brothers house growing more and more prosperous 
 and opulent in Philadelphia, resolved at last to have a branch in 
 Glasgow (year 1814 or so) and despatched William thither, whose 
 coming I dimly remember was heard of in Annandale by his tri- 
 umphant purchase for himself in fee simple of the farm and hill of 
 Buruswark, which happened to come into the market then. His 
 tradings and observations in Glasgow were extensive, not unskil- 
 ful that I heard of, and were well looked on, as he himself still 
 more warmly was, but at length (perhaps a year or more before my 
 first sight of him) some grand cargo from or to Philadelphia, some 
 whole fleet of cargoes, all mostly of the same commodity, had by 
 sudden change of price during the voyage ruinously misgone, and 
 the fine house of Graham Brothers came to the ground. William 
 was still in the throes of settlement, just about quitting his fine 
 well-appointed mansion in Vincent Street, in a cheerfully stoical 
 humor, and only clinging with invincible tenacity to native Burns- 
 wark, which of course was no longer his except on bond with se- 
 curities, with interest, etc., all of excessive extent, his friends said, 
 but could not persuade him, so dear to his heart was that native 
 bit of earth, with the fond improvements, planting and the like, 
 which he had begun upon it. 
 
86 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 Poor Graham kept iron hold of Burnswark, ultimately as plain 
 tenant ; good sheep farm at a fair rent ; all attempts otherwise, 
 and they were many and strenuous, having issued in non-success, 
 and the hope of ever recovering himself, or it, being plainly futile. 
 Graham never merchanted more ; was once in America on explora- 
 tory visit, where his brothers were in some degree set up again, but 
 had no £8,000 to spare for his Burnswark. He still hung a little 
 to Glasgow, tried various things, rather of a "projector" sort, all 
 of which miscarried, till happily he at length ceased visiting Glas- 
 gow, and grew altogether rustic, a successful sheep-farmer at any 
 rate, fat, cheery, happy, and so for his last twenty years rode visit- 
 ing about among the little lairds of an intelligent turn, who liked 
 him well, but not with entire acquiescence in all the copious quasi- 
 intelligent talk he had. Irving had a real love for him, with si- 
 lent deductions in the unimportant respects ; he an entire loyalty 
 and heart-devotedness to Irving. Me also he took up in a very 
 warm manner, and for the first few years was really pleasant and 
 of use to me, especially in my then Annandale summers. Through 
 him I made acquaintance with a really intellectual modest circle, 
 or rather pair of people, a Mr. and Mrs. Johnston, at their place call- 
 ed Grange, on the edge of the hill country, seven or eight miles 
 from my father's. Mrs. Johnston was a Glasgow lady, of fine cult- 
 ure, manners, and intellect ; one of the smallest voices, and most 
 delicate, gently smiling figure ; had been in London, etc. Her hus- 
 band was by birth laird of this pretty Grange, and had modestly 
 withdrawn to it, finding merchanthood in Glasgow ruinous to weak 
 health. The elegance, the perfect courtesy, the simple purity and 
 beauty I found in both these good people, was an authentic attrac- 
 tion and profit to me in those years, and I still remember them, and 
 the bright little environment of them, with a kind of pathetic affec- 
 tion. I as good as lost them on my leaving Annandale. Mr. John- 
 ston soon after died ; and with Mrs. Johnston there could only be 
 at rare intervals a flying call, sometimes only the attempt at such, 
 which amounted to little. 
 
 Graham also I practically more and more lost from that epoch 
 (1826), ever memorable to me otherwise. He hung about me studi- 
 ously, and with unabatiug good- will, on my Annandale visits to my 
 mother, to whom he was ever attentive and respectful for my sake 
 and her own. Dear good mother ! best of mothers ! He pointed 
 out the light of her "end window," gable window, one dark night 
 to me, as I convoyed him from Scotsbrig. " Will there ever be in 
 the world for you a prettier light than that?" He was once or 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 87 
 
 more with us at Craigenputtoch, ditto at London, and wrote long 
 letters, not unpleasant to read and hum. But his sphere was shrink- 
 ing more and more into dark safety and monstrous rusticity, mine 
 the reverse in respect of safety and otherwise — nay, at length his 
 faculties were getting hebetated, wrapt in lazy eupeptic fat. The 
 last time I ever, strictly speaking, saw him (for he was grown more 
 completely stupid and oblivious every subsequent time) was at the 
 ending of my mother's funeral (December, 1853), day bitterly cold, 
 heart bitterly sad, at the gate of Ecclefechan kirkyard. He was 
 sitting in his gig just about to go, I ready to mount for Scotsbrig, 
 and in a day more for London ; he gazed on me with his big inno- 
 cent face, big heavy eyes, as if half - conscious, half- frozen in the 
 cold, and we shook hands nearly in silence. 
 
 In the Irving Glasgow time, and for a while afterwards, there 
 went on at Edinburgh too a kind of cheery visiting and messaging 
 from these good Graham-Hope people. I do not recollect the visits 
 as peculiarly successful, none of them except one, which was on oc- 
 casion of George IV.'s famed " visit to Edinburgh," when Graham 
 and Hope (I think both of them together) occupied my rooms with 
 grateful satisfaction. I myself not there. 1 had grown disgusted 
 with the fulsome " loyalty " of all classes in Edinburgh towards this 
 approaching George Fourth visit ; whom, though called and reck- 
 oned a " king," I in my private radicalism of mind could consider 
 only as a — what shall I call him ? and loyalty was not the feeling 
 I had towards any part of the phenomenon. At length reading one 
 day in a public placard from the magistrates (of which there had 
 been several) that on His Majesty's advent it was expected that 
 everybody would be carefully well-dressed, " black coat and white 
 duck trousers," if at all convenient, I grumbled to myself, "scandal- 
 ous flunkeys ! I, if I were changing my dress at all, should incline 
 rather to be in white coat and black trousers ;" but resolved rather 
 to quit the city altogether, and be absent and silent in such efflo- 
 rescence of the flunk eyisms, which I was — for a week or more in 
 Annandale, at Kirkchrist with the Churches in Galloway ; ride to 
 Lochinbrack "Well by Kenmore Lake, etc., how vivid still ! and 
 found all comfortably rolled away at my return to Edinburgh. 
 
 It was in one of those visits by Irving himself,* without any com- 
 pany, that he took me out to Haddington (as recorded elsewhere), 
 to what has since been so momentous through all my subsequent 
 life. We walked and talked a good sixteen miles in the sunny sum- 
 
 * Juue^ 1821. 
 
88 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 mer afternoon. He took me round by Athelstanford (" Elshinford ") 
 parish, where John Home wrote his " Douglas," in case of any en- 
 thusiasm for Home or it, which I secretly had not. We leapt the 
 solitary kirkyard wall, and found close by us the tombstone of " old 
 Skirriug," a more remarkable person, author of the strangely vigor- 
 ous doggrel ballad on " Preston Pans Battle " (and the ditto answer 
 to a military challenge which ensued thereupon), "one of the most 
 athletic and best natured of men," said his epitaph. This is nearly 
 all I recollect of the journey ; the end of it, and what I saw there, 
 will be memorable to me while life or thought endures. Ah me ! 
 ah me ! — I think there had been before this on Irving's own part 
 some movements of negotiation over to Kirkcaldy for release there, 
 and of hinted hox)e towards Haddington, which was so infinitely 
 miserable! and something (as I used to gather long afterwards) 
 might have come of it had not Kirkcaldy been so peremptory and 
 stood by its bond (as spoken or as written), "bond or utter ruin, 
 sir!" upon which Irving had honorably submitted and resigned 
 himself. He seemed to be quite composed upon the matter by this 
 time.* I remember in an inn at Haddington that first night a little 
 passage. We had just seen in the minister's house (whom Irving 
 was to preach for) a certain shiniug Miss Augusta, tall, shapely, 
 airy, giggly, but a consummate fool, whom I have heard called 
 " Miss Disgusta " by the satirical. We were now in our double- 
 bedded room, George Inn, Haddington, stripping, or perhaps each 
 already in his bed, when Irving jocosely said to me, " What would 
 you take to marry Miss Augusta now V " Not for an entire and 
 perfect chrysolite the size of this terraqueous globe," answered I at 
 once, with hearty laughter from Irving. " And what would you 
 take to marry Miss Jeannie, think you V " Hah, I should not be so 
 hard to deal with there I should imagine !" upon which another bit 
 of laugh from Irving, and we composedly went to sleep. I was 
 supremely dyspeptic and out of health during those three or four 
 days, and they were the beginning of a new life to me. 
 
 The notablest passage in my Glasgow visits was probably the 
 year before this Edinburgh-Haddington one on Irving's part. I was 
 about quitting Edinburgh for Aunandale, and had come round by 
 Glasgow on the road home. I was utterly out of health as usual, 
 but had otherwise had my enjoyments. We had come to Paisley 
 as finale, and were lodging pleasantly with the Carliles. Warrand 
 Carlile, hearing I had to go by Muirkirk in Ayrshire, and Irving to 
 
 * Carlyle was mistaken here. Irving's hopes at this time were at their brightest. 
 
EDWAKD IRVING. 89 
 
 return to Glasgow, suggested a convoy of me by Irving and himself, 
 furthered by a fine riding horse of Warrand's, on the ride-and-tie 
 principle. Irving had cheerfully consented. " You and your horse 
 as far as you can ; I will go on to Drumclog Moss with Carlyle ; 
 then turn home for Glasgow in good time, he on to Muirkirk, which 
 will be about a like distance for him." " Done, done !" To me of 
 course nothing could be welcomer than this improvised convoy, 
 upon which we entered accordingly ; early a.m., a dry brisk April 
 day, and one still full of strange dim interest to me. I never rode 
 and tied (especially with three) before or since, but recollect we 
 had no difficulty with it. 
 
 Warrand had settled that we should breakfast with a Rev. Mr. 
 French some fifteen miles off, after which he and horse would re- 
 turn. I recollect the Mr. French, a fat, apoplectic-looking old gen- 
 tleman, in a room of very low ceiling, but plentifully furnished 
 with breakfast materials ; who was very kind to us, and seemed 
 glad and ready to be invaded in this sudden manner by articulate 
 speaking young men. Good old soul! I never saw him or heard 
 mention of him again. 
 
 Drumclog Moss (after several hours fallen vacant and wholly 
 dim) is the next object that survives, and Irving and I sitting by 
 ourselves under the silent bright skies among the "peat-hags" of 
 Drumclog with a world all silent round us. These peat-hags are 
 still pictured in me ; brown bog, all pitted and broken into heathy 
 remnants and bare abrupt wide holes, four or five feet deep, mostly 
 dry at present ; a flat wilderness of broken bog, of quagmire not to 
 be trusted (probably wetter in old days there, and wet still in rainy 
 seasons). Clearly a good place for Cameronian preaching, and dan- 
 gerously difficult for Claverse and horse soldiery if the suffering 
 remnant had a few old muskets among them ! Scott's novels had 
 given the Claverse skirmish here, which all Scotland knew of al- 
 ready, a double interest in those days. I know not that we talked 
 much of this ; but we did of many things, perhaps more confiden- 
 tially than ever before. A colloquy the sum of which is still 
 mournfully beautiful to me, though the details are gone. I re- 
 member us sitting on the brow of a peat-hag, the sun shining, our 
 own voices the one sound. Far, far away to the westward, over 
 our brown horizon, towered up white and visible at the many 
 miles of distance a high irregular pyramid, '• Ailsa Craig," we at 
 once guessed, and thought of the seas and oceans over yonder. 
 But we did not long dwell on that. We seem to have seen no hu- 
 man creature after French (though of course our very road would 
 
90 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 have to be inquired after) ; to have had no bother and no need of 
 human assistance or society, not even of refection, French's break- 
 fast perfectly sufficing us. The talk had gro^Yn ever friendlier, 
 more interesting. At length the declining sun said plainly, you 
 must part. We sauntered slowly into the Glasgow-Muirkirk high- 
 way. Masons were building at a wayside cottage near by, or were 
 packing up on ceasing for the day. We leant our backs to a dry 
 stone fence (" stone dike," dry stone wall, very common in that 
 country), and looking into the western radiance, continued in talk 
 yet a while, loth both of us to go. It was just here, as the sun 
 was sinking, Irving actually drew from me by degrees, in the soft- 
 est manner, the confession that I did not think as he of the Chris- 
 tian religion, and that it was vain for me to expect I ever could or 
 should. This, if this was so, he had pre-engaged to take well of 
 me, like an elder brother, if I would be frank with him. And 
 right loyally he did so, and to the end of his life we needed no con- 
 cealments on that head, which was really a step gained. 
 
 The sun was about setting when we turned away each on his 
 own path. Irviug would have had a good space further to go than 
 I (as now occurs to me), perhaps fifteen or seventeen miles, and 
 would not be in Kent Street till towards midnight. But he feared 
 no amount of walking, enjoyed it rather, as did I in those young 
 years. I felt sad, but affectionate and good, in my clean, utterly 
 quiet little inn at Muirkirk, which, and my feelings in it, I still well 
 remember. An innocent little Glasgow youth (young bagman on 
 his first journey, I supposed) had talked awhile with me in the 
 otherwise solitary little sitting-room. At parting he shook hands, 
 and with something of sorrow in his tone said, "Good -night, I 
 shall not see you again." A unique experience of mine in inns. 
 
 I was off next morniug by four o'clock, Muirkirk, except possi- 
 bly its pillar of furnace smoke, all sleeping round me, concerning 
 which, I remembered in the silence something I had heard from my 
 father in regard to this famed iron village (famed long before, but 
 still rural, natural, not all in a roaring state, which, as I imagine, it 
 is now). This is my father's picture of an incident he had got to 
 know and never could forget. On the platform of one of the fur- 
 naces a solitary man (stoker, if they call him so) was industrious- 
 ly minding his business, now throwing in new fuel and ore, now 
 poking the white-hot molten mass that was already in. A poor old 
 maniac woman silently joined him and looked, whom also he was 
 used to and did not mind. But after a little, his back being towards 
 the furnace mouth, he heard a strange thump or cracking puft"; 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 91 
 
 and turning suddenly, the poor old maniac T\^oman was not there, 
 and on advancing to the furnace-edge he saw the figure of her red- 
 hot, semi-transparent, floating as ashes on the fearful element for 
 some moments ! This had printed itself on my father's brain ; 
 twice perhaps I had heard it from him, which was rare, nor will it 
 ever leave my brain either. 
 
 That day was full of mournful interest to me in the waste moors, 
 there in bonny Nithsdale (ray first sight of it) in the bright but 
 palish, almost pathetic sunshine and utter loneliness. At eight p.m. 
 I got well to Dumfries, the longest walk I ever made, fifty-four 
 miles in one day. 
 
 Irving's visits to Annandale, one or two every summer, while I 
 spent summers (for cheapness' sake and health's sake) in' solitude 
 at my father's there, were the sabbath times of the season to me ; 
 by far the beautifuUest days, or rather the only beautiful I had! 
 Unwearied kindness, all that tenderest anxious affection could do, 
 was always mine from my incomparable mother, from my dear 
 brothers, little clever active sisters, and from every one, brave father 
 in his tacit grim way not at all excepted. There was good talk 
 also, with mother at evening tea, often on theology (where I did 
 at length contrive, by judicious endeavor, to speak piously and 
 agreeably to one so pious, without unveracity on my part). Nay it 
 was a kind of interesting exercise to wind softly out of those anx- 
 ious affectionate cavils of her dear heart on such occasions, and get 
 real sympathy, real assent under borrowed forms. Oh, her patience 
 with me ! oh, her never-tiring love ! Blessed be " poverty " which 
 was never indigence in any form, and which has made all that ten- 
 fold more dear and sacred to me ! With my two eldest brothers 
 also, Alick and John, who were full of ingenuous curiosity, and had 
 (especially John) abundant intellect, there was nice talking as we 
 roamed about the fields in gloaming time after their work was done ; 
 and I recollect noticing (though probably it happened various 
 times) that little Jean (" Craw" as we called her, she alone of us 
 not being blond but blackhaired), one of the cleverest children I 
 ever saw (then possibly about six or seven), had joined us for her 
 private behoof, and was assiduously trotting at my knee, cheek, 
 eyes, and ear assiduously turned up to me! Good little soul! I 
 thought it and think it very pretty of her. She alone of them had 
 nothing to do with milking ; I suppose her charge would probably 
 be ducks or poultry, all safe to bed now, and was turning her bit of 
 leisure to this account instead of another. She was hardly longer 
 than my leg by the whole head and neck. There was a younger 
 
92 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 sister (Jenny) who is now in Canada, of far inferior speculative in- 
 tellect to Jean, but who has proved to have (we used to think) 
 superior housekeeping faculties to hers. The same may be said of 
 Mary, the next elder to Jean. Both these, especially Jenny, got 
 husbands, aud have dexterously and loyally made the most of them 
 and their families and households. Henning, of Hamilton, Canada 
 West ; Austin, of the Gill, Annan, are now the names of these two. 
 Jean is Mrs. Aitken, of Durafiies, still a clever, speculative, ardent, 
 affectionate and discerning woman, but much zerspUttert by the cares 
 of life; zerspUttert ; steadily denied acumination or definite consist- 
 ency and direction to a point ; a " tragedy " often repeated in this 
 poor world, the more the pity for the world too ! 
 
 All this was something, but in all tbis I gave more than I got, 
 and it left a sense of isolation, of sadness ; as the rest of my impris- 
 oned life all with emphasis did. I kept daily studious, reading 
 diligently what few books I could get, learning what was possible, 
 German, etc. Sometimes Dr. Brewster turned me to account (on 
 most frugal terms always) in wretched little translations, compi- 
 lations, which were very welcome too, though never other than 
 dreary. Life was all dreary, "eerie" (Scotticfe), tinted with the 
 hues of imprisonment and impossibility ; hope practically not there, 
 only obstinacy, and a grim steadfastness to strive without hope as 
 with. To all which Irviug's advent was the pleasant (temporary) 
 contradiction and reversal, like sunrising to night, or impenetrable 
 fog, and its spectralities ! The time of his coming, the how and 
 when of his movements aud possibilities, were always known to me 
 beforehand. On the set day I started forth better dressed than 
 usual, strode along for Annan which lay pleasantly in sight all the 
 way (seven miles or more from Mainhill). In the woods of Mount 
 Annan I would probably meet Irving strolling towards me ; and 
 then what a talk for the three miles down that bonny river's bank, 
 no sound but our own voices amid the lullaby of waters and the 
 twittering of birds ! "We were sure to have several such walks, 
 whether the first day or not, and I remember none so well as some 
 (chiefly one which is not otherwise of moment) in that fine locality. 
 
 I generally stayed at least one night, on several occasions two or 
 even more, and I remember no visits with as pure and calm a pleas- 
 ure. Annan was then at its culminating point, a fine, bright, self- 
 confident little town (gone now to dimness, to decay, and almost 
 grass on its streets by railway transit). Bits of travelling nota- 
 bilities were sometimes to be found alighted there. Edinburgh 
 people, Liverpool people, with whom it was interesting for the re- 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 93 
 
 cluse party to " measure minds " for a little, and be on j^our best 
 behavior, both as to matter and to manner. Musical Thomson 
 (memorable, more so than venerable, as the publisher of Bums's 
 songs), him I saw one evening sitting in the reading-room, a clean- 
 brushed, commonplace old gentleman in scratch wig, whom we 
 spoke a few words to and took a good look of. Two young Liver- 
 pool brothers, Nelson their name, scholars just out of Oxford, were 
 on visit one time in the Irving circle, specially at Provost Dixon's, 
 Irving's brother-in-law's. These were very interesting to me night 
 after night ; handsome, intelligent, polite young men, and the first 
 of their species I had seen. Dixon's on other occasions was usual- 
 ly my lodging, and Irving's along with me, but would not be on 
 this (had I the least rem-embrance on that head), except that I seem 
 to have been always beautifully well lodged, and that Mrs. Dixon, 
 Irving's eldest sister, and very like him minus the bad eye, and plus 
 a fine dimple on the bright cheek, was always beneficent and fine to 
 me. Those Nelsons I never saw again, but have heard once in late 
 years that they never did anything, but continued ornamentally 
 lounging with Liverpool as head - quarters ; which seemed to be 
 something like the prophecy one might have gathered from those 
 young aspects in the Annandale visit, had one been intent to scan 
 them. A faded Irish dandy once picked up by us is also present ; 
 one fine clear morning Irving and I found this figure lounging 
 about languidly on the streets. Irving made up to him, invited 
 him home to breakfast, and home he politely and languidly went 
 with us ; " bound for some cattle fair," he told us, Norwich perhaps, 
 and waiting for some coach ; a parboiled, insipid " agricultural 
 dandy" or old fogie, of Hibernian type; wore a superfine light 
 green frock, snow-white corduroys ; age about fifty, face colorless, 
 crow-footed, feebly conceited ; proved to have nothing in him, but 
 especially nothing lad, and we had been human to him. Break- 
 fast this morning, I remember, was at Mrs. Ferguson's (Irving's 
 third sister; there were four in all, and there had been three broth- 
 ers, but were now only two, the youngest and the eldest of the set). 
 Mrs. F.'s breakfast — tea — was praised by the Hibernian pilgrim, and 
 well deserved it. 
 
 Irving was generally happy in those little Annandale "sunny 
 islets" of his year; happier perhaps than ever elsewhere. All was 
 quietly flourishing in this his natal element ; father's house neat 
 and contented ; ditto, ditto, or perhaps blooming out a little far- 
 ther, those of his daughters, all nestled close to it in place withal ; 
 a very prettily thriving group of things and objects in their lim- 
 
94 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 ited, in their safe seclusion ; and Irving was silently but visibly 
 in the hearts of all the flower and crowning jewel of it. He was 
 quiet, cheerful, genial. Soul unruffled and clear as a mirror, hon- 
 estly loving and loved all round. His time too was so short, every 
 moment valuable. Alas, and in so few years after, ruin's plough- 
 share had run through it all, and it was prophesying to you, " Be- 
 hold, in a little while the last trace of me will not be here, and I 
 shall have vanished tragically, and fled into oblivion and darkness 
 like a bright dream." As is long since mournfully the fact, when 
 one passes, pilgrim-like, those old houses still standing there, which 
 I have once or twice done. 
 
 Our dialogues did not turn very much or long on personal top- 
 ics, but wandered wide over the world and its ways — new men of 
 the travelling conspicuous sort whom he had seen in Glasgow, new 
 books sometimes, my scope being short in that respect ; all manner 
 of interesting objects and discoursings ; but to me the personal, 
 when they did come in course, as they were sure to do now and 
 then in fit proportion, were naturally the gratefullest of all. Ir- 
 ving's voice was to me one of blessedness and new hope. He 
 would not hear of my gloomy prognostications ; all nonsense that 
 I never should get out of these obstructions and impossibilities ; 
 the real impossibility was that such a talent, etc., should not cut it- 
 self clear one day. He was very generous to everybody's " talent," 
 especially to mine ; which to myself was balefully dubious, nothing 
 but bare scaftbld poles, weather-beaten corner-pieces of perhaps a 
 " potential talent," even visible to me. His predictions about what 
 I was to be flew into the completely incredible ; and however wel- 
 come, I could only rank them as devout imaginations and quiz 
 them away. '^ You will see now," he would say, " one day we two 
 will shake hands across the brook, you as first in literature, I as 
 first in divinity, and people will say, ' Both these fellows are from 
 Annandale. Where is Annandale V " This I have heard him say 
 more than once, always in a laughing way, and with self-mockery 
 enough to save it from being barrenly vain. He was very san- 
 guine, I much the reverse ; and had his consciousness of power, 
 and his generous ambitions and forecastings. Never ungenerous, 
 never ignoble ; only an enemy could have called him vain, but per- 
 haps an enemy could or at least would, and occasionally did. His 
 pleasure in being loved by others was very great, and this if you 
 looked well was manifest in him when the case offered ; never 
 more or worse than this in any case, and this too he had well in 
 check at all times. If this was vanity, then he might by some bo 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 95 
 
 called a little vain, if not not. To trample on the smallest mortal 
 or be tyrannous even towards the basest of caitiffs was never at 
 any moment Irving's turn. No man that I have known had a sun- 
 nier tyjDe of character, or so little of hatred towards any man or 
 thing. Ou the whole, less of rage in him than I ever saw combined 
 with such a fund of courage and conviction. Noble Irving! he 
 was the faithful elder brother of my life in those years ; generous, 
 wise, beneficent, all his dealings and discoursings with me were. 
 Well may I recollect as blessed things in my existence those An- 
 nan and other visits, and feel that beyond all other men he was 
 helpful to me when I most needed help. 
 
 Irving's position at Glasgow, I could dimly perceive, was not 
 without its embarrassments, its discouragements ; and evidently- 
 enough it was nothing like the ultimatum he was aiming at, in the 
 road to which I suppose he saw the obstructions rather multiplying 
 than decreasing or diminishing. Theological Scotland above aU 
 things is dubious and jealous of originality, and Irving's tendency 
 to take a road of his own was becoming daily more indisputable. 
 He must have been severely tried in the sieve had he continued in 
 Scotland. Whether that might not have brought him out clearer, 
 more piire and victorious in the end, must remain forever a ques- 
 tion. Much suffering and contradiction it would have cost him, 
 mean enough for most part, and possiMy with loss of patience, with 
 mutiny, etc., for ultimate result, but one may now regret that the 
 experiment was never to be made. 
 
 Of course the invitation to London was infinitely welcome to 
 him, summiug up, as it were, all of good that had been in Glasgow 
 (for it was the rumors and reports from Glasgow people that had 
 awakened Hatton Garden to his worth), and promising to shoot 
 him aloft over all that had been obstructive there into wider new 
 elements. The negotiations and correspondings had all passed at 
 a distance from me, but I recollect well our final practical parting 
 on that occasion. A dim night, November or December, between 
 nine and ten, in the coffee-room of the Black Bull Hotel. He was to 
 start by early coach to-morrow. Glad I was bound to be, and in 
 a sense was, but very sad I could not help being. He himself 
 looked hopeful, but was agitated with anxieties too, doubtless with 
 regrets as well ; more clouded with agitation than I had ever seen 
 the fine habitual solar light of him before. I was the last friend 
 he had to take farewell of. He showed me old Sir Harry Moncrieff's 
 testimonial ; a Reverend Presbyterian Scotch Baronet of venerable 
 quality (the last of his kind), whom I knew well by sight, and by 
 
96 KEMINISCENCES. 
 
 bis universal cliaracter for integrity, honest orthodoxy, shrewdness, 
 and veracity. Sir Harry testified with brevity, in stiff, firm, ancient 
 hand, several important things on Irviug's behalf; and ended by 
 saying, "All this is my true opinion, and meant to be understood 
 as it is written." At which we had our bit of approving laugh, 
 and thanks to Sir Harry. Irving did not laugh that night ; laugh- 
 ter was not the mood of either of us. I gave him as road-compan- 
 ion a bundle of the best cigars (gift of Graham to me) I almost ever 
 had. He had no practice of smoking, but a little by a time, and 
 agreed that on the coach roof, where he was to ride night and day, 
 a cigar now and then might be tried with advantage. Months af- 
 terwards I learnt he had begun by losing every cigar of them ; left 
 the whole bundle lying on the seat in the stall of the coffee-room ; 
 this cigar gift being probably our last transaction there. We said 
 farewell; and I had in some sense, according to my worst anticipa- 
 tions, lost my friend's society (not my friend himself ever) from that 
 time. 
 
 For a long while I saw nothing of Irving after this. Heard in 
 the way of public rumors or more specific report, chiefly from Gra- 
 ham and Hope of Glasgow, how grandly acceptable he had been at 
 Hatton Garden, and what negotiating, deliberating, and contriving 
 had ensued in respect of the impediments there ("preacher igno- 
 rant of Gaelic ; our fundamental law requires him to preach half 
 the Sunday in that language," etc.), and how at length all these 
 were got over or tumbled aside, and the matter settled into adjust- 
 ment. " Irving, our preacher, talis qiialis,^^ to the huge contentment 
 of his congregation and all onlookers, of which latter were already 
 in London a select class ; the chief religious people getting to be 
 aware that an altogether uncommon man had arrived here to speak 
 to them. 
 
 On all these points, and generally on all his experiences in Lon- 
 don, glad enough should I have been to hear from him abundantly, 
 but he wrote nothing on such points, nor in fiict had I expected 
 anything ; and the truth was, which did a little disappoint me at 
 the time, our regular correspondence had here suddenly come to 
 finis ! I was not angry, how could I be ? I made no solicitation 
 or remonstrance, nor was any poor pride kindled (I think), except 
 strictly, and this in silence, so far as was proper for self-defence ; 
 but I was always sorry more or less, and regretted it as a great 
 loss I had by ill-luck undergone. Taken from me by ill-luck ! but 
 then had it not been given me by good ditto ? Peace, and be si- 
 lent! In the first, month Irving, I doubt not, had intended much 
 
EDWAED lEVING. 97 
 
 correspondence with me, were the hurly-burly done ; but no sooner 
 was it so in some measure, than his flaming popularity had begun, 
 spreading, mounting without limit, and instead of business hurly- 
 burly there was whirlwind of conflagration. 
 
 Noble, good soul! In his last weeks of life, looking back from 
 that grim shore upon the safe sunny isles and smiling possibilities 
 now forever far behind, he said to Henry Drummond, " I should 
 have kept Thomas Carlyle closer to me; his counsel, blame, or 
 praise, was always faithful, and few have such eyes." These 
 words, the first part of them ipsissima ver&«, I know to have been 
 verily his. Must not the most blazing indignation (had the least 
 vestige of such been ever in me for one moment) have died almost 
 into tears at the sound of them? Perfect absolution there had 
 long been without inquiring after penitence. My ever-generous, 
 loving, and noble Irving! . . . 
 
 If in a gloomy moment I had fancied that my frieud was lost to 
 me because no letters came from him, I had shining proof to the 
 contrary very soon. It was in these first months of Hatton Gar- 
 den and its imbroglio of afifairs, that he did a most signal benefit 
 to me; got me appointed tutor and intellectual guide and guar- 
 dian to the young Charles BuUer, and his boy-brother, now Sir 
 Arthur, and an elderly ex- Indian of mark. The case had its comic 
 points too, seriously important as it was to me for one. Its pleas- 
 ant real history is briefly this: Irving's preaching had attracted 
 Mrs. Strachey, wife of a well-known Indian official of Somerset- 
 shire kindred, then an "examiner" in the India House, and a man 
 of real worth, far diverse as his worth and ways were from those 
 of his beautiful, enthusiastic, and still youngish wife. A bright 
 creature she, given wholly (though there lay silent in her a great 
 deal of fine childlike mirth and of innocent grace and gift) to 
 things sacred and serious, emphatically what the Germans call a 
 schd7ie Seele. She had brought Irving into her circle, found him 
 good and glorious there, almost more than in the pulpit itself; had 
 been speaking of him to her elder sister, Mrs. BuUer (a Calcutta 
 fine lady, and princess of the kind worshipped there, a once very 
 beautiful, still very witty, graceful, airy, and ingenuously intelli- 
 gent woman of the gossamer kind), and had naturally winded up 
 with " Come and dine with us; come and see this uncommon man." 
 Mrs. Buller came, saw (I dare say with much suppressed quizzing 
 and wonder) the uncommon man ; took to him. She also in her 
 way recognized, as did her husband too, the robust, practical com- 
 mon-sense that was in him ; and after a few meetings began speak- 
 
 5 
 
98 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 ing of a domestic intricacy there was with a clever but too mer- 
 curial and unmanageable eldest son of hers, whom they knew not 
 what to do with. 
 
 Irving took sight and survey of this dangerous eldest lad, Charles 
 Buller, junior, namely — age then about fifteen, honorably done with 
 HarroAV some weeks or months ago, still too young for college on 
 his own footing, and very difficult to dispose of. Irving perceived 
 that though perfectly accomplished in what Harrow could give 
 him, this hungry and highly ingenious youth had fed hitherto on 
 Latin and Greek husks, totally unsatisfying to his huge appetite ; 
 that being a young fellow of the keenest sense for everything, from 
 the sublime to the ridiculous, and full of airy ingenuity and fun, he 
 was in the habit in quiet evenings at home of starting theses with 
 his mother in favor of Pierce Egan and '^ Boxiana," as if the annals 
 of English boxing ^, ere more nutritive to an existing man than 
 those of the Peloponnesian war, etc. Against all which, etc., as his 
 mother vehemently argued, Charles would stand on the defensive, 
 with such swiftness and ingenuity of fence, that frequently the 
 matter kindled between them ', and both being of hot though most 
 placable temper, one or both grew loud ; and the old gentleman, 
 Charles Buller, senior, who was very deaf, striking blindly in at this 
 point would embroil the whole matter into a very bad condition ! 
 Irving's recipe after some consideration was, " Send this gifted, un- 
 guided youth to Edinburgh College. I know a young man there 
 who could lead him into richer spiritual pastures and take effec- 
 tive charge of him." Buller thereupon was eent, and his brother 
 Arthur with him ; boarded with a good old Dr. Fleming (in George 
 Square), then a clergyman of mark : and I (on a salary of £200 a 
 year) duly took charge. This was a most important thing to me 
 in the economies and practical departments of my life, and I owe 
 it wholly to Irving. On this point I always should remember he 
 did "write" copiously enough to Dr. Fleming and other parties, 
 and stood up in a gallant and grandiloquent way for every claim 
 and right of his " young literary friend," who had nothing to do 
 but wait silent while everything was being adjusted completely to 
 his wish or beyond it. 
 
 From the first I found my Charles a most manageable, intelligent, 
 cheery, and altogether welcome and intelligent phenomenon ; quite 
 a bit of sunshine in my dreary Edinburgh element. I was in wait- 
 ing for his brother and him when they landed at Fleming's. We 
 set iustantly out on a walk, round by the foot of Salisbury Crags, 
 up from Holyrood, by the Castle and Law Courts, home again to 
 
EDWARD IRVING. gg 
 
 George Square ; and really I recollect few more pleasant walks in 
 my life ! So all-intelligent, seizing everything you said to him with 
 such a recognition ; so loyal - hearted, chivalrous, guileless, so de- 
 lighted (evidently) with me, as I was with him. Arthur, two years 
 younger, kept mainly silent, being slightly deaf too ; hut I could 
 perceive that he also was a fine little fellow, honest, intelligent, 
 and kind, and that apparently I had been much in luck in this 
 didactic adventure, which proved abundantly the fact. The tAvo 
 youths took to me with unhesitating liking, and I to them ; and 
 we never had anything of quarrel or even of weariness and dreari- 
 ness between us ; such " teaching " as I never did in any sphere 
 before or since ! Charles, by his qualities, his ingenuous curiosi- 
 ties, his brilliancy of faculty and character, was actually an enter- 
 tainment to me rather than a labor. If we walked together, which 
 I remember sometimes happening, he was the best company I could 
 find in Edinburgh. I had entered him of Dunbar's, in third Greek 
 class at college. In Greek and Latin, in the former in every re- 
 spect, he was far my superior ; and I had to prepare my lessons by 
 way of keeping him to his work at Dunbar's. Keeping him to 
 work was my one difficulty, if there was one, and my essential func- 
 tion. I tried to guide him into reading, into solid inquiry and re- 
 flection. He got some mathematics from me, aud might have had 
 more. He got in brief what expansion into such wider fields of 
 intellect and more manful modes of thinking and working as my 
 poor possibilities could yield him; and was always generously 
 grateful to me afterwards. Friends of mine in a fine frank way, 
 beyond what I could be thought to merit, he, Arthur, aud all the 
 family continued till death parted us. 
 
 This of the Bullers was the product for me of Irviug's first months 
 in London, begun and got under way in the spring aud summer of 
 1822, which followed our winter parting in the Black Bull Inn. I 
 was already getting my head a little up ; translating " Legendre's 
 Geometry " for Brewster ; my outlook somewhat cheerfuller. I still 
 remember a happy forenoon (Sunday, I fear) in which I did a Fifth 
 Book (or complete "doctrine of proportion") for that work, com- 
 plete really and lucid, and yet one of the briefest ever known. It 
 was begun and done that forenoon, and I have (except correcting 
 the press next week) never seen it since ; but still feel as if it were 
 right enough and felicitous in its kind ! I got only £50 for my en- 
 tire trouble in that " Legendre," and had already ceased to be in 
 the least proud of mathematical prowess ; but it was an honest job 
 of work honestly done, though perhaps for bread and water wages, 
 
100 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 such au improvement upon wages producing (in Jean Paul's phrase) 
 only water without the bread ! Towards autumn the BuUer family 
 followed to Edinburgh, Mr. and Mrs. B. with a third very small son, 
 Reginald, who was a curious, gesticulating, pen-drawing, etc., little 
 creature, not to be under my charge, but who generally dined with 
 me at luncheon time, and who afterwards turned out a lazy, hebe- 
 tated fellow, and is now parson of Troston, a fat living in Suffolk. 
 These English or Anglo-Indian gentlefolks were all a new species 
 to me, sufficiently exotic in aspect ; but we recognized each other's 
 quality more and more, and did very well together. They had a 
 house in India Street, saw a great deal of company (of the ex-In- 
 dian accidental English gentlemau, and native or touring lion genus 
 for which Mrs. B. had a lively appetite). I still lodged in my old 
 half- rural rooms, 3 Moray Place, Pilrig Street; attended my two 
 pupils during the day hours (lunching with "Regie" by way of 
 dinner), and rather seldom, yet to my own taste amply often enough, 
 was of the '•' state dinners ;" but walked home to my books and to 
 my brother John, who was now lodging with me and attending 
 college. Except for dyspepsia I could have been extremely con- 
 tent, but that did dismally forbid me now and afterwards ! Irving 
 and other friends always treated the "ill-health" item as a light 
 matter which would soon vanish from the account ; but I had a pre- 
 sentiment that it would stay there, and be the Old Man of the Sea 
 to me through life, as it has too tragically done, and will do to the 
 end. Woe on it, and not for my own poor sake alone ; and yet 
 perhaps a benefit has been in it, priceless though hideously painful ! 
 Of Irving in these two years I recollect almost nothing personal, 
 though all round I heard a great deal of him ; and he must have 
 been in my company at least once prior to the advent of the elder 
 Bullers, and been giving me counsel and light on the matter ; for I 
 recollect his telling me of Mrs. Buller (having no doubt portrayed 
 Mr. Buller to me in acceptable aud clearly intelligible lineaments) 
 that she — she too, was a worthy, honorable, and quick-sighted lady, 
 but riot without fine-ladyisms, crotchets, caprices — "somewhat like 
 Mrs. Welsh,* you can fancy, but good too, like her." Ah me ! this I 
 perfectly remember, this and nothing more, of those Irving inter- 
 courses; and it is a memento to me of a most important province 
 in my poor world at that time! I was in constant correspondence 
 (weekly or oftener sending books, etc., etc.) with Haddington, and 
 heard often of Irving, and of things far more interesting to me from 
 
 , • Mrs. Welsb) of Haddington, mother of Jane Welsh, afterwards Mrs. Carlyle. 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 101 
 
 that quarter. Gone silent, closed forever — so sad, so strange it all 
 is now! Irving, I think, had paid a visit there, and had certainly 
 sent letters ; by the above token I too must have seen him at least 
 once. All this was in his first London year, or half -j^ear, some 
 months before his "popularity" had yet taken fire, and made him 
 for a time the property of all the world rather than of his friends. 
 
 The news of this latter event, which came in vague, vast, fitful, 
 and decidedly /«%moMS forms, was not quite welcome to any of us, 
 perhaps in secret not welcome at all. People have their envies, 
 their pitiful self-comparisons, and feel obliged sometimes to profess 
 from the teeth outwards more "joy" than they really have; not 
 an agreeable duty or quasi-duty laid on one. For myself I can say 
 that there was first something of real joy; ("success to the Avorthy 
 of success;") second, something, probably not yet much, of honest 
 question for his sake, " Can he guide it in that huge element, as 
 e. g. Chalmers has done in this smaller one ?" and third, a noticeable 
 quantity of Quid tui interest? What business hast thou with it, 
 poor, suffering, handcuffed wretch ? To me these great doings in 
 Hatton Garden came only on wings of rumor, the exact nature of 
 them uncertain. To me for many months back Irving had fallen 
 totally silent, and this seemed a seal to its being a permanent si- 
 lence. I had been growing steadily worse in health too, and was 
 in habitual wretchedness, ready to say, " Well, whoever is happy 
 and gaining victory, thou art and art like to be very miserable, 
 and to gain none at all." These were, so far as I can now read, hon- 
 estly my feelings on the matter. My love to Irving, now that I 
 look at it across those temporary vapors, had not abated, never did 
 abate : but he seemed for the present flown (or mounted if that was 
 it) far away from me, and I could only say to myself, " Well, well 
 then, so it must be." 
 
 One heard too, often enough, that in Irving there was visible a 
 certain joy ancy and frankness of triumph ; that he took things on 
 the high key and nothing doubting ; and foolish stories circulated 
 about his lofty sayings, sublimities of manner, and the like : some- 
 thing of which I could believe (and yet kindly interpret too); all 
 which might have been, though it scarcely was, some consolation 
 for our present silence towards one another. For what could I 
 have said in the circumstances that would have been on both sides 
 agreeable and profitable ? 
 
 It was not till late in autumn 1823, nearly two years after our 
 parting in the Black Bull Inn, that I fairly, and to a still memora- 
 ble measure, saw Irving again. He was on his marriage jaunt, Miss 
 
102 EEMINISCENCES. 
 
 Martiu of Kirkcaldy now become Ms life-partner ; off on a tour to 
 the Highlands ; and the generous soul had determined to pass near 
 Kinnaird (right hank of Tay, a mile below the junction of Tummel 
 and Tay), where I then was with the Bullers, and pick me up to ac- 
 company as far as I would. I forget where or how our meeting 
 was (at Dunkeld probably). I seem to have lodged with them two 
 nights in successive inns, and certainly parted from them at Tay- 
 mouth, Sunday afternoon, where my horse by some means must have 
 been waiting for me. I remember baiting him* at Aberfeldy, and 
 to have sate in a kindly and polite yet very huggermugger cottage, 
 among good peasant kirk-people, refreshing themselves, returning 
 home from sermon ; sate for perhaps some two hours, till poor Dolph 
 got rested and refected like his fellow-creatures there. I even re- 
 member something like a fraction of scrag of mutton and potatoes 
 eaten by myself — in strange contrast, had I thought of that, to 
 Irving's nearly simultaneous dinner which would be with my lord 
 at Taymouth Castle. After Aberfeldy cottage the curtain falls. 
 
 Irving, on this his wedding-jaunt, seemed superlatively happy, 
 as was natural to the occasion, or more than natural, as if at the 
 top of Fortune's wheel, and in a sense (a generous sense, it must be 
 owned, and not a tyrannous in any measure) striking the stars with 
 his sublime head. Mrs. I. was demure and quiet, though doubtless 
 not less happy at heart, really comely in her behavior. In the 
 least beautiful she never could be ; but Irving had loyally taken 
 her as the consummate flower of all his victory in the world — poor 
 good tragic woman — better probably than the fortune she had af- 
 ter all. 
 
 My friend was kind to me as possible, and bore with my gloomy 
 humors (for I was ill and miserable to a degree), nay perhaps as 
 foil to the radiancy of his own sunshine he almost enjoyed them. 
 I remember jovial bursts of laughter from him at my surly sarcas- 
 tic and dyspeptic utterances. '' Doesn't this subdue you, Carlyle ?" 
 said he, somewhat solemnly ; we were all three standing at the 
 Falls of Aberfeldy (amid the "Birks" of ditto, and memories of 
 song) silent in the October dusk, perhaps with moon rising — our 
 ten miles to Tiiymouth still ahead — '' Doesn't this subdue you ?" 
 " Subdue me ? I should hope not. I have quite other things to 
 front with defiance in this world than a gush of bog-water tum- 
 bling over crags as here !" which j)roduced a joyous and really kind 
 
 • Excellent cob or pony Dolph, i. e. Bardolph, bought for me at Lilliesleaf fair 
 by my dear brother Alick, and which I had ridden into the Highlands for health. 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 103 
 
 laugh from him as sole answer. He had much to tell me of Lon- 
 don, of its fine literary possibilities for a man, of its literary stars, 
 whom he had seen or knew of, Coleridge in particular, who was in 
 the former category, a marvellous sage and man ; Hazlitt, who was 
 in the latter, a fine talent too, but tending towards scamphood; 
 was at the Fonthill Abbey sale the other week, " hired to attend as a 
 wMte bonnet there," said he, with a laugh. White bonnet intensely 
 vernacular, is the Annandale name for a false bidder merely ap- 
 pointed to raise prices, works so for his five shillings at some poor 
 little Annandale roup,* of standing crop or hypothecate cottage 
 furniture, and the contrast and yet kinship between these little 
 things and the Fonthill great one was ludicrous enough. He 
 would not hear of ill-health being any hindrance to me ; he had 
 himself no experience in that sad province. All seemed possible 
 to him — all was joyful and running upon wheels. He had suffered 
 much angry criticism in his late triumphs (on his " Orations " quite 
 lately), but seemed to accept it all with jocund mockery, as some- 
 thing harmless and beneath him. 
 
 Wilson in "Blackwood" had been very scornful and done his 
 bitterly enough disobliging best. Nevertheless Irving now advis- 
 ing with me about some detail of our motions, or of my own, and 
 finding I still demurred to it, said with true radiancy of look, 
 " Come now, you know I am the judicious Soolcer," which was con- 
 sidered one of Wilson's cruellest hits in that Blackwood article. 
 To myself I remember his answering, in return evidently for some 
 criticism of my own on the orations which was not so laudatory as 
 required, but of which I recollect nothing farther, " Well, Carlyle, 
 I am glad to hear you say all that ; it gives me the opinion of an- 
 other mind on the thing ;" which, at least, heyond any doubt it did. 
 He was in high sunny humor, good Irving. There was no trace of 
 anger left in him ; he was jovial, riant, jocose rather than serious, 
 throughout, which was a new phasis to me. And furthermore, in 
 the serious vein itself there was oftenest something of falsetto no- 
 ticeable (as in that of the waterfall "subduing" one), generally 
 speaking a new height of self-consciousness not yet sure of the 
 manner and carriage that was suitablest for it. He affected to feel 
 his popularity too great and burdensome ; spoke much about a Mrs. 
 Basil Montague ; elderly, sage, lofty, whom we got to know after- 
 wards, and to call by his name for her, " the noble lady;" who had 
 saved him greatly from the dashing floods of that tumultuous and 
 
 • Kuf, or vocal sale. 
 
104 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 unstable element, hidden him away from it once and again ; done 
 kind ministrations, spread sofas for him, and taught him " to rest." 
 The last thing I recollect of him was on our coming out from Tay- 
 mouth Kirk (kirk, congregation, minister, utterly erased from me), 
 how in coming down the hroadish little street he pulled off his big 
 broad hat, and walked, looking mostly to the sky, with his fleece of 
 copious coal-black hair flowing in the wind, and in some spittings 
 of rain that were beginning ; how thereupon in a minute or two a 
 livery servaut ran up, " Please, sir, aren't you the Rev. Edward Ir- 
 ving ?" " Yes." " Then my Lord Breadalbane begs you to stop for 
 him one moment." Whereupon exit ^MMA;ey. Irving turning to us 
 with what look of sorrow he could, and " Again found out !" upon 
 which the old lord came up,* and civilly invited him to dinner. 
 Him and party, I suppose; but to me there was no temptation, or 
 on those terms less than none. So I had Bardolph saddled and 
 rode for Aberfeldy as above said ; home, sunk in manifold murky 
 reflections now lost to me ; and of which only the fewest and friend- 
 liest were comfortably fit for uttering to the Bullers next day. I 
 saw no more of Irving for this time. But he had been at Hadding- 
 ton, too, was perhaps again corresponding a little there, and I heard 
 occasionally of him in the beautifil bright and kindly quizzing style 
 that was natural there. 
 
 I was myself writing "Schiller" in those months; a task Irving 
 had encouraged me in and jjrepared the way for, in the "London 
 Magazine." Three successive parts there were, I know not how far 
 advanced, at this period ; knew only that I was nightly working at 
 the thing in a serious, sad and totally solitary way. My two rooms 
 were in the old "Mansion" of Kinnaird, some three or four hundred 
 yards from the new, and on a lower level, overshadowed with wood. 
 Thither I always retired directly after tea, and for most part had 
 the edifice all to myself; good candles, good wood fire, place dry 
 enough, tolerably clean, and such silence and total absence of com- 
 pany, good or bad, as I never experienced before or since. I remem- 
 ber still the grand sough of those woods ; or, perhaps, in the stillest 
 times, the distant ripple of Tay. Nothing else to converse with but 
 this and my own thoughts, which never for a moment pretended to 
 be joyful, and were sometimes pathetically sad. I was in the mis- 
 erablest dyspeptic health, uncertain whether I ought not to quit 
 on that account, and at times almost resolving to do it ; driven far 
 away from all my loved ones. My poor " Schiller," nothing consid- 
 
 * Father of the last, or later, Free Kirk one, whom I have sometimes seen. 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 105 
 
 erable of a work even to my own judgment, liad to be steadily per- 
 sisted in as the only protection and resource in this inarticulate huge 
 " wilderness," actual and symbolical. My editor, I think, was com- 
 plimentary; but I knew better. The "Times" newspaper once 
 brought me, without commentary at all, an "eloquent" passage re- 
 printed (about the tragedy of noble literary life), which I remember 
 to have read with more pleasure in this utter isolation, and as the 
 "first" public nod of approval I had ever had, than any criticism 
 or laudation that has ever come to me since. For about two hours 
 it had lighted in the desolation of my inner man a strange little 
 glow of illumination ; but here too, on reflection, I " knew better," 
 and the winter afternoon was not over when I saw clearly how very 
 small this conquest was, and things were in their statu quo again. 
 
 " Schiller " done, I began " Wilhelm Meister," a task I liked per- 
 haps rather better, too scanty as my knowledge of the element, and 
 even of the language, still was. Two years before I had at length, 
 after some repulsions, got into the heart of "Wilhelm Meister," and 
 eagerly read it through ; my sally out, after finishing, along the va- 
 cant streets of Edinburgh, a windless, scotch-misty Saturday night, 
 is still vivid to me. " Grand, surely, harmoniously built together, 
 far seeing, wise and true. When, for many years, or almost in my 
 whole life before, have I read such a book ?" Which I was now, 
 really in part as a kind of duty, conscientiously translating for my 
 countrymen, if they would read it — as a select few of them have 
 ever since kept doing. 
 
 I finished it the next spring, not at Kinnaird but at Mainhill. A 
 month or two there with my best of nurses and of hostesses — my 
 mother ; blessed voiceless or low -voiced time, still sweet to me ; 
 with London now silently ahead, and the Bullers there, or to be 
 there. Of Kinnaird life they had now had enough, and of my mis- 
 erable health far more than enough some time before ! But that is 
 not my subject here. I had ridden to Edinburgh, there to consult 
 a doctor, having at last reduced my complexities to a single ques- 
 tion : " Is this disease curable by medicine, or is it chronic, incurable 
 except by regimen, if even so ?" This question I earnestly put ; got 
 response, " It is all tobacco, sir ,• give up tobacco." Gave it instant- 
 ly and strictly up. Found, after long months, that I might as well 
 have ridden sixty miles in the opposite direction, and poured my 
 sorrows into the long hairy ear of the first jackass I came upon, as 
 into this select medical man's, whose name I will not mention. 
 
 After these still months at Mainhill my printing at Edinburgh 
 was all finished, and I went thither with my preface in my pocket; 
 
IQQ REMINISCENCES. 
 
 finished that aud the rest of the "Mcister" business (£180 of pay- 
 ment the choicest part of it !) rapidly off"; made a visit to Hadding- 
 ton ; what a retrospect to me, now encircled by the silences aud 
 the eternities; most beautiful, most sad! I remember the "gimp 
 bonnet" she wore, and her anxious silent thoughts, aud my own; 
 mutually legible, both of them, in part ; my own little darling now 
 at rest, and fur away ! — which was the last thing in Scotland. Of 
 the Leith smack, every figure and event in which is curiously pres- 
 ent, though so unimportant, I will say nothing ; only that we enter- 
 ed London River on a beautiful June morning ; scene very impres- 
 sive to me, and still very vivid in me ; and that, soon after mid-day, 
 I landed safe in Irviug's, as appointed. 
 
 Irving lived in Myddelton Terrace, hodie Myddelton Square, Is- 
 lington, No. 4. It was a new place ; houses bright and smart, but 
 inwardly bad, as usual. Only one side of the now square was built 
 — ^the western side — which has its back towards Battle Bridge re- 
 gion. Irviug's house w as fourth from the northern end of that, 
 which, of course, had its left hand on the New Road. The place was 
 airy^not uncheerful. Our chief prospect from the front was a good 
 space of green ground, aud in it, on the hither edge of it, the big 
 open reservoir of Myddelton's " New River," now above two centu- 
 ries old for that matter, but recently made new again, and all cased 
 in tight masonry ; on the spacious expanse of smooth flags surround- 
 ing which it was pleasant on fine mornings to take an early prome- 
 nade, with the free sky overhead, aud the New Road, with its lively 
 traffic aud vehiculation, seven or eight good yards below our level. 
 I remember several pretty strolls here, ourselves two, while break- 
 fast was getting ready close by ; and the esplanade, a high littlo 
 island, lifted free out of the noises and jostlings, was all our own. 
 
 Irving had received me with the old true friendliness ; wife and 
 household eager to imitate him therein. I seem to have stayed a 
 good two or three weeks with them at that time. BuUer arrange- 
 ments not yet ready ; nay, sometimes threatening to become uncer- 
 tain altogether ! and off and on during the next ten months I saw 
 a great deal of my old friend and his new affairs and posture. That 
 first afternoon, with its curious phenomena, is still very lively in 
 me. Basil Montague's eldest son,* Mr. Montague, junior, accidental 
 guest at our neat little early dinner, my first specimen of the Lon- 
 don dandy — broken dandy; very mild of manner, who went all to 
 
 • Noble lady's step-son. She was Basil's third wife, and had four kinds of chil- 
 dren at home— a most sad miscellany, as I afterwards found. 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 107 
 
 shivers, and died miserable soon after. This was novelty first. 
 Then, during or before his stay with us, dash of a brave carriage 
 driving up, and entry of a strangely-complexioned young lady, with 
 soft brown eyes and floods of bronze-red hair, really a pretty-look- 
 ing, smiling, and amiable, though most foreign bit of magnificence 
 and kindly splendor, whom they welcomed by the name of " dear 
 Kitty." Kitty Kirkpatrick, Charles Buller's cousin or half-cousin, 
 Mrs. Strachey's full cousin, with whom she lived ; her birth, as I 
 afterwards found, an Indian romance, mother a sublime Begum, 
 father a ditto English official, mutually adoring, wedding, living 
 withdrawn in their own private paradise, romance famous in the 
 East. A very singular " dear Kitty," who seemed bashful withal, 
 and soon went away, twitching off in the lobby, as I could notice 
 not without wonder, the loose label which was sticking to my 
 trunk or bag, still there as she tripped past, and carrying it off in 
 her pretty hand. With what imaginable object then, in heaven's 
 name ? To show it to Mrs. Strachey I afterwards guessed, to whom 
 privately poor I had been prophesied of in the most grandiloquent 
 terms. This might be called novelty second, if not first, and far 
 greatest. Then after dinner in the drawing-room, which was pret- 
 tily furnished, the romance of said furnishing, which had all been 
 done as if by beneficent fairies in some temporary absence of the 
 owners. " We had decided on not furnishing it," Irving told me, 
 " not till we had more money ready ; and on our return this was 
 how wo found it. The people here are of a nobleness you have 
 never before seen." ''And don't you yet guess at all who can have 
 done it ?" " H'm, perhaps we guess vaguely, but it is their secret, 
 and we should not break it against their will." It turned out to 
 have been Mrs. Strachey and dear Kitty, both of whom were rich 
 and open-handed, that had done this fine stroke of art magic, one 
 of the many munificences achieved by them in this new province. 
 Perhaps the " noble lady " had at first been suspected, but how in- 
 nocently she ! Not flush in that way at all, though notably so in 
 others ! The talk about these and other noble souls and new phe- 
 nomena, strange to me and half incredible in such interpretation, 
 left me wondering and confusedly guessing over the much that I 
 had heard and seen this day. 
 
 Irving's London element and mode of existence had its question- 
 able aspects- from the first ; and one could easily perceive, here as 
 elsewhere, that the ideal of fancy and the actual of fact were two 
 very different things. It was as the former that my friend, accord- 
 ing to old habit, strove to represent it to himself, and to make it he; 
 
108 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 and it was as the latter that it obstinately continued being ! There 
 were beautiful items in his present scene of life ; but a great ma- 
 jority which, under specious figure, were intrinsically poor, vulgar, 
 and importunate, and introduced largely into one's existence the 
 character of huggermugger, not of greatness or success in any real 
 sense. 
 
 He was inwardly, I could observe, nothing like so happy as in old 
 days; inwardly confused, anxious, dissatisfied; though as it were 
 denying it to himself, and striving, if not to talk big, which he 
 hardly ever did, to thinJc big upon all this. We had many strolls 
 together, no doubt much dialogue, but it has nearly all gone from 
 me ; probably not so worthy of remembrance as our old commun- 
 ings were. Crowds of visitors came about him, and ten times or a 
 hundred times as many would have come if allowed ; well-dressed, 
 decorous people, but for most part tiresome, ignorant, weak, or even 
 silly and absurd. He persuaded himself that at least he " loved 
 their love ;" and of this latter, in the kind they had to offer him, 
 there did seem to be no lack. He and I were walking one bright 
 summer evening, somewhere in the outskirts of Islington, in what 
 was or had once been fields, and was again coarsely green in gener- 
 al, but with symptoms of past devastation by bricklayers, who have 
 now doubtless covered it all with their dirty human "dog-hutches 
 of the period ;" when, in some smoothish hoUower spot, there sud- 
 denly disclosed itself a considerable company of altogether fine- 
 looking young girls, who had set themselves to dance ; all in airy 
 bonnets, silks, and flounces, merrily alert, nimble as young fawns, 
 tripping it to their own rhythm on the light fantastic toe, with the 
 bright beams of the setting sun gilding them, and the hum and 
 smoke of huge Loudon shoved aside as foil or background. Noth- 
 ing could be prettier. At sight of us they suddenly stopped, all 
 looking round ; and one of the prettiest, a dainty little thing, stept 
 radiantly out to Irving. " Oh ! oh ! Mr. Irving !" and, blushing and 
 smiling, offered her pretty lips to be kissed, which Irving gallantly 
 stooped down to accept as well worth while. Whereupon, after 
 some benediction or pastoral words, we went on our way. Probably 
 I rallied him on such opulence of luck provided for a man, to which 
 he could answer properly as a spiritual shepherd, not a secular. 
 
 There were several Scotch merchant people among those that 
 came about him, substantial city men of shrewd insight and good 
 honest sense, several of whom seemed truly attached and reverent. 
 One, William Hamilton, a very shrewd and pious Nifhsdale man, 
 who wedded a sister of Mrs. Irving's by-and-by, and whom I knew 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 109 
 
 till his death, was probably the chief of these, as an old good Mr. 
 Dinwiddle, very zealous, very simple, and far from shrewd, might 
 perhaps be reckoned at or near the other end of the series. Sir 
 Peter Laurie, afterwards of aldermanic and even mayoral celebrity, 
 came also pretty often, but seemed privately to look quite from the 
 aldermanic point of view on Irving and the new "Caledonian 
 Chapel" they were struggling to get built — old Mr. Dinwiddle es- 
 pecially struggling ; and indeed once to me at Paris, a while after 
 this, he likened Irving and Dinwiddle to Harlequin and Blast, 
 whom he had seen in some farce then current ; Harlequin conjur- 
 ing up the most glorious possibilities, like this of their " Caledonian 
 Chapel," and Blast loyally following him with swift destruction on 
 attempting to help. Sir Peter rather took to me, but not I much 
 to him. A long-sighted satirical ex-saddler I found him to be, and 
 nothing better ; nay, something of an ex-Scotchman too, which I 
 could still less forgive. I went with the Irvings once to his house 
 (Crescent, head of Portland Place) to a Christmas dinner this same 
 year. Very sumptuous, very cockneyish, strange and unadmirable 
 to me ; and don't remember to have met him again. On our com- 
 ing to live in London he had rather grown in civic fame and im- 
 portance, and possibly, for I am not quite sure, on the feeble chance 
 of being of some help, I sent him some indication or other ;* but if 
 so, he took no notice ; gave no sign. Some years afterwards I met 
 him in my rides in the Park, evidently recognizant, and willing or 
 wistful to speak, but it never came to effect, there being now no 
 charm in it. Then again, years afterwards, when "Latter-day 
 Pamphlets" were coming out, he wrote me on that of Model Prisons 
 a knowing, approving, kindly and civil letter, to which I willingly 
 responded by a kindly and civil. Not very long after that I think 
 he died, riding diligently almost to the end. Poor Sir Peter ! he 
 was nothing of a bad man, very far other indeed ; but had lived in 
 a loud roaring, big, pretentious, and intrinsically barren sphere, un- 
 conscious wholly that he might have risen to the top in a consider- 
 ably nobler and fruitfuUer one. What a tragic, treacherous step- 
 dame is vulgar Fortune to her children ! Sir Peter's wealth has 
 gone now in good part to somebody concerned in discovering, not 
 for the first time, the source of the Nile (blessings on it!) — a Cap- 
 tain Grant, I think, companion to Speke, having married Sir Peter's 
 Scotch niece and lady heiress, a good clever girl, once of " Hadding- 
 
 * A project belike— and my card with it— one of several air-castles I was anx- 
 iously building at that time before taking to French Revolution. 
 
110 EEMINISCENCES. 
 
 ton," and extremely poor, who made her way to my loved one on 
 the ground of common country in late years, and used to be rather 
 liked here in the few visits she made. 
 
 Grant and she, who are now gone to India, called after marriage, 
 but found nobody ; nor now ever will. 
 
 By far the most distinguished two, and to me the alone impor- 
 tant, of Irving's London circle, were Mrs. Strachey (Mrs. Buller's 
 younger sister), and the " noble lady " Mrs. Basil Montague, with 
 both of whom and their households I became acquainted by his 
 means. One of my first visits was along with him to Goodenough 
 House, Shooter's Hill, where the Stracheys oftenest were in summer. 
 I remember once entering the little winding avenue, and seeing, in 
 a kind of open conservatory or verandah on our approaching the 
 house, the effulgent vision of " dear Kitty" buried among the roses 
 and almost buried under them ; Avho on sight of us glided hastily 
 in. The before and after and all other incidents of that first visit 
 are quite lost to me, but I made a good many visits there and in 
 town, and grew familiar with ray ground. 
 
 Of Mrs. Strachey I have spoken already. To this day, long years 
 after her death, I regard her as a singular pearl of a woman, pure 
 as dew, yet full of love, incapable of unveracity to herself or others. 
 Examiner Strachey had long been an official (judge, etc.) in Bengal, 
 where brothers of his were, and sons still are. Eldest son is now 
 master, by inheritance, of the family estate in Somersetshire. One 
 of the brothers had translated a curious old Hindoo treatise on 
 algebra, which had made his name familiar to me. Edward (that 
 I think was the examiner's name) might be a few years turned of 
 fifty at vthis time ; his wife twenty years younger, with a number 
 of pretty children, the eldest hardly fourteen, and only one of them 
 a girl. They lived in Fitzroy Square, a fine-enough house, and had 
 a very pleasant country establishment at Shooter's Hill ; where, in 
 summer time, they were all commonly to be found. I have seldom 
 seen a pleasanter place ; a panorama of green, flowery, clear, and 
 decorated country all round ; an umbrageous little park, with roses, 
 gardens; a modestly - excellent house; from the drawing-room 
 window a continual view of ships, multiform and multitudinous, 
 sailing up or down the river (about a mile off) ; smoky London as 
 background ; the clear sky overhead ; and within doors honesty, 
 good-sense, and smiling seriousness the rule, and not the exception. 
 Edward Strachey was a genially-abrupt man, a Utilitarian and 
 Democrat by creed ; yet beyond all things he loved Chaucer, and 
 kept reading him ; a man rather tacit than discursive, but willing 
 
EDWARD IRVING. Ill 
 
 to speak, and doing it well, in a fine, tinkling, mellow-toned voice, 
 in an ingenious, aphoristic way ; had, withal, a pretty vein of quiz, 
 which he seldom indulged in; a man sharply impatient of pre- 
 tence, of sham and untruth in all forms ; especially contemptuous 
 of quality pretensions and affectations, which he scattered grin- 
 ningly to the winds. Dressed in the simplest form, he walked 
 daily to the India House and hack, though there were fine car- 
 riages in store for the woman part ; scorned cheerfully " the gen- 
 eral humbug of the world," and honestly strove to do his own bit 
 of duty, spiced by Chaucer and what else of inward harmony or 
 condiment he had. Of religion in articulate shape he had none, 
 but much respected his wife's, whom and whose truthfulness in 
 that as in all things he tenderly esteemed and loved ', a man of 
 many qualities comfortable to be near. At his house, both in town 
 and here, I have seen pleasant, graceful people, whose style of man- 
 ners, if nothing else, struck me as new and superior. 
 
 Mrs. Strachey took to me from the first, nor ever swerved. It 
 strikes me now more than it then did, she silently could have liked 
 to see " dear Kitty " and myself come together, and so continue 
 near her, both of us, through life. The good, kind soul! And 
 Kitty, too, was charming in her beautiful Begum sort ; had wealth 
 abundant, and might, perhaps, have been charmed ? None knows. 
 She had one of the prettiest smiles, a visible sense of humor, the 
 slight, merry curl of her upper lip (right side of it only), the car- 
 riage of her head and eyes on such occasions, the quiet little things 
 she said in that kind, and her low-toned hearty laugh were notice- 
 able. This was perhaps her most spiritual quality. Of developed 
 intellect she had not much, though not wanting in discernment ; 
 amiable, affectionate, graceful ; might be called attractive ; not 
 slim enough for the title "pretty," not tall enough for "beauti- 
 ful ;" had something low-voiced, languidly harmonious, placid, sen- 
 suous ; loved perfumes, etc. ; a half-Begum ; in short, an interest- 
 ing specimen of the semi-oriental Englishwoman. Still lives! — 
 near Exeter ; the wife of some ex-captain of Sepoys, with many 
 children, whom she watches over with a passionate instinct ; and 
 has not quite forgotten me, as I had evidence once in late years, 
 thanks to her kind little heart. 
 
 The Montague establishment (25 Bedford Square) was still more 
 notable, and as unlike this as possible ; might be defined, not quite 
 satirically, as a most singular, social, and spiritual menagerie ; 
 which, indeed, was well known and much noted and criticised in 
 certain literary and other circles. Basil Montague, a chancery 
 
112 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 barrister in excellent practice, hugely a sage, too, busy all his days 
 upon " Bacon's Works," and continually preaching a superfinish 
 morality about benevolence, munificence, health, peace, unfailing 
 happiness. Much a bore to you by degrees, and considerably a 
 humbug if you probed too strictly. Age at this time might be 
 about sixty ; good middle stature, face rather fine under its griz- 
 zled hair, brow very prominent ; wore oftenest a kind of smile, not 
 false or consciously so, but insignificant, and as if feebly defensive 
 against the intrusions of a rude world. On going to Hinchinbrook 
 long after, I found he was strikingly like the dissolute, question- 
 able Earl of Sandwich (Foote's "Jeremy Diddler"); who, indeed, 
 had been father of him in a highly tragic way.. His mother, pretty 
 Miss Reay, carefully educated for that function ; Rev. ex-dragoon 
 Hackraan taking this so dreadfully to hearl that, being if not an 
 ex-lover, a lover (bless the mark !), he shot her as she came out of 
 Drury Lane Theatre one night, and got well-hanged for it; The 
 story is musty rather, and there is a loose, foolish old book upon 
 it called "Love and Madness," which is not worth reading. Poor 
 Basil! no wonder he had his peculiarities, coming by such a gene- 
 sis, and a life of his own which had been brimful of difficulties and 
 confusions ! It cannot be said he managed it ill, but far the con- 
 trary, all things considered. Nobody can deny that he wished all 
 the world rather well, could wishing have done it. Express malice 
 against anybody or anything he seldom or never showed. I my- 
 self experienced much kind flattery (if that were a benefit), much 
 soothing treatment in his house, and learned several things there 
 which were of use afterwards, and not alloyed by the least harm 
 done me. But it was his wife, the "noble lady," who in all senses 
 presided there, to whom I stand debtor, and should be thankful 
 for all this. 
 
 Basil had been thrice married. Children of all his marriages, 
 and one child of the now Mrs. Montague's own by a previous mar- 
 riage, were present in the house ; a most difficult miscellany. The 
 one son of B.'s first marriage we have already dined with, and indi- 
 cated that he soon ended by a bad road. Still worse the three sons 
 of the second marriage, dandy young fellows b}'- this time, who 
 went all and sundry to the bad, the youngest and luckiest soon to 
 a madhouse, where he probably still is. Nor were the two boys of 
 Mrs. Montague Tertia a good kind ; thoroughly vain or even proud, 
 and with a spice of angry falsity discernible amid their showy tal- 
 ents. They grew up only to go astray and be unlucky. Both 
 long since are dead, or gone out of sight. Only the eldest child, 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 113 
 
 Emily, the single daughter Basil had, succeeded in the world ; 
 made a good match (in Turin country somewhere), and is still do- 
 ing well. Emily was Basil's only daughter, but she was not his 
 wife's only one. Mrs. Montague had hy her former marriage, 
 which had been brief, one daughter, six or eight years older than 
 Emily Montague. Anne Skepper the name of this one, and York 
 or Yorkshire her birthplace ; a brisk, witty, prettyish, sufficiently 
 clear-eyed and sharp-tougued young lady ; bride, or affianced, at 
 this time, of the poet "Barry Cornwall," i.e. Bryan W. Procter, 
 whose wife, both of them still prosperously living (1860), she now 
 is. Anne rather liked me ; I her ; an evidently true, sensible, and 
 practical young lady in a house considerably in want of such an 
 article. She was the fourth genealogical species among those 
 children, visibly the eldest, all but Basil's first son now gone ; and 
 did, and might well pass for, the flower of the collection. 
 
 Ruling such a miscellany of a household, with Basil Montague at 
 the head, and an almost still stranger miscellaneous society that 
 fluctuated through it, Mrs. Montague had a problem like few others. 
 But she, if any one, was equal to it. A more constant and consum- 
 mate artist in that kind you could nowhere meet with ; truly a re- 
 markable and partly a high and tragical woman ; now about fifty, 
 with the remains of a certain queenly beauty which she still took 
 strict care of. A tall, rather thin figure ; a face pale, intelligent, 
 and penetrating; nose fine, rather large, and decisively Roman; 
 pair of bright, not soft, but sharp and small black eyes, with a cold 
 smile as of inquiry in them ; fine brow ; fine chin (both rather 
 prominent); thin lips — lips always gently shut, as if till the in- 
 quiry were completed, and the time came for something of royal 
 speech upon it. She had a slight Yorkshire accent, but spoke — 
 Dr. Hugh Blair could not have picked a hole in it — and you might 
 have printed every word, so queen-like, gentle, soothing, measured, 
 prettily royal towards subjects whom she wished to love her. The 
 voice was modulated, low, not inharmonious ; yet there was some- 
 thing of metallic in it, akin to that smile in the eyes. One durst 
 not quite love this high personage as she wished to be loved ! Her 
 very dress was notable ; always the same, and in a fashion of its 
 own; kind of widow's cap fastened below the chin, darkish puce- 
 colored silk all the rest, and (I used to hear from one who knew !) 
 was admirable, and must have required daily the fastening of sixty 
 or eighty pins. 
 
 There were many criticisms of Mrs. Montague — often angry ones ; 
 but the truth is she did love and aspire to human excellence, and 
 
114 EEMINISCENCES. 
 
 her road to it was no better than a steep hill of jingling boulders 
 and sliding sand. There remained therefore nothing, if you still 
 aspired, but to succeed ill and put the best face on it. Which she 
 amply did. I have heard her speak of the Spartan boy who let 
 the fox hidden under his robe eat him, rather than rob him of his 
 honor from the theft. 
 
 In early life she had made some visit to Nithsdale (to the 
 " Craiks of Ailigsland "), and had seen Burns, of whom her worship 
 continued fervent, her few recollections always a jewel she was 
 ready to produce. She must have been strikingly beautiful at 
 that time, and Burns's recognition and adoration would not be 
 wanting ; the most royally courteous of mankind she always de- 
 fined him, as the first mark of his genius. I thiuk I have heard 
 that, at a ball at Dumfries, she had frugally constructed some dress 
 by sewing real flowers upon it: and shone by that bit of art, and 
 bj-^ her fine bearing, as the cynosure of all eyes. Her father, I grad- 
 ually understood, not from herself, had been a man of inconsidera- 
 ble wealth or position, a wine-merchant in York, his name Benson. 
 Her first husband, Mr. Skepper, some young lawyer there, of Ger- 
 man extraction ; and that the romance of her wedding Montague, 
 which she sometimes touched .on,.h ad been prosaically nothing but 
 this. Seeing herself, on Skepper's death, left destitute with a young 
 girl j she consented to take charge of Montague's motherless confused 
 family under the name of " governess," bringing her own little 
 Anne as appendage. Had succeeded well, and better and better, 
 for some time, perhaps some years, in that ticklish capacity ; where- 
 upon at length offer of marriage, which she accepted. Her sover- 
 eignty in the house had to be soft, judicious, politic, but it was con- 
 stant and valid, felt to be beneficial withal. " She is like one in 
 command of a mutinous ship which is ready to take fire," Irving 
 once said to me. By this time he had begun to discover that this 
 " noble lady " was in essentiality an artist, and hadn't perhaps so 
 much loved him as tried to buy love from him by soft ministra- 
 tions, by the skilfuUest flattery liberally laid on. He conj,inued al- 
 ways to look kindly towards her, but had now, or did by-and-by, 
 let drop the old epithet. Whether she had done him good or ill 
 would be hard to say ; ill perhaps ! In this liberal London, pitch 
 your sphere one step lower than yourself, and you can get what 
 amount of flattery you will consent to. Everybody has it, like pa- 
 per money, for the printing, and will buy a small amount of ware 
 by any quantity of it. The generous Irving did not find out this 
 so soon as some surlier fellows of us ! 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 115 
 
 On one of the first fine mornings, Mrs. Montague, along with Ir- 
 ving, took me out to see Coleridge at Highgate. My impressions of 
 the man and of the place are conveyed faithfully enough in the 
 " Life of Sterling ;" that first interview in particular, of which I 
 had expected very little, was idle and unsatisfactory, and yielded 
 me nothing. Coleridge, a puffy, anxious, obstructed-looking, fattish 
 old man, hobbled about with us, talking with a kind of solemn em- 
 phasis on matters which were of no interest (and even reading pieces 
 in proof of his opinions thereon). I had him to myself once or 
 twice, in various parts of the garden walks, and tried hard to get 
 something about Kant and Co. from him, about " reason " versus 
 *' understanding " and the like, but in vain. Nothing came from him 
 that was of use to me that day, or in fact any day. The sight and 
 sound of a sage who was so venerated by those about me, and 
 whom I too would willingly have venerated, but could not — this 
 was all. Several times afterwards, Montague, on Coleridge's " Thurs- 
 day evenings," carried Irving and me out, and returned blessing 
 Heaven (I not) for what he had received. Irving and I walked 
 out more than once on mornings too, and found the Dodona oracle 
 humanly ready to act, but never to me, or Irving either I suspect, 
 explanatory of the question put. Good Irving strove always to 
 think that he was getting priceless wisdom out of this great man, 
 but must have had his misgivings. Except by the Montague-Ir- 
 ving channel, I at no time communicated with Coleridge. I had 
 never on my own strength had much esteem for him, and found 
 slowly in spite of myself that I was getting to have less and less. 
 Early in 1825 was my last sight of him ; a print of Person brought 
 some trifling utterance : " Sensuality such a dissolution of the feat- 
 ures of a man's face ;" and I remember nothing more. On my sec- 
 ond visit to London (autumn 1830) Irving and I had appointed a 
 day for a pilgrimage to Highgate, but the day was one rain deluge 
 and we couldn't even try. Soon after our settling here (late in 
 1834) Coleridge was reported to be dying, and died ; I had seen the 
 last of him almost a decade ago. 
 
 A great " worship of genius " habitually went on at Montague's, 
 from self and wife especially ; Coleridge the head of the Lares there, 
 though he never appeared in person, but only wrote a word or two 
 of note on occasions. A confused dim miscellany of "geniuses" 
 (mostly nondescript and harmlessly useless) hovered fitfully about 
 the establishment ; I think those of any reality had tired and gone 
 away. There was much talk and laud of Charles Lamb and his 
 Pepe, etc., but he never appeared. At his own house I saw Mm 
 
116 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 once ; once I gradually felt to have been euongh for me. Poor 
 Lamb ! such a " divine genius " you could find in the London 
 world only ! Hazlitt, whom I had a kind of curiosity about, was 
 not now of the " admitted" (such the hint) ; at any rate kept strict- 
 ly away. There was a " Crabb Robiusou," who had been in Wei- 
 mar, etc., who was first of the " Own Correspondents" now so nu- 
 merous. This is now his real distiuctiou. There was a Mr. Fearn, 
 " profound in metaphysics" ('' dull utterly and dry"). There was 
 a Dr. Sir Anthony Carlile, of name in medicine, native of Durham 
 and a hard-headed fellow, but Utilitarian to the bone, who had de- 
 fined poetry to Irving once as "the prodooction of a rude aage." 
 We were clansmen, he and I, but had nothing of mutual attraction, 
 nor of repulsion either, for the man didn't want for shrewd sense 
 in his way. I heard continual talk and admiration of "the grand 
 old English writers" (Fuller, Sir Thomas Browne, and various oth- 
 ers — Milton more rarely) ; this was the orthodox strain. But there 
 was little considerable of actual knowledge, and of critical appre- 
 ciation almost nothing at the back of it anywhere ; and in the end 
 it did one next to no good, yet perhaps not quite none, deducting 
 in accurate balance all the ill that might be in it. 
 
 Nobody pleased me so much in this miscellany as Procter (Barry 
 Cornwall), who for the fair Anne Skepper's sake was very con- 
 stantly there. Anne and he were to have been, and were still to 
 be married, but some disaster or entanglement in Procter's attor- 
 ney business had occurred (some partner defalcating or the like), 
 and Procter, in evident distress and dispiritment, was waiting the 
 slow conclusion of this ; which and the wedding thereupon happi- 
 ly took place in the winter following. A decidedly rather pretty 
 little fellow, Procter, bodily and spiritually ; manners prepossessing, 
 slightly London-elegant, not unpleasant; clear judgment in him, 
 though of narrow field ; a sound honorable morality, and airy 
 friendly ways ; of slight neat figure, vigorous for his size ; fine 
 genially rugged little face, fine head ; something curiously dreamy 
 in the eyes of him, lids drooping at the outer ends into a cordially 
 meditative and drooping expression ; would break out suddenly 
 now and then into opera attitude and a La ci darem la mano for a 
 moment ; had something of real fun, though in London style. Me 
 he had invited to " his garret," as he called it, and was always good 
 and kind and so continues, though I hardly see him once in a quar- 
 ter of a century. 
 
 The next to Procter in my esteem, and the considerably more 
 important to me just then, was a young Mr. Badams, in great and 
 
"BARRY CORNWALL" (B. W. PROCTER). 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 117 
 
 romantic estimation there, and present every now and then, 
 though his place and business lay in Birmingham ; a most cheery, 
 gifted, really amiable man, with whom not long afterwards I more 
 or less romantically went to Birmingham, and though not cured of 
 "dyspepsia" there (alas! not the least) had tvjp or three singular 
 and interesting months, as will be seen. 
 
 Irving's preaching at Hatton Garden, which I regularly attend- 
 ed while in his house, and occasionally afterwards, did not strike 
 me as superior to his Scotch performances of past time, or, in pri- 
 vate fact, inspire me with any complete or pleasant feeling. As- 
 sent to them I could not, except under very wide reservations, nor, 
 granting all his postulates, did either matter or manner carry me 
 captive, or at any time x^eifect my admiration. The force and 
 weight of what he urged was undeniable ; the potent faculty at 
 work, like that of a Samson heavily striding along with the gates 
 of Gaza on his shoulders ; but there was a want of spontaneity and 
 simplicity, a something of strained and aggravated, of elaborately 
 intentional, which kept gaining on the mind. One felt the bad 
 element to be and to have been unwholesome to the honorable 
 soul. The doors were crowded long before opening, and you got 
 in by ticket ; but the first sublime rush of what once seemed more 
 than popularity, and had been nothing more — Lady Jersey " sit- 
 ting on the pulpit steps," Canning, Brougham, Mackintosh, etc., 
 rushing day after day — was now quite over, and there remained 
 only a popularity of " the people ;" not of the^pZe&s at all, but never 
 higher than of the well-dressed poptdiis henceforth, which was a 
 sad change to the sanguine man. One noticed that he was not 
 happy, but anxious, struggling, questioning the future ; happiness, 
 alas, he was no more to have, even in the old measure, in this 
 world ! At sight of Canning, Brougham, Lady Jersey and Co., 
 crowding round him and listening week after week as if to the 
 message of salvation, the noblest and joyfullest thought (I know 
 this on perfect authority) had taken possession of his noble, too 
 sanguine*, and too trustful mind : " that the Christian religion was 
 to be a truth again, not a paltry form, and to rule the world, he 
 unworthy, even he, the chosen instrument." Mrs. Strachey, who 
 had seen him in her own house in these moods, spoke to me once 
 of this, and only once, reporting some of his expressions with an 
 affectionate sorrow. Cruelly blasted all these hopes were, but 
 Irving never to the end of his life could consent to give them up. 
 That was the key to all his subsequent procedures, extravagances, 
 aberrations, so far as I could understand them. Whatever of blame 
 
118 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 (and there was on the surface a fond credulity, or perhaps, farther 
 down, and as root to such credulity, some excess of self-love, which 
 I define always as love that others should love him, not as any 
 worse kind), with that degree of blame Irving must stand charged^ 
 with that and with no more, so far as I could testify or under- 
 stand. 
 
 Good Mrs. Oliphant, and probably her public, have much mis- 
 taken me on this point. That Irving to the very last had abun- 
 dant "popularity," and confluence of auditors sufficient for the 
 largest pulpit " vanity," I knew and know, but also that his own 
 immeasurable and quasi-celestial hope remained cruelly blasted, re- 
 fusing the least hud farther, and that without this all else availed 
 him nothing. Fallacious semblances of bud it did shoot out again 
 and again, under his continual fostering and forcing, but real bud 
 uever more, and the case in itself is easy to understand. 
 
 He had much quiet seriousness, beautiful piety and charity, in 
 this bud time of agitation and disquietude, and I was often hon- 
 estly sorry for him. Here was still the old true man, and his new 
 element seemed so false and abominable. Honestly, though not so 
 purely, sorry as now — now when element and man are alike gone, 
 and all that was or partook of paltry in one's own view of them is 
 also mournfully gone! He had endless patience with the mean 
 people crowding about him and jostling his life to pieces ; hoped 
 always they w^ero not so mean ; never complained of the uncom- 
 fortable huggermugger his life was now grown to be ; took every- 
 thing, wife, servants, guests, by the most favorable handle. He 
 had infinite delight in a little baby boy there now was ; went dan- 
 dling it about in his giaut arms, tick-ticking to it, laughing and 
 playing to it ; would turn seriously round to me with a face sor- 
 rowful rather than otherwise, and say, "Ah, Carlyle,this little creat- 
 ure has been sent to me to soften my hard heart, which did 
 need it." 
 
 Towards all distressed people not absolutely criminals, his kind- 
 ness, frank helpfulness, long suffering, and assiduity were' in truth 
 wonderful to me; especially in one case, that of a Reverend Mr. 
 Macbeth, which I thought ill of from the first, and which did turn 
 out hopeless. Macbeth was a Scotch preacher, or licentiate, who 
 had failed of a kirk, as he had deserved to do, though his talents 
 wxre good, and was now hanging very miscellaneously on London, 
 with no outlooks that were not bog meteors, and a steadily increas- 
 ing tendency to strong drink. He knew town well, and its babble 
 and bits of temporary cynosures, and frequented haunts good and 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 119 
 
 perhaps bad ; took me one evening to the poet Campbell's, whom I 
 bad already seen, but not successfull3\ 
 
 Macbeth had a sharp, sarcastic, clever kind of tongue ; not much 
 real knowledge, but was amusing to talk with on a chance walk 
 through the streets ; older than myself by a dozen years or more. 
 Like him I did not ; there was nothing of wisdom, generosity, or 
 worth in him, but in secret, evidently discernible, a great deal of 
 bankrupt vanity which had taken quite the malignant shape. Un- 
 deniable envy, spite, and bitterness looked through every part of 
 him. A tallish, slouching, lean figure, face sorrowful, malignant, 
 black, not unlike the picture of a devil. To me he had privately 
 much the reverse of liking. I have seen him in Irviug's and else- 
 where (perhaps with a little drink on his stomach, poor soul !) 
 break out into oblique little spurts of positive spite, which I un- 
 derstood to mean merely, " Young Jackanapes, getting yourself 
 noticed and honored while a mature man of genius is" etc., etc., and 
 took no notice of, to the silent comfort of self and neighbors. 
 
 This broken Macbeth had been hanging a good while about Ir- 
 ving, who had taken much earnest pains to rescue and arrest him 
 on the edge of the precipices, but latterly had begun to see that 
 it was hopeless, and had rather left him to his own bad courses. 
 One evening, it was in dii'ty winter weather and I was present, 
 there came to Irving or to Mrs. Irving, dated from some dark tav- 
 ern in the Holborn precincts, a piteous little note from Macbeth. 
 "Ruined again (tempted, oh how cunningly, to my old sin) 5 been 
 drinking these three weeks, and now have a chalk-score and no 
 money, and can't get out. Oh, help a perishing sinner !" The ma- 
 jority was of opinion, "Pshaw! it is totally useless!" but Irving 
 after some minutes of serious consideration decided, " No, not to- 
 tally !" and directly got into a hackney coach, wife and he, proper 
 moneys in pocket, paid the poor devil's tavern score (some £2 10s. 
 or so, if I remember), and brought him groaning home out of his 
 purgatory again : for he was in much bodily suffering too. I re- 
 member to have been taken up to see him one evening in his bed- 
 room (comfortable airy place) a week or two after. He was in 
 clean dressing-gown and night-cap, walking about the floor ; af- 
 fected to turn away his face and be quite " ashamed" when Irving 
 introduced me, which as I could discern it to be painful hypocrisy 
 merely, forbade my visit to be other than quite brief. Comment I 
 made none here or down-stairs ; was actually a little sorry, but 
 without hope, and rather think this was my last sight of Macbeth. 
 Another time, which could not now be distant, when he lay again 
 
120 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 under chalk-score aud bodily sickness in bis drinking shop, tbere 
 would be no deliverance but to the hospital ; and there I suppose 
 the poor creature tragically ended. He was not without talent, had 
 written a '' Book on the Sabbath/' better or worse, aud I almost 
 think was understood, with all his impenitences and malignities, to 
 have real love for his poor old Scotch mother. After that night in- 
 his clean airy bedroom I have no recollection or tradition of him — 
 a vanished quantity, hardly once in my thoughts for above forty 
 years past. There were other disastrous or unpleasant figures 
 whom I met at Irving's; a Danish fanatic of Calvinistic species 
 (repeatedly, and had to beat him off), a good many fanatics of dif- 
 ferent kinds — one insolent "Bishop of Toronto," triumphant Cana- 
 dian but Aberdeen by dialect (once only, from whom Irving defend- 
 ed me), etc., etc. ; but of these I say nothing. Irving, though they 
 made his house - element and life-element continually muddy for 
 him, was endlessly patient with them all. 
 
 This my first visit to London lasted with interruptions from 
 early June, 1824, till March, 1825, during which I repeatedly lodged 
 for a little while at Irving's, his house ever open to me like a broth- 
 er's, but cannot now recollect the times or their circumstances. 
 The above recollections extend vaguely over the whole period, dur- 
 ing the last four or five months of which I had my own rooms in 
 Southampton Street near by, and was still in almost constant fa- 
 miliarity. My own situation was very wretched ; primarily from 
 a state of health which nobody could be expected to understand or 
 sympathize with, and about which I had as much as possible to be 
 silent. The accursed hag " Dyspepsia " had got me bitted and 
 bridled, and was ever striving to make my waking living day a 
 thing of ghastly nightmares. I resisted what I could ; never did 
 yield or surrender to her ; but she kept my heart right heavy, my 
 battle very sore and hopeless. One could not call it hope, but only 
 desperate obstinacy refusing to flinch that animated me. " Obsti- 
 nacy as of ten mules" I have sometimes called it since ; but in can- 
 did truth there was something worthily human in it too; and I 
 have had through life, among my manifold unspeakable blessings, 
 no other real bower anchor to ride by in the rough seas. Human 
 " obstinacy," grounded on real faith and insight, is good and the 
 best. 
 
 All was change, too, at this time with me, all uncertainty. Mrs. 
 Buller, the bright, the ardent, the airy, was a changeful lady ! The 
 original programme had been, we were all to shift to Cornwall, live 
 in some beautiful Buller cottage there was about East Looe or West 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 121 
 
 (ou her eldest brother-in-law's property). With this as a fixed 
 thing I had arrived in London, asking myself "what kind of a 
 thing will it be ?" It proved to have become already a thing of 
 all the winds ; gone like a dream of the night (by some accident or 
 other). For four or five weeks coming there was new scheme, fol- 
 lowed always by newer and newest, all of which proved successive- 
 ly inexecutable, greatly to my annoyance and regret, as may be 
 imagined. The only thing that did ever take effect was the shift- 
 ing of Charles and me out to solitary lodgings at Kew Green, an 
 isolating of us two {pro tempore) over our lessons there, one of the 
 dreariest a;id uncomfortablest things to both of us. It lasted for 
 about a fortnight, till Charles, I suppose privately pleading, put an 
 end to it as intolerable and useless both (for one could not " study" 
 but only pretend to do it in such an element). Other wild projects 
 rose rapidly, rapidly vanished futile. The end was, in a week or 
 two after, I deliberately counselled that Charles should go direct 
 for Cambridge next term, in the mean time making ready nnder 
 some fit college "grinder;" I myself not without regret taking 
 leave of the enterprise. Which proposal, after some affectionate 
 resistance on the part of Charles, was at length (rather suddenly, 
 I recollect) acceded to by the elder people, and one bright summer 
 morning (still vivid to me) I stept out of a house in Foley Place, 
 with polite farewell sounding through me, and the thought, as I 
 walked along Regent Street, that here I was without employment 
 henceforth. Money was no longer quite wanting, enough of money 
 for some time to come, but the question what to do next was not a 
 little embarrassing, and indeed was intrinsically abstruse enough. 
 
 I must have been lodging again with Irving when this finale 
 came. I recollect Charles Buller and I, a day or some days after 
 quitting Kew, had rendezvoused by appointment in Regent Square 
 (St. Pancras), where Irving and a great company were laying the 
 foundation of " Caledonian Chapel " (which still stands there), and 
 Irving of course had to deliver an address. Of the address, which 
 was going on when we arrived, I could hear nothing, such the con- 
 fusing crowd and the unfavorable locality (a muddy chaos of rub- 
 bish and excavations, Irving and the actors shut off from us by a 
 circle of rude bricklayers' planks) ; but I well remember Irving's 
 glowing face, streaming hair, and deeply moved tones as he spoke ; 
 and withal that Charles Buller brought me some new futility of a 
 proposal, and how sad he looked, good youth, when I had directly 
 to reply with "No, alas! I cannot, Charles." This was but a few 
 days before the Buller finale. 
 
 6 
 
122 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 Twenty years after, riding discursively towards Tottenbam one 
 summer evening, with the breath of the wind from northward, and 
 London hanging to my right hand like a grim and vast sierra, I 
 saw among the peaks, as easily ascertainable, the high minarets 
 of that chapel, and thought with myself, "Ah, you fatal tombstone 
 of my lost friend! and did a soul so strong and high avail only to 
 build youf^ and felt sad enough and rather angry in looking at 
 the thing. 
 
 It was not many days after this of the Kegent Square address, 
 which was quickly followed by termination with the Bullers, that 
 I found myself one bright Sunday morning on the top of a swift 
 coach for Birmingham, with intent towards the Mr. Badams above 
 mentioned, and a considerable visit there, for health's sake mainly. 
 Badams and the Montagues had eagerly proposed and counselled 
 this step. Badams himself was so eager about it, and seemed so 
 frank, cheery, ingenious, and friendly a man that I had listened to 
 his pleadings with far more regard than usual in such a case, and 
 without assenting had been seriously considering the proposal for 
 some weeks before (during the Kew Green seclusion and perhaps 
 earlier). He was in London twice or thrice while things hung in 
 deliberation, and was each time more eager and persuasive on me. 
 In fine I had assented, and was rolling along through sunny Eng- 
 land — the first considerable space I had yet seen of it — with really 
 pleasant recognition of its fertile beauties and air of long-continued 
 cleanliness, contentment, and well being. Stony Stratford, Fenny 
 Stratford, and the good people coming out of church, Coventry, etc., 
 etc., all this is still a picture. Our coach was of the swiftest in the 
 world ; appointments perfect to a hair ; one and a half minutes the 
 time allowed for changing horses; our coachman, in dress, etc., 
 resembled a "sporting gentleman," and scornfully called any 
 groundling whom he disliked, "You Radical!" for one symptom. 
 I don't remember a finer ride, as if on the arrow of Abaris, with 
 lips shut and nothing to do but look. My reception at Ashsted 
 (west end of Birmingham, not far from the great "Watts' house of 
 that name), and instalment in the Badams' domesticities, must 
 have well corresponded to my expectations, as I have now no 
 memory of it. My visit in whole, which lasted for above three 
 months, may be pronounced interesting, idle, pleasant, and success- 
 ful, though singular. 
 
 Apart from the nimbus of Montague romance in the first accounts 
 I had got of Badams, he was a gifted, amiable, and remarkable man, 
 who proved altogether friendly and beneficent, so far as he weut^with 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 123 
 
 me, and whose final history, had I time for it, would be tragical in 
 its kind. He was eldest boy of a well-doing but not opulent mas- 
 ter-workman (plumber, I think) in Warwick town ; got marked for 
 the ready talents he showed, especially for some picture he had on 
 his own resources and unaided inventions copied in the Warwick 
 Castle gallery with " wonderful success ;" and in fine was taken 
 hold of by the famous Dr. Parr and others of that vicinity, and 
 lived some time as one of Parr's scholars in Parr's house ; learning 
 I know not what, not taking very kindly to the CEoUc cUgamma de- 
 partment I should apprehend! He retained a kindly and respect- 
 ful remembrance about this Trismegistus of the then pedants, but 
 always in brief quizzical form. Having declared for medicine, he 
 was sent to Edinburgh College, studied there for one session or 
 more ; but " being desirous to marry some beautiful lady-love " 
 (said the Montagues), or otherwise determined on a shorter road to 
 fortune, he now cut loose from his patrons, and modestly planted 
 himself in Birmingham, with purpose of turning to account some 
 chemical ideas he had gathered in the classes here ; rivalling of 
 French green vitriol by purely English methods ("no huslcs of 
 grapes for you and your vitriol, ye English ; your vitriol only half 
 the selling price of ours !") that I believe was it, and Badams had 
 fairly succeeded in it ahd in other branches of the color business, 
 and had a manufactory of twenty or fewer hands, full of thrifty and 
 curious ingenuity ; at the outer corner of which, fronting on two 
 streets, was his modest but comfortable dwelling-house, where I 
 now lived with him as guest. Simplicity and a pure and direct 
 aim at the essential (aim good and generally successful), that was 
 our rule in this establishment, which was and continued always in- 
 nocently comfortable and home-like to me. The lowest floor, open- 
 ing rearward of the manufactory, was exclusively given up to an 
 excellent Mrs. Barnet (with husband and family of two), who in 
 perfection and in silence kept house to us ; her husband, whom 
 Badams only tolerated for her sake, working out of doors among 
 the twenty. We lived in the two upper floors, entering from one 
 street door, and wearing a modestly civilized air. Everything has 
 still a living look to me in that place ; not even the bad Barnet, 
 who never showed his badness, but has claims on me ; still more 
 the venerable lean and brown old grandfather Barnet, who used to 
 " go for our letters," and hardly ever spoke except by his fine and 
 mournful old eyes. These Barnets, with the workmen generally, 
 and their quiet steady ways, were pleasant to observe, but especial- 
 ly our excellent, sad, pure, and silent Mrs. Barnet, correct as an 
 
124 EEMINISCENCES. 
 
 eight -day clock, and making hardly as much noise! Always 
 dressed in modest black, tall, clean, well-looking, light of foot and 
 hand. She was very much loved by Badams as a friend of his 
 mother's and a woman of real worth, bearing well a heavy enough 
 load of sorrows (chronic disease of the heart to crown them he 
 would add). I remember the sight of her, one afternoon, in some 
 lighted closet there was, cutting out the bit of bread for the chil- 
 dren's luncheon, two dear pretty little girls who stood looking up 
 with hope, her silence and theirs, and the fine human relation be- 
 tween them, as one of my pleasant glimpses into English humble 
 life. The younger of these pretty children died within few years ; 
 the elder, " Bessy Barnet," a creature of distinguished faculties who 
 has had intricate vicissitudes and fortunate escapes, stayed with us 
 here as our first servant (servant and friend both in one) for about 
 a year, then went home, and after long and complete disappearance 
 from our thoughts and affairs, re-emerged, most modestly trium- 
 phant, not very long ago, as wife of the accomplished Dr. Blakiston 
 of Leamington ; in which capacity she showed a generous exagger- 
 ated "gratitude" to her old mistress and me, and set herself and 
 her husband unweariedly to help in that our sad Leamington sea- 
 son of woe and toil, which has now ended in eternal peace to one 
 of us. Nor can Dr. B.'s and his "Bessy's" kindness in it ever be 
 forgotten while the other of us still lingers here ! Ah me ! ah me ! 
 My Birmingham visit, except as it continually kept me riding 
 about in the oi^en air, did nothing for me in the anti- dyspeptic 
 way, but in the social and spiritually consolatory way it was really 
 of benefit. Badams was a horse fancier, skilful on horseback, kept 
 a choice two or three of horses here, and in theory professed the 
 obligation to "ride for health," but very seldom by himself did it 
 — it was always along with me, and not one-tenth part so often as 
 I during this sojourn. With me red " Taffy," the briskest of Welsh 
 ponies, went galloping daily far and wide, unless I were still better 
 mounted (for exercise of the other high-going sort), and many were 
 the pleasant rides I had in the Warwickshire lanes and heaths, 
 and real good they did me, if Badams's medicinal and dietetic for- 
 malities (to which I strictly conformed) did me little or none. His 
 unaffected kindness, and cheerful human sociality and friendliness, 
 manifest at all times, could not but be of use to me too. Seldom 
 have I seen a franker, trustier, cheerier form of human kindliness 
 than Badams's. How I remember the laughing eyes and sunny 
 figure of him breaking into my room on mornings, himself half- 
 dressed (waistband in hand was a common aspect, and hair all fly- 
 
EDWARD IRVING. . 125 
 
 ing). " What ! not up yet, monster ?" The smile of his eyes, the 
 sound of his voice, were so bright and practically true on these oc- 
 casions. A tight, middle-sized, handsome kind of man, eyes blue, 
 sparkling soft, nose and other features inclining to the pointed, com- 
 plexion, which was the weak part, tending rather to bluish, face 
 always shaven bare and no whiskers left ; a man full of hope, full 
 of natural intellect, ingenuity, invention, essentially a gentleman ; 
 and really looked well and jauntily aristocratic when dressed for 
 riding or the like, which was always a careful preliminary. Slight 
 rusticity of accent rather did him good ; so prompt, mildly emphat- 
 ic and expressive were the words that came from him. His faults 
 were a too sanguine temper, and a defective inner sternness of verac- 
 ity : true he was, but not sternly enough, and would listen to im- 
 agination and delusive hopes when Fact said No — for which two 
 faults, partly recognizable to me even then, I little expected he 
 would by-and-by pay so dear. 
 
 We had a pleasant tima together, many pleasant summer rides, 
 and outdoor talks and in j to Guy's Cliff, Warwick Castle, Sutton 
 Coldfield, or Kenilworth, etc., on holidays ; or miscellaneously over 
 the furzy heaths and leafy ruralities on common evenings. I re- 
 member well a ride we made to Kenilworth one Saturday afternoon 
 by the " wood of Ardeu " and its monstrous old oaks, on to the fa- 
 mous ruin itself (fresh in the Scott novels then), and a big jolly 
 farmer of Badams's, who lodged us — nice polite wife and he in a 
 finely human way — till Monday morning, with much talk about 
 old Parr, in whose parish (Hatton) we then were. Old Parr would 
 have been desirabler to me than the great old ruin (now mainly a 
 skeleton, part of it a coarse farm-house, which was the most inter- 
 esting part). But Badams did not propose a call on his old pedant 
 friend, and I could not be said to regret the omission ; a saving of so 
 much trouble withal. There was a sort of pride felt in their Dr. Parr 
 all over this region ; yet everybody seemed to consider him a ridic- 
 ulous old fellow, whose strength of intellect was mainly gone to 
 self-will and fantasticality. They all mimicked his lisp, and talk- 
 ed of wig and tobacco-pipe. (No pipe, no Parr ! his avowed princi- 
 ple when asked to dinner among fine people). The old man came 
 to Edinburgh on a visit to Dr. Gregory, perhaps the very next year; 
 and there, too, for a year following there lingered traditions of good- 
 natured grins and gossip, which one heard of; but the man himself 
 I never saw, nor, though rather liking him, sensibly cared to see. 
 
 Another very memorable gallop (we always went at galloping or 
 cantering pace, and Badams was proud of his cattle and their really 
 
126 • REMINISCENCES. 
 
 great prowess), was one morning out to Hagley; to the top of the 
 Clent Hill for a view, after breakfast at Hagley Tap, and then return. 
 Distance from Birmingham about seventeen miles. " The Leasowes " 
 (Poet Shenstone's place) is about midway (visible enough to left in 
 the level sun-rays as you gallop out) ; after which comes a singular 
 Te)Ta di Lavoro — or wholly metallic country — Hales Owen the heart 
 of it. Thick along the wayside, little forges built of single brick, 
 hardly bigger than sentry-boxes ; and in each of them, with bellows, 
 stake, and hammer a woman busy making nails ; fine, tall young 
 women several of them, old others, but all in clean aprons, clean 
 white calico jackets (must have been Monday morning), their look 
 industrious and patient. Seems as if all the nails in the world 
 were getting made here on very unexpected terms! Hales Owen 
 itself had much sunk under the improved highway, but was cheer- 
 fully jingling as we cantered through. Hagley Tap and its quiet 
 green was all our own ; not to be matched out of England. Lord 
 Lyttelton's mansion I have ever since in my eye as a noble-looking 
 place, when his lordship comes athwart me ; a rational, ruggedly- 
 considerate kind of man whom I could have liked to see there (as 
 he was good enough to wish), had there been a Forhinatus travelling 
 carpet at my disposal. Smoke pillars many, in a definite straight 
 or spiral shape ; the Dudley " Black Country," under favorable 
 omens, visible from the Clent Hill ; after which, and the aristocratic 
 roof works, attics, and grand chimney-tops of Hagley mansion, the 
 curtain quite drops. 
 
 Of persons also I met some notable or quasi-notable. "Joe" 
 Parkes, then a small Birmingham attorney, afterwards the famous 
 Reform Club ditto, was a visitor at Badams's on rare evenings ; a 
 rather pleasant-talking, shrewd enough little fellow, with bad teeth, 
 and a knowing, flighty satirical way ; whom Badams thought little 
 of, but tolerated for his (Joe's) mother's sake, as he did Parkes sen- 
 ior, who was her second husband. The famous Joe I never saw 
 again, though hearing often of his preferments, performances, and 
 him, till he died, not long since, writing a new " Discovery of Jun- 
 ius," it was rumored ; fit enough task for such a man. Bessy Parkes 
 (of the Rights of Women) is a daughter of his. There were Phip- 
 Bons, too, " Unitarian people," very good to me. A young fellow 
 of them, still young though become a pin manufacturer, had been 
 at Erlangen University, and could float along in a light, airy, anec- 
 dotic fashion by a time. He re-emerged on me four or five years 
 ago, living at Putney ; head grown w^hite from red, but heart still 
 light ; introducing a chemical son of his, whom I thought not un- 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 127 
 
 likely to pusli liimself in the world by that course. Kennedy of 
 Cambridge, afterwards great as " master of Shrewsbury school," was 
 polite to me, but unproductive. Others — but why should I speak 
 of them at all? Accidentally, one Sunday evening,! heard the fa- 
 mous Dr. Hall (of Leicester) preach ; a flabby, puffy, but massy, 
 earnest, forcible-looking man, Jiomme alors celebre ! Sermon extem- 
 pore ; text, " God who cannot lie." He proved beyond shadow of 
 doubt, in a really forcible but most superfluous way, that God never 
 lied (had no need to do it, etc.). "As good prove that God never 
 fought a duel," sniffed Badams, on my reporting at home. 
 
 Jemmy Belcher was a smirking little dumpy Uuitarian book- 
 seller, in the Bull-ring, regarded as a kind of curiosity and favorite 
 among these people, and had seen me. One showery day I took 
 shelter in his shop ; picked up a new magazine, found in it a clever- 
 ish and completely hostile criticism of my " Wilhelm Meister," of 
 my Goethe, and self, etc., read it faithfully to the end, and have 
 never set eye on it since. On steppiug out of my bad spirits did 
 not feel much elevated by the dose just swallowed, but I thought 
 with myself, " This man is perhaxDS right on some points ; if so, let 
 him be admonitory !" And he was so (on a Scotticism, or perhaps 
 two) ; and I did reasonably soon (in not above a couple of hours), 
 dismiss him to the devil, or to Jericho, as an ill-given, unserviceable 
 kind of entity in my course through this world. It was De Quincey, 
 as I often enough heard afterwards from foolish-talking persons. 
 " What matter who, ye foolish-talking persons ?" would have been 
 my silent answer, as it generally pretty much was. I recollect, too, 
 how in Edinburgh a year or two after, poor De Quincey, whom I 
 wished to know, was reported to tremble at the thought of such a 
 thing ; and did fly pale as ashes, poor little soul, the first time we 
 actually met. He was a pretty little creature, full of Avire-drawn 
 ingenuities, bankrupt enthusiasms, bankrupt pride, with the finest 
 silver-toned low voice, and most elaborate gently- winding courtesies 
 and ingennities in conversation. "What wouldn't one give to 
 have him in a box, and take him ont to talk !" That was Her 
 criticism of him, and it was right good. A bright, ready, and melo- 
 dious talker, but in the end an inconclusive and long-winded. One 
 of the smallest man figures I ever saw ; shaped like a pair of tongs, 
 and hardly above five feet in all. When he sate, you would have 
 taken him, by candlelight, for the beautifullest little child ; blue- 
 eyed, sparkling face, had there not been a something, too, which 
 said "JEccovi — this child has been in hell." After leaving Edinburgh 
 I never saw hira, hardly ever heard of him. His fate, owing to 
 
128 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 opium, etc., was hard and sore, poor fine-struug weak creature, 
 launched so into the literary career of ambition and mother of dead 
 dogs. That peculiar kind of "meeting" with him was among the 
 phenomena of my then Birmingham ("Bromwich-ham," "Bruma- 
 gem," as you were forced to call it). 
 
 Irving himself, once, or perhaps twice, came to us, in respect of 
 a Scotch Chapel newly set on foot there, and rather in tottering 
 condition. Preacher in it one Crosbie, whom I had seen once at 
 Glasgow in Dr. Chalmers's, a silent guest along with me, whose 
 chief characteristic was helpless dispiritment under dyspepsia, which 
 had come upon him, hapless innocent lazy soul. The people were 
 very kind to him, but he w^as helpless, and I think soon after went 
 away. What became of the Chapel since I didn't hear. The Rev. 
 Mr. Martin of Kirkcaldy, with his reverend father, and perhaps a 
 sister, passed through Birmingham, bound for London to christen 
 some new child of Irving's ; and being received in a kind of gala 
 by those Scotcli Chapel people, caused me a noisy not pleasant 
 day. Another day, positively painful though otherwise instructive, 
 I had in the Dudley^ " Black Country " (which I had once seen from 
 the distance), roving about among the coal and metal mines there, 
 in company or neighborhood of Mr, Airy, now "Astronomer Royal," 
 whom I have never seen since. Our party was but of four. Some 
 opulent retired Dissenting Minister had decided on a holiday ova- 
 tion to Airy, who had just issued from Cambridge as chief of Wran- 
 glers and mathematical wonder, and had come to Birmingham on 
 visit to some footlicker whose people lived there. " I will show 
 Airy our mine country," said the reverend old friend of enlighten- 
 ment, " and Mr. G., Airy's footlicker, shall accompany !" That was 
 his happy thought ; and Badams hearing it from him, had suggested 
 me (not quite unknown to him) as a fourth figure. I was ill in 
 health, but thought it right to go. We inspected black furnaces, 
 descended into coal mines; poked about industriously into nature's 
 and art's sooty arcana all day (with a short recess for luncheon), 
 and returned at night in the Reverend's postchaise, thoroughly 
 wearied and disgusted, one of us at least. Nature's sooty arcana 
 was welcome and even pleasant to me ; art's also, more or less. 
 Thus in the belly of the deepest mine, climbing over a huge jingle 
 of new-loosened coal, there met me on the very summit a pair of 
 small cheerful human eyes (face there was none discernible at first, 
 so totally black was it, and so dim were our candles), then a ditto 
 ditto of lips, internally red; which I perceived, with a comic inter- 
 est, were begging beer from me ! Nor was Airy himself in the least 
 
THOMAS DE QUINCEY. 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 129 
 
 an offence, or indeed sensibly a concern. A hardy little figure, of 
 edacious energetic physiognomy, eyes hard, strong, not fine ; seemed 
 three or four years younger than I, and to be in secret serenely, 
 not insolently, enjoying his glory, which I made him right welcome 
 to do on those terms. In fact he and I hardly spoke together twice 
 or thrice, and had as good as no relation to each other. The old 
 Reverend had taken possession of Airy, and was all day at his el- 
 bow. And to me, fatal allotment, had fallen the " footlicker," one 
 of the foolishest, most conceited, ever-babbling blockheads I can 
 remember to have met. 
 
 What a day oi loving (not of the mine strata only!) I felt as if 
 driven half crazy, and mark it to this hour with coal ! 
 
 But enough, and far more than enough, of my Birmingham 
 reminiscences! Irving himself had been with us. Badams was 
 every few weeks up in Loudon for a day or two. Mrs. Strachey, 
 too, sometimes wrote to me. London was still, in a sense, my head- 
 quarters. Early in September (it must have been), I took kind 
 leave of Badams and his daily kind influences ; hoping, both of us, 
 it might be only temporary leave ; and revisited London, at least 
 passed through it, to Dover and the sea-coast, where Mrs. Strachey 
 had contrived a fine sea party, to consist of herself, with appendages 
 of the Irvings and of me, for a few bright weeks ! I remember a 
 tiny bit of my journey, solitaiy on the coach-roof, between Canter- 
 bury and Bridge. Nothing else whatever of person or of place 
 from Birmingham to that, nor anything immediately onwards from 
 that ! The Irvings had a dim but suuggish house, rented in some 
 street near the shore, and I was to lodge with them. Mrs. Strachey 
 was in a brighter place near by ; detached new row, called Liverpool 
 Terrace at that time (now buried among streets, and hardly dis- 
 cernible by me last autumn when I pilgrimed thither again after 
 forty-two years). 
 
 Mrs. Strachey had Kitty with her, and was soon expecting her 
 husband. Both households were in full action, or gradually get- 
 ting into it, when I arrived. 
 
 We walked, all of us together sometimes, at other times in threes 
 or twos. We dined often at Mrs. Strachey's ; read commonly in the 
 evenings at Irvihg's, Irving reader, in Phineas Fletcher's " Purple 
 Island " for one thing ; over which Irving strove to be solemn, and 
 Kitty and I rather not, throwing in now and then a little spice of 
 laughter and quiz. I never saw the book again, nor in spite of 
 some real worth it had, and of much half- real laudation, cared 
 greatly to see it. Mrs. Strachey, I suspect, didn't find the sea party 
 
 6* 
 
130 KEMINISCENCES. 
 
 so idyllic as her forecast of it. In a fortnight or so Strachey came, 
 and then there was a new and far livelier element of anti-humbug, 
 anti-ennui, which could not improve matters. She determined on 
 sending Strachey, Kitty, and me off on a visit to Paris for ten days, 
 and having the Irvings all to herself. We went accordingly ; saw 
 Paris, saw a bit of France — nothing.like so common a feat as now ; 
 and the memory of that is still almost complete, if it were a legiti- 
 mate part of my subject. 
 
 The journey out, weather fine and novelty awaiting young curi- 
 osity at every step, was very pleasant. Montreuil, Noailles, Abbe- 
 ville, Beauvais, interesting names, start into facts. Sterne^s "Sen- 
 timental Journey" (especially) is alive in one from the first stage 
 onwards. At Nampont, on the dirty little street, you almost ex- 
 pect to see the dead ass lying ! Our second night was at Beauvais ; 
 glimpses of the old cathedral next morning went for nothing, was 
 in fact nothing to mo ; but the glimpse I had had the night before, 
 as we drove in this way, of the Coffee-house near by, and in it no 
 company but one tall, sashed, epauletted, well-dressed officer strid- 
 ing dismally to and fro, was, and still is, impressive on me, as an 
 almost unrivalled image of human en7iui. I sate usually outside, 
 fair Kitty sometimes, and Strachey oftener, sitting by me on the 
 hind ward seat. Carriage I think was Kitty's own, and except her 
 maid we had no servants. Postilion could not tell me where 
 " Cr^cy " was, when we were in the neighborhood. Country in 
 itself, till near Paris, ugly, hut all gilded with the light of young 
 lively wonder. Little scrubby boys playing at ball on their scrub- 
 by patch of parish green ; how strange ! " CharitS, madame, pour 
 une pauvre miserable, qui, elle, en a Men hesoin F sang the poor lame 
 beggar girls at the carriage door. None of us spoke French well. 
 Strachey grew even worse as we proceeded, and at length was 
 quite an amusement to hear. At Paris he gave it up altogether, 
 and would speak nothing but English ; which, aided by his vivid 
 looks and gestures, he found in shops and the like to answer much 
 better. " Quelque chose a hoire, monsieur," said an exceptional re- 
 spectful postilion at the coach window, before quitting. " Nong, 
 vous avez drive devilish slow," answered Strachey, readily, and in a 
 positive, half-quizzing tone. This was on the way home, followed 
 by a storm of laughter on our part, and an angry blush on the 
 postilion's. 
 
 From about Montmorency (with the shadow of Rousseau), es- 
 pecially from St. Denis to Paris, the drive was quite beautiful, and 
 full of interesting expectation. Magnificent broad highway, great 
 
EDWAKD IRVING. 131 
 
 old trees and then potlierb gardens on each hand, all silent too in 
 the brilliant October afternoon ; hardly one vehicle or person met, 
 till, on mounting the shoulder of Montmarte, an iron gate, and 
 douanier with his brief question before opening, and Paris, wholly 
 and at once, lay at our feet. A huge bowl or deepish saucer of seven 
 miles in diameter ; not a breath of smoke or dimness anywhere ; 
 every roof, and dome, and spire, and chimney-top clearly visible, 
 and the skylight sparkling like diamonds. I have never, since or 
 before, seen so fine a view of a town. I think the fair Miss Kitty 
 was sitting by me ; but the curious speclded straw hats and cos- 
 tumes and physiognomies of the Faubourg St. (fashionable, I for- 
 get it at this moment), are the memorablest circumstances to me. 
 We alighted in the Rue de la Paix (clean and good hotel, not now 
 a hotel), admired our rooms, all covered with mirrors ; our grates, 
 or grate backs, each with a cupidon cast on it ; and roved about 
 the Boulevards in a happy humor till sunset or later. Decidedly 
 later, in the still dusk, I remember sitting down in tbe Place Ven- 
 d6me, on the steps of the Column, there to smoke a cigar. Hardly 
 had I arranged myself when a bustle of military was heard round 
 me ; clean, trim, handsome soldiers, blue and white, ranked them- 
 selves in some quality, drummers and drums especially faultless, 
 and after a slioulder arms or so, marched off in parties, drums fierce- 
 ly and finely clangouring their rantan-plan. Setting the watch or 
 watches of this human city, as I understood it. " Ha ! my tight 
 little fellows in blue, you also have got drums then, none better ; 
 and all the world is of kin whether it all agree or not !" was my 
 childlike reflection as I silently looked on. 
 
 Paris proved vastly entertaining to me. " Walking about the 
 streets would of itself (as Gray the poet says) have amused me for 
 weeks." I met two young Irishmen who had seen me once at Ir- 
 ving's, who were excellent ciceroni. They were on their way to the 
 liberation of Greece, a totally wildgoose errand as then seemed to 
 me, and as perhaps they themselves secretly guessed, but which en- 
 titled them to call on everybody for an " autograph to our album," 
 their main employment just now. They were clever enough young 
 fellows, and soon came home again out of Greece. Considerably 
 the taller and cleverer, black-haired and with a strong Irish accent, 
 was called Tennent, whom I never saw again. The milky, smaller 
 blondine figure, cousin to him, was Emerson, whom I met twenty- 
 five years afterwards at Allan Cunningham's, as Sir Emerson Ten- 
 nent, late Governor of Ceylon, and complimented, simpleton that I 
 was ! on the now finely hrown color of his hair ! We have not met 
 
132 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 since. There was also of their acquaintances a pleasant Mr. Mal- 
 colm, ex-lieutenant of the 42nd, native of the Orkney Islands, only 
 son of a clergyman there, who as a young ardent lad had joined 
 Wellington's army at the Siege of St. Sebastian, and got badly wound- 
 ed (lame for life) at the battle of Thoulouse that same season. 
 Peace coming, he was invalided on half-pay, and now lived with 
 his widowed mother in some clean upper floor in Edinburgh on 
 frugal kind and pretty terms, hanging loosely by literature, for 
 which he had some talent. We used to see him in Edinburgh 
 with pleasure and favor, on setting up our own poor household 
 there. He was an amiable, intelligent little fellow, of lively talk 
 and speculation, always cheerful and with a traceable vein of hu- 
 mor and of pathos withal (there being much of sadness and affec- 
 tion hidden in him), all kept, as his natural voice was, in a fine low 
 melodious tone. He wrote in annuals and the like vehicles really 
 pretty verses, and was by degrees establishing something like a 
 real reputation, which might have risen higher and higher in that 
 kind, but his wound still hung about him and he soon died, a year 
 or two after our quitting Edinburgh ; which was the last we saw 
 of him. 
 
 Poor little Malcolm! he quietly loved his mother very much, his 
 vanished father too, and had pieties and purities very alien to the 
 wild reckless ways of practice and of theory which the army had 
 led him into. Most of his army habitudes (with one private ex- 
 ception, I think, nearly all) he had successfully washed off from 
 him. To the reprobate " theories " he had never been but heartily 
 abhorrent. "No God, I tell you, and I will prove it to you on the 
 spot," said some elder blackguard Lieutenant among a group of 
 them in their tent one evening (a Hanoverian, if I recollect) — "on 
 the spot — none." " How then ?" exclaimed Ensign Malcolm, much 
 shocked. The Hanoverian lifted his canteen, turned the bottom of 
 it up. "Empty; you see we have no more rum." Then holding 
 it aloft into the air, said in atone of request, "Fill us that ;" paused 
 an instant, turned it bottom up empty still, and with a victorious 
 glance at his companions, set it down again as a thing that spoke 
 for itself. This was one of Malcolm's war experiences, of which he 
 could pleasantly report a great many. These and the physical ag- 
 onies and horrors witnessed and felt had given him a complete dis- 
 gust for war. He could not walk far, always had a marked halt in 
 walking, but was otherwise my pleasantest companion in Paris. 
 
 Poor Louis Dix-huit had been "lying in state-" as we passed 
 through St. Denis ; Paris was all plastered with placards, " Le lioi 
 
EDWARD IRVING. I33 
 
 est mort; vive le Roi P announciug from Chateaubriand a pamphlet 
 of that title. I made no effort to see Chateaubriand, did not see 
 his pamphlet either ; in the streets, galleries, cafes, 1 had enough 
 and to spare. "Washington Irving was said to be in Paris, a kind 
 of lion at that time, whose books I somewhat esteemed. One day 
 the Emerson Tennent people bragged that they had engaged him 
 to breakfast with us at a certain cafe next morning. We all at- 
 tended duly, Strachey among the rest, but no Washington came. 
 "Couldn't rightly come," said Malcolm to me in a judicious aside, 
 as we cheerfully breakfasted without him. I never saw Washington 
 at all, but still have a mild esteem of the good man. To the Lou- 
 vre Gallery, alone or accompanied, I went often ; got rather faiutish 
 good of the pictures there, but at least no harm, being mute and 
 deaf on the subject. Sir Peter Laurie came to me one day ; took 
 me to dinner, and plenty of hard-headed London talk. 
 
 Another day, nobody with me and very few iu the gallery at all, 
 there suddenly came storming past, with dishevelled hair and large 
 besoms in their hands, which they shoved out on any bit of paper 
 or the like, a row of wild Savoyards, distractedly proclaiming "Le 
 Roi !" " le Roi !" and almost oversetting people in their fierce speed 
 to clear the way. Le Roi, Charles Dix in person, soon appeared ac- 
 cordingly, with three or four attendants, very ugly people, espe- 
 cially one of them (who had blear eyes and small bottle nose, never 
 identifiable to my inquiries since). Charles himself was a swart, 
 slightish, insipid-looking man, but with much the air of a gentle- 
 man, insipidly endeavoring to smile and be popular as he walked 
 past ; sparse public indifferent to him, and silent nearly all. I 
 had a real sympathy with the poor gentleman, but could not bring 
 up the least Vive le Roi in the circumstances. We understood he 
 was going to look at a certain picture or painting now on the 
 easel, in a room at the very end (entrance end), of the gallery 
 which one had often enough seen, generally with profane mockery 
 if with any feeling. Picture of, or belonging to, the birth or bap- 
 tism of what they called the child of miracle (the assassinated 
 Due de Berri's posthumous child, hodie Henri V. in 'partiljus). Pict- 
 ure as yet distressingly ugly, mostly in a smear of dead colors, 
 brown and even green, and with a kind of horror in the subject 
 of it as well. How tragical are men once more ; how merciless 
 withal to one another! I had not the least real pity for Charles 
 Dix^s pious pilgriming to such an object ; the poor mother of it 
 and her immense hopes and pains, I did not even think of then. 
 This was all I ever saw of the legitimate Bourbon line, with which 
 
134 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 and its tragedies I "was to have more concern -within the next ten 
 years. 
 
 My reminiscences of Paris and its old aspects and localities were 
 of visible use to me in writing of the devolution by-and-by ; the 
 rest could only be reckoned under the head of amusement, but had 
 its vague profits withal, and still has. Old Legendre, the mathe- 
 matician (whose Geometry I had translated in Edinburgh), was the 
 only man of real note with whom I exchanged a few words ; a tall, 
 bony, gray old man, who received me with dignity and kindness; 
 introduced me to his niece, a brisk little brown gentlewoman who 
 kept house for him ; asked about my stay here, and finding I was 
 just about to go, answered '^DiantreF with an obliging air of re- 
 gret. His rugged sagacious, sad and stoical old face is still dimly 
 present with me. At a meetiug of the Institut I saw and well re- 
 member the figure of Trismegistus Laplace ; the skirt of his long 
 blue-silk dressing-gown (such his costume, unique in the place, his 
 age and his fame being also unique) even touched me as he passed 
 on the session's rising. He was tall, thin, clean, serene, his face, 
 perfectly smooth, as a healthy man of fifty's, bespoke intelligence 
 keen and ardent, rather than deep or great. In the eyes was a 
 dreamy smile, with something of pathos in it, and perhaps some- 
 thing of contempt. The session itself was profoundly stupid ; some 
 lout of a provincial reading about Vers a sole, and big Vauquelin 
 the chemist (noticed by me) fallen sound asleep. Strachey and I 
 went one evening to call upon M. de Ch^zy, Professor oi Persic, with 
 whom he, or his brother and he, had communicated while in India. 
 We found him high aloft, but in a clean snug apartment, burly, 
 hearty, glad enough to see us, only that Strachey would speak no 
 French, and introduced himself with some shrill-sounding sentence, 
 the first word of which was clearly salaam. Ch^zy tried lamely for 
 a pass or two what Persian he could muster, but hastened to get 
 out of it, and to talk even to me, who owned to a little French, 
 since Strachey would own to none. We had rather an amusing 
 twenty minutes ; Ch^zy a glowing and very emphatic man ; " ce 
 hideux reptile de Langles " was a phrase he had once used to Strach- 
 ey's brother, of his chief French rival in the Persic field ! I heard 
 Cuvier lecture one day ; a strong German kind of face, ditto intel- 
 ligence as manifested in the lecture, which reminded me of one of 
 old Dr. Gregory's in Edinburgh. I was at a sermon in Ste. Gene- 
 vieve's ; main audience 500 or so of serving -maids; preacher a 
 dizened fool in hour-glass hat, who ran to and fro in his balcony or 
 pulpit, and seemed much contented with himself; heard another 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 135 
 
 foolish preacher, Protestant, at the Oratoire (console-toi, France ! 
 on the death of Louis Dix-Mif). Looked silently into the Morgue 
 one morning (infinitely better sermon that stern old gray-haired 
 corpse lying there !); looked into the Hdtel Dieu and its poor sick- 
 beds once ; was much in the Pont-Neuf region {on tond les cJiiens et 
 coupe les chats, et va en ville, etc., etc.) ; much in the Palais Royal 
 and adjacencies ; and the night before leaving found I ought to 
 visit one theatre, and by happy accident came upon Talma playing 
 there. A heavy, shortish numb-footed man, face like a warming- 
 pan for size, and with a strange most ponderous yet delicate ex- 
 pression in the big dull-glowing black eyes and it. Incomparably 
 the best actor I ever saw. Play was " CEdipe " . (Voltaire's very 
 first) ; place the Theatre Frangais. Talma died within about a 
 year after. 
 
 Of the journey home I can remember nothing but the French 
 part, if any part of it were worth remembering. At Dover I must 
 still have found the Irvings, and poor outskirts and insignificant 
 fractions of solitary dialogues on the Kent shore (far inferior to our 
 old Fife ones) have not yet entirely vanished; e. g. strolling to- 
 gether on the beach one evening, we had repeatedly passed at 
 some distance certain building operations, upon which by-and-by 
 the bricklayers seemed to be getting into much vivacity, crowding 
 round the last gable top ; in fact just about finishing their house 
 then. Irving grasped my arm, said in a low tone of serious emo- 
 tion, " See, they are going to bring out their topstone with shout- 
 ing !" I inquired of a poor man what it was ; " You see, sir, they 
 gets allowance," answered he; that was all — a silent degluti- 
 tion of some beer. Irving sank from his Scriptural altitudes ; I 
 no doubt profanely laughing rather. There are other lingering 
 films of this sort, but I can give them no date of before or after, 
 and find nothing quite distinct till that of our posting up to Lon- 
 don. I should say of the Stracheys posting, who took me as guest, 
 the Irvings being now clearly gone. Canterbury and the (site of 
 the) shrine of St. Thomas I did see, but it must have been before. 
 We had a pleasant drive throughout, weather still sunny though 
 cool, and about nine or ten p.m. of the second day I was set down 
 at a little tavern on Shooter's Hill, where some London mail or dil- 
 igence soon picked me up, and speedily landed me within reach 
 of hospitable Pentonville, which gave me a welcome like itself 
 There I must have stayed a few days, and not above a few. 
 
 I was now again in London (probably about the middle of 
 November) ; hither after much sad musing and moping I had de- 
 
136 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 cided on returning for another while. My "Schiller" (of whicli I 
 felt then the intrinsic wretchedness or utter leanness and common- 
 place) was to be stitched together from the " London Magazine," 
 and put forth with some trimmings and additions as a book; 
 £100 for it on publication in that shape (zero till then), that 
 was the bargain made, and I had come to fulfil that, almost 
 more uncertain than ever about all beyond. I soon got lodg- 
 ings in Southampton Street, Islington, in Irving's vicinity, and 
 did henceforth with my best diligence endeavor to fulfil that, 
 at a far slower rate than I had expected. I frequently called on 
 Irving (he never or not often on me, whicb I did not take amiss), 
 and frequently saw him otherwise, but have already written down 
 miscellaneously most of the remembrances that belong to this spe- 
 cific date of months. On the whole, I think now he felt a good 
 deal unhappy, probably getting deeper and deeper sunk in mani- 
 fold cares of his own, and that our communications had not the old 
 copiousness and flowing freedom ; nay, that even since I left for 
 Birmingham there was perhaps a diminution. London "pulpit 
 popularity," the smoke of that foul witches' cauldron : there was 
 never anything else to blame. I stuck rigorously to my work, to 
 my Badams regimen, though it did but little for me, but I was sick 
 of body and of mind, in endless dubiety, very desolate and miser- 
 able, and the case itself, since nobody could help, admonished me 
 to silence. One day on the road down to Battle Bridge I remem- 
 ber recognizing Irving's broad hat, atop amid the tide of passen- 
 gers, and his little child sitting on his arm, wife probably near by. 
 " Why should I hurry up ? They are parted from me, the old days 
 are no more," was my sad reflection in my sad humor. 
 
 Another morning, what was wholesomer and better, happening to 
 notice, as I stood looking out on the bit of green under my bedroom 
 window, a trim and rather pretty hen actively paddling about and 
 picking up what food might be discoverable. " See," I said to my- 
 self; " look, thou fool! Here is a two-legged creature with scarce- 
 ly half a thimbleful of poor brains ; thou call'st thyself a man with 
 nobody knows how much brain, and reason dwelling in it ; and be- 
 hold how the one life is regulated and how the other ! In God's 
 name concentrate, collect whatever of reason thou hast, and direct 
 it on the one thing needful." Irving, when we did get into inti- 
 mate dialogue, was affectionate to me as ever, and had always to 
 the end a great deal of sense and insight into things about him, 
 but he could not much help me; how could anybody but myself? 
 By degrees I was doing so, taking counsel of that symbolic Hen ! 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 137 
 
 and settling a good few things. First, and most of all, that I 
 would, renouncing ambitions, " fine openings," and the advice of 
 all bystanders and friends, ivho didnH Mow ; go ho7ne to Annandale, 
 were this work done; provide myself a place where I could ride, fol- 
 low regimen, and be free of noises (which were unendurable) till if 
 possible I could recover a little health. Much followed out of that, 
 all manner of adjustments gathering round it. As head of these 
 latter I had offered to let my dearest be free of me, and of any virt- 
 ual engagement she might think there was; but she would not 
 hear of it, not of that, the noble soul ! but stood resolved to share 
 my dark lot along with me, be it what it might. Alas ! her love 
 was never completely known to me, and how celestial it was, till I 
 had lost her. " Oh, for five minutes more of her !" I have often said, 
 since April last, to tell her with what perfect love and admiration, 
 as of the beautifallest of known human souls, I did intrinsically 
 always regard her ! But all minutes of the time are inexorably 
 -past ; be wise, all ye living, and remember that time^MSses and does 
 not return. 
 
 Apart from regular work upon "Schiller," I had a good deal of 
 talking with people and social moving about which was not dis- 
 agreeable. With Allan Cunningham I had made ready acquaint- 
 ance ; a cheerful social man ; " solid Dumfries mason with a sur- 
 face polish given him," was one good judge's definition years after- 
 wards ! He got at once into Nithsddle when you talked with him, 
 which, though he was clever and satirical, I didn't very much en- 
 joy. Allan had sense and shrewdness on all points, especially the 
 practical ; but out of Nithsdale, except for his perennial good-hu- 
 mor and quiet cautions (which might have been exemplary to me) 
 was not instructive. I was at the christening of one of Allan's 
 children over in Irving's, where there was a cheery evening, and 
 the Cunninghams to sleep there ; one other of the guests, a pleas- 
 ant enough Yorkshire youth, going with me to a spare room I could 
 command. My commonest walk was fieldward, or down into the 
 city (by many different old lanes and routes), more rarely by Port- 
 land Place (Fitzroy Square and Mrs. Strachey's probably first), to 
 Piccadilly and the West End. One muddy evening there came to 
 me, what enlightened all the mirk and mud, by the Herren Grafen 
 von Bentincks' servant, a short letter from Goethe in Weimar ! It 
 was in answer to the copy of " Wilhelm Meister " which (doubtless 
 with some reverent bit of note) I had despatched to him six months 
 ago, without answer till now. He was kind though distant brief, 
 apologized, by his great age {lioTien JaJiren), for the delay, till at 
 
138 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 length the Herren Grafen von Bentincks' passage homewards had 
 operated on him as a hint to do the needful, and likewise to pro- 
 cure for both parties, Herren Grafen and self, an agreeable acquaint- 
 ance, of which latter naturally neither I nor the Herren Grafen ever 
 heard more. Some twenty years afterwards a certain Lord George 
 Bentinck, whom newspapers called the " stable minded " from his 
 previous turf propensities, suddenly quitting all these and taking 
 to statistics and Tory politics, became famous or noisy for a good 
 few months, chiefly by intricate statistics and dull vehemence, so 
 far as I could see, a stupid enough phenomenon for me, till he sud- 
 denly died, poor gentleman ! I then remembered that this was 
 probably one of the Herren Grafen von Bentinck whose acquaint- 
 ance I had missed as above. 
 
 One day Irving took me with him on a curious little errand he 
 had. It was a bright summer morning ; must therefore have pre- 
 ceded the Birmingham and Dover period. His errand was this. 
 A certain loquacious extensive Glasgow publisher* was in London 
 for several weeks on business, and often came to Irving, wasting 
 (as I used to think) a good deal of his time in zealous discourse 
 about many vague things ; in particular about the villany of com- 
 mon publishers, how, for example, on their " half profits system," 
 they would show the poor authors a printer's account pretending to 
 be paid in full, printer's signature visibly appended, printer having 
 really touched a sum less by 25 per cent., and sic de cceteris. All an 
 arranged juggle to cheat the poor author, and sadly convince him 
 that his moiety was nearly or altogether zero divided by two ! 
 Irving could not believe it ; denied stoutly on behalf of his own 
 printer, one Bensley, a noted man in his craft, and getting nothing 
 but negatory smiles and kindly but inexorable contradiction, said 
 he would go next morning and see. We walked along somewhere 
 Holbornwards, found Bensley and wife in a bright, quiet, comfort- 
 able- room, just finishing breakfast; a fattish, solid, rational, and 
 really amiable-looking pair of people, especially the wife, who had 
 a plump, cheerfully experienced matronly air. By both of whom 
 we, i.e. Irving (for I had nothing to do but be silent), were warmly 
 and honorably welcomed, and constrained at least to sit, since we 
 would do nothing better. Irving with grave courtesy laid the case 
 before Bensley, perhaps showed him his old signature and account, 
 and asked if that was or was not really the sum he had received. 
 
 • Dr. Chalmers's especially; had been a school - master ; Collin perhaps his 
 name. 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 139 
 
 Bensley, -with, body and face writhed uneasily ; evidently loath to 
 lie, but evidently obliged by the laws of trade to do it. " Yes, on 
 the whole, that was the sum !" upon which we directly went our 
 ways ; both of us convinced, I believe, though only one of us said 
 so. Irving had a high opinion of men, and was always mortified 
 when he found it in any instance no longer tenable. 
 
 Irving was sorrowfully occupied at this period, as I now per- 
 ceive, in scanning and surveying the wrong side of that immense 
 popularity, the outer or right side of which had been so splendid 
 and had given rise to such sacred and glorious hopes. The crowd 
 of people flocking round him continued in abated but still super- 
 abundant quantity and vivacity; but it was not of the old high 
 quality any more. The thought that the Christian religion was 
 again to dominate all minds, and the world to become an Eden by 
 his thrice-blessed means, was fatally declaring itself to have been 
 a dream ; and he would not consent to believe it such : never he ! 
 That was the secret of his inward quasi-desperate resolutions ; out 
 into the wild struggles and clutchings towards the unattainable, 
 the unregainable, which were more and more conspicuous in the 
 sequel. He was now, I gradually found, listening to certain inter- 
 preters of prophecy, thinking to cast his own great faculty into 
 that hopeless quagmire along with them. These and the like res- 
 olutions, and the dark humor which was the mother of them, had 
 been on the growing hand during all this first London visit of 
 mine, and were fast coming to outward development by the time I 
 left for Scotland again. 
 
 About the beginning of March, 1825, 1 had at length, after fierce 
 struggling and various disappointments from the delay of others, 
 got my poor business winded up; "Schiller" published, paid for, 
 left to the natural neglect of mankind (which was perfect so far 
 as I ever heard or much cared), and in humble but condensed res- 
 olute and quiet humor was making my bits of packages, bidding 
 my poor adieus, just in act to go. Everybody thought me head- 
 strong and foolish ; Irving less so than others, though he too 
 could have no understanding of my dyspeptic miseries, my intoler- 
 able sufferings from noises, etc., etc. He was always kind, and 
 spoke hope if personal topics turned up. Perhaps it was the very 
 day before my departure, at least it is the last I recollect of him, we 
 were walking in the streets multifariously discoursing : a dim gray 
 day, but dry and airy. At the corner of Cockspur Street we paused 
 for a moment, meeting Sir John Sinclair ("Statistical Account of 
 Scotland," etc.), whom I had never seen before and never saw 
 
140 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 again. A lean old man, tall but stooping, in tartan cloak, face very- 
 wrinkly, nose blue, physiognomy vague and with distinction as one 
 might have expected it to be. He spoke to Irving with benignant 
 respect, whether to me at all I don't recollect. A little farther on 
 in Parliament Street, somewhere near the Admiralty (that now is, 
 and perhaps then was), we ascended certain stairs, narrow newish 
 wooden staircase the last of them, and came into a bare, clean, com- 
 fortless, official little room (fire gone out), where an elderly official 
 little gentleman was seated within rails, busy in the red-tape line. 
 This was the Honorable Something or other, great in Scripture 
 prophecy ; in which he had started some sublime new idea, well 
 worth prosecuting as Irving had assured me. Their mutual greet- 
 ings were cordial and respectful ; and a lively dialogue ensued on 
 prophetic matters, especially on the sublime new idea; I, strictly 
 nnparticipaut, sitting silently apart till it was done. The Honor- 
 able Something had a look of perfect politeness, perfect silliness ; 
 his face, heavily wrinkled, went smiling and shuttling about at a 
 wonderful rate ; and in the smile there seemed to me to be lodged 
 a frozen sorrow as if bordering on craze. On coming out I asked 
 Irving, perhaps too markedly, " Do you really think that gentleman 
 can throw any light to yon on anything whatever?" To which 
 he answered good-naturedly, but in a grave tone, " Yes, I do." Of 
 which the fruits were seen before long. This is the last thing I 
 can recollect of Irving in my London visit ; except perhaps some 
 gray shadow of him giving me "Farewell" with express "blessing." 
 I paused some days at Birmingham ; got rich gifts sent after me 
 by Mrs. Strachey ; beautiful desk, gold pencil, etc., which were 
 soon Another^s, ah me ! and are still here. I saw Manchester too, 
 for the first time (strange hagman ways in the Palace Inn there) ; 
 walked to Oldham ; savage-looking scene of Sunday morning ; old 
 school-fellow of mine, very stupid but very kind, being Curate 
 there. Shot off too over the Yorkshire moors to Marsden, where 
 another boy and college friend of mine was (George Johnson, since 
 surgeon in Gloucester) ; and spent three dingy but impressive days 
 in poking into those mute wildernesses and their rough habitudes 
 and populations. At four o'clock, iu my Palace Inn (Boots having 
 forgotten me), awoke by good luck of myself, and saved my place 
 on the coach roof. Eemember the Blackburns, Boltons, and their 
 smoke clouds, to right and left grimly black, and the gray March 
 winds; Lancashire was not all smoky then, but only smoky in 
 parts. Remember the Bush Inn at Carlisle, and quiet luxurious 
 shelter it yielded for the night, much different from now. (" Betty^ 
 
EDWARD IRVING. . 141 
 
 a pan o' cooals !" shouted the waiter, an Eskdale man by dialect, 
 and in five minutes the trim Betty had done her feat, and your 
 clean sleek bed was comfortably warm.) At Ecclefechan, next 
 day, within two miles or so of my father's, while the coach was 
 changing horses, I noticed through the window my little sister 
 Jean earnestly looking up for me ; she, with Jenny, the youngest 
 of us all, was at school in the village, and had come out daily of 
 late to inspect the coach in hope of me, always in vain till this day ; 
 her bonny little blush and radiancy of look when I let down the 
 window and suddenly disclosed myself are still present to me. In 
 four days' time I now (December 2, 1866), hope to see this brave 
 Jean again (now " Mrs. Aitken," from Dumfries, and a hardy, hearty 
 wife and mother). Jenny, poor little thing, has had her crosses 
 and difficulties, but has managed them well ; and now lives, con- 
 tented enough and industrious as ever, with husband and three or 
 two daughters, in Hamilton, Canada West, not far from which are 
 my brother Alick too, and others dear to me. " Double, double, 
 toil and trouble " — such, with result or without it, are our wander- 
 ings in this world." 
 
 My poor little establishment at Hoddam Hill* (close by the 
 " Tower of Repentance," as if symbolically !) I do not mean to speak 
 of here; a neat compact little farm, rent £100, which my father 
 had leased for me, on which was a pretty ish-looking cottage for 
 dwelling-house (had been the factor's place, who was retiring), and 
 from the windows such a " view " (fifty miles in radius, from beyond 
 Tyndale to beyond St. Bees, Sol way Frith, and all the fells to Ingle- 
 borough inclusive), as Britain or the world could hardly have 
 matched ! Here the ploughing, etc., etc., was already in progress 
 (which I often rode across to see), and here at term day (May 26th, 
 1825) I established myself, set up my books and bits of implements 
 and Lares, and took to doing "German Romance" as my daily 
 work, "ten pages daily" my stint, which, barring some rare acci- 
 dents, I faithfully accomplished. Brother Alick was my practical 
 farmer; ever-kind and beloved mother, with one of the little girls, 
 was generally there ; brother John, too, oftenest, who had just tak- 
 en his degree. These, with a little man and ditto maid, were our 
 establishment. It lasted only one year, owing, I believe, to indis- 
 tinctness of bargain first of all, and then to arbitrary high-handed 
 temper of our landlord (used to a rather prostrate style of obedi- 
 
 * A house with small farm attached, three miles from Maiuhill, and visible from 
 the fields at the back of it. 
 
142 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 ence, and uot finding it here, but a polite appeal to fair-play in- 
 stead). One whole summer and autumn were defaced by a great 
 deal of paltry bother on that head, superadded to the others; and 
 at last, lease of Mainhill, too, being nearly out, it was decided to 
 quit said landlord's territories altogether, and so end his contro- 
 versies with us. 
 
 Next 26th of May we went all of us to Scotsbrig (a much better 
 farm, which was now bidden for and got), and where, as turned out, 
 I continued only a few months, wedded, and to Edinburgh in Octo- 
 ber following. Ah me ! what a retrospect now ! 
 
 With all its manifold petty troubles, this year at Hoddam Hill 
 has a rustic beauty and dignity to me, and lies now like a not igno- 
 ble russet-coated idyll in my memory ; one of the quietest, ou the 
 whole, and perhaps the most triumphantly important of my life. 
 I lived very silent, diligent, had long solitary rides (on my wild Ir- 
 ish horse " Larry," good for the dietetic part), my meditatings, mus- 
 ings, and reflections were continual ; my thoughts went wandering 
 (or travelling) through eternity, through time, and through space, 
 80 far as poor I had scanned or known, and were now to my end- 
 less solacement coming back with tidings to me ! This year I found 
 that I had conquered all ray scepticisms, agonizing doubtings, fear- 
 ful wrestlings with the foul and vile and soul-murdering Mud-gods 
 of my epoch ; had escaped as from a worse than Tartarus, with all 
 its Phlegethons and Stygian quagmires, and was emerging free in 
 spirit into the eternal blue of ether, where, blessed be heaven ! I 
 have for the spiritual part ever since lived, looking down upon the 
 welterings of my poor fellow - creatures, in such multitudes and 
 millions still stuck in that fatal element, and have had no concern 
 whatever in their Puseyisms, ritualisms, metaphysical controver- 
 sies and cobwebberies, and no feeling of my own except honest si- 
 lent pity for the serious or religious part of them, and occasional 
 indignation, for the poor world's sake, at the frivolous secular and 
 impious part, with their universal sufl"rages, their Nigger emanci- 
 pations, sluggard and scoundrel Protection societies, and " unex- 
 ampled prosperities" for the time being ! What my pious joy and 
 gratitude then was, let the pious soul figure. In a fine and verita- 
 ble sense, I, poor, obscure, without outlook, almost without worldly 
 hope, had beconie independent of the world. What was death it- 
 self, from the world, to what I had come through? I understood 
 well what the old Christian x>eople meant by " conversion " by God's 
 infinite mercy to them. I had, in efliect, gained an immense vic- 
 tory, and for a number of years had, in spite of nerves and chagrins, 
 
EDWAKD IRVING. . 143 
 
 a constant inward happiness that was qui te royal and supreme, in 
 which all temporal evil was transient and insignificant, and which 
 essentially remains with me still, though far oftener eclipsed and ly- 
 ing deeper doivn than then. Once more, thank Heaven for its high- 
 est gift. I then felt, and still feel, endlessly indebted to Goethe in 
 the business. He, in his fashion, I perceived, had travelled the 
 steep rocky road before me, the first of the moderns. Bodily 
 health itself seemed improving. Bodily health was all I had 
 really lost in this grand spiritual battle now gained; and that, 
 too, I may have hoped would gradually return altogether, which 
 it never did, and was far enough from doing ! Meanwhile my 
 thoughts were very peaceable, full of pity and humanity as they 
 had never been before. Nowhere can I recollect of myself such 
 pious musings, communings silent and siDontaneous with Fact and 
 Nature, as in these poor Annandale localities. The sound of the 
 kirk-bell once or twice on Sunday mornings, from Hoddam kirk, 
 about a mile off on the plain below me, was strangely touching, like 
 the departing voice of eighteen hundred years. Frank Dickson 
 at rare intervals called in passing. Nay, once for about ten days 
 my dearest and beautifiiUest herself came across out of Nithsdale 
 to "pay my mother a visit," when she gained all hearts, and we 
 mounted our swift little horses and careered about ! No wonder I 
 call that year idyllic, in spite of its russet coat. My darling and I 
 were at the Grange (Mrs. Johnston's), at Annan (Mrs. Dickson's), 
 and we rode together to Dumfries, where her aunts and grand- 
 mother were, whom she was to pause with on this her road home 
 to Templand.* How beautiful, how sad and strange all that now 
 looks ! Her beautiful little heart was evidently much cast down, 
 right sorry to part, though we hoped it was but for some short 
 while. I remember the heights of Mouse wold, with Dumfries and 
 the granite mountains lying in panorama seven or eight miles off 
 to our left, and what she artlessly yet finely said to me there. Ob, 
 my darling, not Andromache dressed in all the art of a Racine looks 
 more high and queenly to me, or is more of a tragic poem than thou 
 and thy noble pilgrimage beside me in this poor thorny, muddy 
 world ! 
 
 I had next to no direct correspondence wdth Irving ; a little 
 note or so on business, nothing more. Nor was Mrs. Montague 
 much more instructive on that head, who wrote me high-sound- 
 ing amiable things which I could not but respond to more or less, 
 
 * House in Nithsdale where Miss Uileh's grandfather lived. 
 
144 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 though dimly aware of their quality. Nor did the sincere and ar- 
 dent Mrs. Strachey, who wrote seldomer, almost ever touch upon 
 Irving ; but by some occasional unmelodious clang in all the news- 
 papers (twice over I think in this year), we could sufficiently and 
 with little satisfaction construe his w^ay of life. Twice over he 
 had leaped the barrier, and given rise to criticism of the customary 
 idle sort, loudish universally, and nowhere accurately just. Case 
 first was of preaching to the London Missionary Society ("Mis- 
 sionary " I will call it, though it might be " Bible " or another). 
 On their grand anniversary these people had appointed to him the 
 honor of addressing them, and were numerously assembled expect- 
 ing some flourishes of eloquence and flatteries to their illustrious 
 divinely-blessed Society, ingeniously done and especially with fit 
 hrerity, dinner itself waiting, I suppose, close in the rear. Irving 
 emerged into his speaking place at the due moment, but instead 
 of treating men and office-bearers to a short comfortable dose of 
 honey and butter, opened into strict sharp inquiries, Rhadaman- 
 tliine expositions of duty and ideal, issuing perhaps in actual criti- 
 cism and admonition, gall and vinegar instead of honey; at any 
 rate keeping the poor people locked up there for " above two hours" 
 instead of one hour or less, w ith dinner hot at the end of it. This 
 was much criticised ; " plainly wrong, and produced by love of 
 singularity and too much pride in oneself," voted everybody. For, 
 in fact, a man suddenly holding up the naked inexorable Ideal in 
 face of the clothed, and in England generally plump, comfortable, 
 and pot-bellied Reality, is doing an unexpected and a questionable 
 thing ! 
 
 The next escapade was still worse. At some public meeting, of 
 probably the same " Missionary Society," Irving again held up his 
 ideal, I think not without murmurs from former sufferers by it, q,nd 
 ended by solemnly putting down, not his name to the subscription 
 list, but an actual gold watch, which he said had just arrived to 
 him from his beloved brother lately dead in India.* That of the 
 gold watch tabled had in reality a touch of rash ostentation, and 
 was bitterly crowed over by the able editors for a time. On the 
 whole, one could gather too clearly that Irving's course was beset 
 with pitfalls, barking dogs, and dangers and difficulties unwarned 
 
 * This brother was John, the eldest of the three, an Indian army surgeon, whom 
 I remember once meeting on a " common stair " in Edinburgh, on return, I sup- 
 pose, from some call on a comrade higher up ; a taller man than even Edward, and 
 with a blooming, placid, not very intelligent face, and no squint, whom I easily 
 recognized by fiiniily likeness, but never saw again or before. 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 145 
 
 of, aud that for one who took so little counsel with prudence he 
 perhaps carried his head too high. I had a certain harsh kind of 
 sorrow about poor Irviug, aud my loss of him (and his loss of me 
 on such poor terms as these seemed to he !), hut I carelessly trusted 
 in his strength against whatever mistakes aud impediments, and 
 felt that for the present it was better to be absolved from corre- 
 sponding with him. 
 
 That same year, late in autumn, he was at Annan, only for a 
 night and day, returning from some farther journey, perhaps to 
 Glasgow or Edinburgh ; and had to go on again for London next 
 day. I rode down from Hoddam Hill before nightfall ; found him 
 sitting in the snug little parlor beside his father aud mother, beau- 
 tifully domestic. I think it was the last time I ever saw those 
 good old people. We sate only a few minutes, my thoughts sadly 
 contrasting the beautiful affectionate safety here, and the wild 
 tempestuous hostilities and perils yonder. He left his blessing to 
 each, by name, in a low soft voice. There was something almost 
 tragical to me as he turned round (hitting his hat on the little 
 door lintel), and the next moment was on the dark street, followed 
 only by me. We stept over to Robert Dickson's, his brother-in- 
 law's, and sat there, still talking, for perhaps an hour. Probably 
 his plan of journey was to catch the Glasgow-London mail at Gret- 
 na, and to walk thither, the night being dry, and time at discretion. 
 
 Walk I remember he did, and talk in the interim (three or at 
 most four of us now), not in the least downhearted. Told us, prob- 
 ably in answer to some question of mine, that the projected "Lon- 
 don University " (now of Gower Street) seemed to be progressing 
 towards fulfilment, and how at some meeting Poet Campbell, argu- 
 ing loudly for a purely secular system, had, on sight of Irving enter- 
 ing, at once stopt short, and in the politest way he could, sate down, 
 without another word on the subject. " It will be unreligious, se- 
 cretly anti-religious all the same," said Irving to us. Whether he 
 reported of the projected Athenaeum Club (dear to Basil Montague, 
 among others), I don't recollect ; probably not, as he or I had little 
 interest in that. When the time had come for setting out, and we 
 were all on foot, he called for his three little nieces, having their 
 mother by him ; had them each successively set standing on a 
 chair, laid his hand on the head first of one, with a " Mary Dickson, 
 the Lord bless you !" then of the nest by name, and of the next, 
 " The Lord bless you !" in a sad and solemn tone (with something 
 of elaborate noticeable in it, too), which was painful and dreary to 
 me. A dreary visit altogether, though an unabatedly affectionate 
 
 1 
 
146 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 ou both sides. lu what a contrast, thought I, to the okl sunshiny 
 visits, when Glasgow was head-quarters, and everybody was ob- 
 scure, frank to his feelings, and safe ! Mrs. Dickson, I think, had 
 tears in her eyes. Her, too, he doubtless blessed, but without hand 
 on head. Dickson and the rest of us escorted him a little way ; 
 would then take leave in the common form ; but even that latter 
 circumstance I do not jierfectly recall, only the fact of our escort- 
 ing, and before the visit and after it all is now fallen dark. 
 
 Irving did not re-emerge for many months, and found me then in 
 very greatly changed circumstances. His next visit was to us at 
 Comley Bank,* Edinburgh, not to me any longer! It was probably 
 in spring, 1827, a visit of only half-an-hour, more resembling a 
 " call" from neighbor on neighbor. I think it was connected with 
 Scripture prophecy work, in which he was now deep. At any rate, 
 he was now i^reaching and communing on something or other to 
 numbers of people in Edinburgh, and we had heard of him for per- 
 haps a week before as shiuingly busy in that way, when in some 
 interval he made this little run over to Comley Bank and us. Ho 
 was very friendly, but had a look of trouble, of haste, and confused 
 controversy and anxiety, sadly unlike his old good self. In dialect, 
 too, and manner, things had not bettered themselves, but the con- 
 trary. He talked with an undeniable self-consciousness, and some- 
 thing which you could not but admit to be religious mannerism. 
 Never quite recovered out of that, in spite of our, especially of her, 
 efforts while he stayed. At parting he proposed "to pray" with 
 us, and did, in standing posture, ignoring or conscientiously defying 
 our pretty evident reluctance. " Farewell !" he said soon after ; " I 
 must go then and suffer persecution as my fathers have done." Much 
 painful contradiction he evidently had from the world about him, 
 but also much zealous favor ; and was going that same evening to 
 a public dinner given in honor of him, as we and everybody knew. 
 
 This was, I think, the nadir of my poor Irving, veiled and hooded 
 in these miserable manifold crapes and formulas, so that his brave 
 old self never once looked fairly through, which had not been nor 
 was again quite the case in any other visit or interview. It made 
 one drearily sad. " Dreary," that was the word ; and we had to 
 consider ourselves as not a little divorced from him, and bidden 
 " shift for yourselves." 
 
 We saw him once again in Scotland, at Craigenputtoch,t and had 
 
 * Where Carlylc and hiu wife lived for the first eighteen months after their mar- 
 riage. 
 t A lonely house ou the moor, at the head of Nithsdale, ten miles from Dumfries. 
 
EDWARD IRVING. I47 
 
 him for a niglit, or I almost think for two, on greatly improved 
 terms. He was again on some kind of church business, but it 
 seemed to be of cheerfuller and wider scope than that of Scriptural 
 prophecy last time. Glasgow was now his goal, with frequent 
 preaching as ho went along, the regular clergy actively counte- 
 nancing. I remember dining with him at our parish, minister's, 
 good Mr. Bryden's, with certain Reverends of the neighborhood 
 (the Dow of " Irongray " one of them, who afterwards went crazy 
 on the " Gift of Tongues " affair). I think it must have been from 
 Bryden's that I brought him up to Craigenputtoch, where he was 
 quite alone with us, and franker and happier than I had seen him 
 for a long time. It was beautiful summer weather, pleasant to 
 saunter in with old friends in the safe green solitudes, no sound au- 
 dible but that of our own voices, and of the birds and woods. He 
 talked to me of Henry Drummond as of a fine, a great, evangelical 
 yet courtly and indeed universal gentleman, whom prophetic stud- 
 ies had brought to him, whom I was to know on my next coming to 
 London, more joy to me ! We had been discoursing of religion with 
 mildly worded but entire frankness on my part as usual, and some- 
 thing I said had struck Irving as unexpectedly orthodox, who there- 
 upon ejaculated, " Well, I am right glad to hear that, and will not 
 forget it when it may do you good with one whom I know of;" 
 with Henry Drummond namely, which had led him into that topic, 
 perhaps not quite for the first time. There had been big " prophet- 
 ic conferences," etc., held at Drummond's house (Albury, Surrey), who 
 continued ever after an ardent Irvingite, and rose by degrees in the 
 '^ Tongues" business to be Merophant, and chief over Irving himself. 
 He was far the richest of the sect, and alone belonged to the aristo- 
 cratic circles, abundant in speculation as well as in money; a sharp, 
 elastic, haughty kind of man ; had considerable ardor, disorderly 
 force of intellect and character, and especially an insatiable love 
 of shining and figuiing. In a different element I had afterwards 
 plentiful knowledge of Henry Drummond, and if I got no good of 
 him got also no mischief, which might have been extremely pos- 
 sible. 
 
 We strolled pleasantly, in loose group, Irving the centre of it, 
 over the fields. I remember an excellent little portraiture oi Meth- 
 odism from him on a green knoll where we had loosely sat down. 
 "Not a good religion, sir," said he, confidentially shaking his head 
 in answer to my question ; " far too little of spiritual conscience, 
 far too much of temporal appetite ; goes hunting and watching 
 after its own emotions, that is, mainly its own nervous system ; an 
 
148 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 essentially sensuous religion, depending on the body, not on tlio 
 soul !" "Fit only for a gross and vulgar-minded people," I perhaps 
 added; "a religion so called, and the essence of it principally cow- 
 ardice and hunger, terror of pain and appetite for pleasure both car- 
 ried to the infinite ;" to which he would sorrowfully assent in a 
 considerable degree. My brother John, lately come home from 
 Germany, said to me next day, " That was a pretty little ScMlderun^ 
 (portraiture) he threw off for us, that of the Methodists, wasn't it ?" 
 
 At Dunscore, in the evening, there was sermon and abundant 
 rustic concourse, not in the kirk but round it in the kirkyard for 
 convenience of room. I attended with most of our people {one of 
 us not — busy she at home "field marshalling," the noble little 
 soul!). I remember nothing of sermon or subject, except that it 
 went flowingly along like true discourse, direct from the inner res- 
 ervoirs, and that everybody seemed to listen with respectful satis- 
 faction. We rode pleasantly home in the dusk, and soon after- 
 wards would retire, Irving having to "catch the Glasgow coach" 
 early next day. Next day, correct to time, he and I were on horse- 
 back soon after breakfast, and rode leisurely along towards Auld^ 
 girth Bridge, some ten miles from us, Avhere the coach was to i)ass. 
 Irving's talk, or what of it I remember, turned chiefly, and in a 
 cheerful tone, upon touring to the Continent, a beautiful six weeks 
 of rest which he was to have in that form (and I to be taken with 
 him as dragoman, were it nothing more !), which I did not at the 
 time believe in, and which was far enough from ever coming. On 
 nearing the goal he became a little anxious about his coach, but we 
 were there in perfect time, "still fifteen minutes to spare," and 
 stept into the inn to wait over a real, or (on my part) theoretic 
 glass of ale. Irving was still but midway in his glass when the 
 coach, sooner than expected, was announced. "Does not change 
 here, changes at Thoruhill !" so that there was not a moment to be 
 lost. Irving sprang hastily to the coach roof (no other seat left), 
 and was at once bowled away, waving me his kind farewell, and 
 vanishing among the woods. This was probably the last time I 
 ever had Irving as my guest ; nay, as guest for nights or even a 
 night it was probably the first time. In Scotland I never saw him 
 again. Our next meeting was in London, autumn of the year 1831. 
 
 By that time there had been changes both with him and me. 
 With him a sad enough change, namely, deposition from the Scottish 
 Established Kirk, which he felt to be a sore blow, though to me it 
 seemed but the whiff of a telum imhelle for such a man. What the 
 particulars of his heresy were I never knew, or have totally forgot- 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 149 
 
 ten. Some doctrine he held about the human nature of the Divine 
 Man ; that Christ's human uature was liable to sin like our own, 
 and continually tempted thereto, which by His divine nobleness He 
 kept continually perfect and pure from sin. This doctrine, which 
 as an impartial bystander, I, from Irving's point of view and from 
 ray own, entirely assented to, Irving had by voice and pen been 
 publishing, and I remember hearing vaguely of its being much 
 canvassed up and down, always with impatience and a boundless 
 contempt, when I did hear of it. " The gig of respectability again !" 
 I would say or think to myself. " They consider it more honorable 
 to their Supreme of the world to have had his work done for him 
 than to have done it himself. Flunkeys irredeemable, carrying their 
 plush into highest heaven !" This I do remember, but whether this 
 was the damning heresy, this or some other, I do not now know. 
 Indeed, my own grief on the matter, and it had become a chronic 
 dull and perennial grief, was that such a soul had anything to do 
 with " heresies" and mean puddles of that helpless sort, and was 
 not rather working in his proper sx)here, infinite spaces above all 
 that ! Deposed he certainly was, the fact is still recorded in my 
 memory, and by a kind of accident I have the approximate date of 
 it too, Allan Cunningham having had a public dinner given him in 
 Dumfries, at which I with great effort attended, and Allan's first 
 talk to me on meeting having been about Irving's late troubles, 
 and about my own soon coming to London with a MS. book in my 
 pocket, with " Sartor Resartas" namely ! The whole of which cir- 
 cumstances have naturally imprinted themselves on me, while so 
 much else has faded out. 
 
 The first genesis of " Sartor " I remember well enough, and the 
 very spot (at Templand) where the notion of astonishment at 
 clothes first struck me. The book had taken me in all some nine 
 months, which are not present now, except confusedly and in mass, 
 but that of being wearied with the fluctuations of revieio work, and 
 of having decided on London again, with " Sartor " as a book to be 
 offered there, is still vivid to me ; vivid above all that dinner to 
 Allan, whither I had gone not against my deliberate will, yet with 
 a very great repugnance, knowing and hating the multiplex both- 
 er of it, and that I should have some kind of speech to make. 
 " Speech " done, however, (ialiter qualiter, some short rough words 
 upon Burns, which did well enough), the thing became not unpleas- 
 ant, and I still well remember it all. Especially how at length, 
 probably near midnight, I rose to go, decisively resisting all invita- 
 tions to " sleep at Dumfries ;" must and would drive home (know- 
 
150 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 ing well who was waiting for me there!) and drove accordingly, 
 with only one circumstance now worth mention. 
 
 Dumfries streets, all silent, empty, were lying clear as day in 
 the purest moonlight, a very beautiful and shiny midnight, when 
 I stept down with some one or two for escort of honor, got into my 
 poor old gig — brother Alick's gift or procurement to me — and with 
 brief farewell rattled briskly away. I had sixteen good miles 
 ahead, fourteen of them parish road, narrower than highway, but 
 otherwise not to be complained of, and the night and the sleeping 
 world seemed all my own for the little enterprise. A small black 
 mare, nimble, loyal, wise,* this was all my team. Soon after leav- 
 ing the highway, or perhaps it was almost before, for I was well 
 wrapt up, warm enough, contented to be out of my affair, wearied 
 too with so much noise and sipping of wine, I too, like the world, 
 had fallen sound asleep, must have sate in deep, perfect sleep (prob- 
 ably with the reins hung over the whip and its case), for about 
 ten miles ! There were ascents, descents, steep enough, dangerous 
 fenceless parts, narrow bridges with little parapet (especially one 
 called ^'rowting," i. e. bellowing or roaring, "Brig," spanning a 
 grand, loud cataract in quite an intricate way, for there was 
 abrupt turn just at the end of it with rapid descent, and wrong 
 road to be avoided) ; <'Eowting Brig," "Milltown Brig" (also with 
 intricacy of wrong roads), not very long after which latter, in the 
 bottom of Gleuesland, roads a little rumbly there owing to recent 
 inundation, I awoke, safe as if Jehu had been driving me, and 
 within four miles of home ; considerably astonished, but nothing 
 like so grateful as I now am, on looking back on the affair, and 
 my little mare's iDcrformance in it. Ah me ! in this creation rough 
 and honest, though not made for our sake only, how many things, 
 lifeless and living, living persons some of them, and their life beau- 
 tiful as azure and heaven, beneficently help us forward while we 
 journey together, and have not yet bidden sorrowful farewell! My 
 little darling sate waiting for me in the depths of the desert, and, 
 better or worse, the Dumfries dinner was over. This must have 
 been in July, 1831. 
 
 Thirteen months before there had fallen on me, and on us all, a 
 very great, most tender, painful, and solemn grief, the death of my 
 eldest sister Margaret, who, after some struggles, had quitted us in 
 the flower of her youth, age about twenty-five. She was the charm 
 
 * Whom I well remember. *' As usefal a beast," said my dear mother once, in 
 fine expressive Scotch, as we drove together, "as ever one little skin covered." 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 151 
 
 of lier old father's life, deeply respected as well as loved hj her 
 mother and all of us, by none more than me; and was, in fact, in 
 the simple, modest, comely, and rustic form as intelligent, quietly 
 valiant, quietly wise and heroic a young woman as I have almost 
 ever seen. Very dear and estimable to my Jeannie, too, who had 
 zealously striven to help her, and now mourned for her along with 
 me. " The shortest night of 1830," that was her last in this world. 
 The year before for many months she had suffered nameless mis- 
 eries with a stoicism all her own. Doctors, unable to help, saw 
 her with astonishment rally and apparently recover, " by her own 
 force of character," said one of them. Never shall I forget that 
 bright summer evening (late summer 1829), when contemplatively 
 lounging with my pipe outside the window, I heard unexpectedly 
 the sound of horses' feet, and up our little " avenue," pacing under 
 the trees overhung by the yellow sunlight, appeared my brother 
 John and she unexpectedly from Scotsbrig, bright to look upon, 
 cheery of face, and the welcomest interruption to our solitude. 
 " Dear Mag, dear Mag, once more !" Nay, John had brought me 
 from Dumfries post-ofi&ce a long letter from Goethe, one of the finest 
 I ever had from him ; son's death perhaps mentioned in it ; all so 
 white, so pure, externally and internally, so high and heroic. This, 
 too, seemed bright to me as the summer sunset in which I stood 
 reading it. Seldom was a cheerfuller evening at Craigenpufctoch. 
 Margaret stayed perhaps a fortnight, quietly cheerful all the time, 
 but was judged (by a very quick eye in such things) to be still far 
 from well. She sickened again in March or April next, on some 
 cold or accident, grew worse than ever, herself now falling nearly 
 hopeless. "Cannot stand a second bout like last year," she once 
 whispered to one of her sisters. We had brought her to Dumfries 
 in the hope of better medical treatment, which was utterly vain. 
 Mother and sister Mary waited on her with trembling anxiety ; I 
 often there. Few days before the end my Jeannie (in the dusk of 
 such a day of gloomy hurlyburly to us all!) carried her on her 
 knees in a sedan to some suburban new garden lodging we had got 
 (but did not then tell me what the dying one had said to her). In 
 fine, towards midnight, June 21-22, 1 alone still up, an express from 
 Dumfries rapped on my window. " Grown worse ; you and your 
 brother wanted yonder!" Alick and I were soon on horseback, 
 rode diligently through the slumbering woods — ever memorable to 
 me that night, and its phenomena of moon and sky I — found all 
 finished hours ago, only a weeping mother and sister left, with 
 whom neither of us could help weeping. Poor Alick's face, when 
 
152 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 I met him at the door with such news (he had stayed behind me 
 getting rid of the horses) ; the mute struggle, mute and vaiu, as of 
 the rugged rock uot to dissolve itself, is still visible to me. Why- 
 do I evoke these bitter sorrows and miseries which have mercifully 
 long lain as if asleep ? I will not farther. That day, June 22, 
 1830, full of sacred sorrow and of paltry botheration of business— 
 for we had, after some hours and a little consultation, sent Mary 
 and my mother home — is to be counted among the painfuUest of 
 ray life ; and in the evening, having at last reached the silence of 
 the woods, I remember fairly lifting up my voice and weeping aloud 
 a long time. 
 
 All this has little to do with Irving, little even with the journey 
 I was now making towards him, except that in the tumultuous agi- 
 tations of the latter it came all in poignant clearness and complete- 
 ness into my mind again, and continued with me in the background 
 or the foreground during most of the time I was in London. 
 
 From Whitehaven onwards to Liverpool, amid the noise and jos- 
 tle of a crowd of high-dressed vulgar-looking people who joined us 
 there, and with their " hot brandies," dice-boxes, etc., down below, 
 and the blaring of brass bauds, and idle babblers and worshippers 
 of the nocturnal picturesque, made deck and cabin almost equally a 
 delirium, — this, all this of fourteen months ago, in my poor head and 
 heart, was the one thing awake, and the saturnalia round it a kind 
 of mad nightmare dream. At London too, perhaps a week or so af- 
 ter my arrival, somebody had given me a ticket to see Macready, 
 and stepping out of the evening sun I found myself in Drury Lane 
 Theatre, which Avas all darkened, carefully lamp-lit, play just be- 
 ginning or going to begin. Out of my gratis box — front box on the 
 lower tier — I sat gazing into that painted scene and its miraings, 
 but heard nothing, saw nothing; — her green grave and Ecclefechan 
 silent little kirkyard far away, and how the evening sun at this 
 same moment would be shining there, generally that was the main 
 thing I saw or thought of, and tragical enough that was, without 
 any Macready ! Of Macready that time I remember nothing, and 
 suppose I must have come soon away. 
 
 Irving was now living in Judd Street, New Road, a bigger, much 
 better old house than the former new one, and much handier for the 
 new " Caledonian Chapel," which stood spacious and grand in Re- 
 gent Square, and was quite dissevered from Hatton Garden and its 
 concerns. I stept over to him on the evening of my arrival ; found 
 him sitting quiet and alone, brotherly as ever in his reception of me. 
 Our talk was good and edifying. 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 153 
 
 [Mr. Carlyle's MS. is here interrupted. Early in December, 1866, 
 he went to Mentone, where he remained for several months. De- 
 cember 27 he resumes in the new environment.]* 
 
 He was hy this time deep in prophecy and other aberrations, sur- 
 rounded by weak people, mostly echoes of himself and his inaudible 
 notions ; but he was willing to hear me too on secularities, candid 
 like a second self in judging of what one said in the way of opin- 
 ion, and wise and even shrewd in regard to anything of business if 
 you consulted him on that side. He objected clearly to my Reform 
 Bill notions, found Democracy a thing forbidden, leading down to 
 outer darkness ; I, a thing inevitable, and obliged to lead whither- 
 soever it could. We had several colloquies on that subject, on 
 which, though my own poor convictions are widened, not altered, 
 I should now have more sympathy with his than was then the case. 
 We also talked on religion and Christianity " evidences," our no- 
 tions of course more divergent than ever. " It is sacred, my friend, 
 we can call it sacred ; such a Civitas Dei as was never built before, 
 wholly the grandest series of work ever hitherto done by the hu- 
 man soul ; the highest God, doubt it not, assenting and inspiring 
 all along." This I remember once saying plainly, which was not 
 an encouragement to prosecute the topic. We were in fact hope- 
 lessly divided, to what tragical extent both of us might well feel I 
 But something still remained, and this we (he, at least, for I think 
 in friendship he was the nobler of the two) were only the more 
 anxious to retain and make good. I recollect breakfasting with 
 him, a strange set of ignorant conceited fanatics forming the body 
 of the party, and greatly spoiling it for me. Irving's own kindness 
 was evidently in essence unabated ; how sorrowful, at once pro- 
 voking and pathetic, that I or he could henceforth get so little 
 good of it ! 
 
 We were to have gone and seen Coleridge together, had fixed a 
 day for that object ; but the day proved a long deluge, no stirring 
 
 * Ceased in London perhaps three weeks ago, mere hubbub and uncertainty in- 
 tervening; begins again at Mentone on the Riviera Occidentale, whither I have 
 been pushed and pulled in the most unheard of way, Professor Tyndall, Lady Ash- 
 burton, friends, foes, all conspiring, a journey like "chaos come again," and an 
 arrival and a continuance hitherto still liker ditto. Wakeful nights each, especial- 
 ly the one just gone ; in which strange circumstances— bright sun shining, blue 
 sea faintly murmuring, orange groves glowing out of window, Mentone hidden, and 
 Veutimiglia Cape in view, all earth a kind of Paradise, inhabitants a kind of qaasi- 
 Satan— I endeavor to proceed the best I can. 
 
154 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 out possible, and we did not appoint another. I never saw Cole- 
 ridge more. He died the year after our fiual removal to London, 
 a man much pitied and recognized by me ; never excessively es- 
 teemed in any respect, and latterly, on the intellectual or spiritual 
 side, less and less. The father of Puseyism and of much vain phan- 
 tasmal moonshine which still vexes this poor earth, as I have al- 
 ready described him. Irving and I did not, on the whole, see much 
 of one another during this "Sartor Eesartus" visit, our circum- 
 stances, our courses and employments were so altogether diverse. 
 Early in the visit he walked me to Belgrave Square to dine with 
 Henry Drummond; beautiful promenade through the crowd and 
 stir of Piccadilly, which was then somewhat of a novelty to me. 
 Irving, I heard afterwards, was judged, from the broad hat, brown 
 skin, and flowing black hair, to be in all probability the one-string 
 fiddler Paganini — a tall, lean, taciturn, abstruse-looking figure — who 
 was then, after his sort, astonishing the idle of mankind. Henry 
 Drnmmond — Chouse all in summer deshahille, carpets up, etc. — re- 
 ceived us with abundance of respect, and of aristocratic pococurant- 
 ism withal (the latter perhaps rather in a conscious condition) ; gave 
 us plenty of talk, and received well what was given ; chiefly on 
 the rotten social state of England, on the "Swing" outrages (half 
 the year raising wheat and the other half burning it), which were 
 then alarming everybody— all rather in epigrammatic exaggerative 
 style, and with " wisdom " sometimes sacrificed to " wit." Gave 
 us, in short, a pleasant enough dinner and evening, but left me, as 
 Mazzini used to describe it, " cold." A man of elastic, pungent de- 
 cisive nature, full of fine qualities and capabilities, but well nigh 
 cracked by an enormous conceit of himself, which, both as pride 
 and vanity (in strange partnership mutually agreeable), seemed to 
 pervade every fibre of him, and render his life a restless inconsist- 
 ency. That was the feeling he left in me ; nor did it alter after- 
 wards when I saw a great deal more of him, without sensible in- 
 crease or diminution of the little love he at first inspired in me. 
 Poor Henry ! he shot fiery arrows about too, but they told nowhere. 
 I was never tempted to become more intimate with him, though 
 he now and then seemed willing enough : ex nihilo nihil fit. He, 
 without unkindness of intention, did my poor Irving a great deal 
 of ill ; me never any, such my better luck. His last act was, about 
 eight or nine years ago, to ask us both* out to Albury on a mistaken 
 day, when he himself was not there ! Happily my darling had at 
 
 • Carlyle and his wife. 
 
SAMUEL T. COLERIDGE. 
 
'EDWARD IRVING. I55 
 
 the eleventh hour decided not to go, so that the ugly confusion fell 
 all on me, and in a few months more Henry was himself dead, and 
 no mistake possible again. Albury, the ancient Earl of Arun- 
 del's, the recent scene of prophet conferences, etc., I had seen for the 
 first and most likely for the last time. My double-goer, T. Carlyle, 
 "Advocate," who had for years been "Angel" there, was lately 
 dead; and the numerous mistakes, wilful aud involuntary, which 
 he, from my fifteenth year onwards, had occasioned me, selling his 
 pamphlets as mine, getting my letters as his, and vice versa; nay, 
 once or more with some ambassador at Berlin dining in my stead ; 
 foolish vain fellow, who called me Antichrist withal in his serious 
 moments ! were likewise at an end. All does end. 
 
 My business lay with the bookseller or publishing world ; my 
 chief intercourse was with the lighter literary figures : in part, too, 
 with the political, many of whom I transiently saw at Jeifrey's (who 
 was then Lord Advocate), and all of whom I might hear of through 
 him. Not in either kind was my appetite very keen, nor did it in- 
 crease by what it fed on. Rather a " feast of shells," as perhaps I 
 then defined it ; people of biggish names, but of substance mainly 
 spilt and Avauting. All men were full of the Eeform Bill ; nothing 
 else talked of, written of, the air loaded with it alone, which occa- 
 sioned great obstruction in the publishing of my " Sartor," I was 
 told. On that latter point I could say much, but will forbear. 
 Few men ever more surprised me than did the great Albemarle 
 Street Murray, who had published for Byron and all the great ones 
 for many years, and to whom Jeffrey sent me recommended. Stu- 
 pider man than the great Murray, in look, in speech, in conduct, in 
 regard to this poor " Sartor" question, I imagined I had seldom or 
 never seen! Afterwards it became apparent to me that partly he 
 was sinking into the heaviness of old age, and partly, still more im- 
 portant, that in regard to this particular " Sartor" question his posi- 
 tion w^as an impossible one ; position of a poor old man endeavor- 
 ing to answer yes and no ! I had striven and pushed for some weeks 
 with him and others on those impossible principles, till at length 
 discovering how the matter stood, I with brevity demanded back 
 my poor MS. from Murray, received it with some apologetic palaver 
 (enclosing an opinion from his taster, which was subsequently print- 
 ed in our edition), and much hope, etc., etc. ; locked it away into fix- 
 ity of silence for the present (my Murray into ditto forever), and 
 decided to send for the dear one I had left behind me, and let her 
 too see London, which I knew she would like, before we went far- 
 ther. Ah me! this sunny Riviera which we sometimes vaguely 
 
156 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 thought of, she does uot see along with me, and my thoughts of her 
 here are too sad for words. I will write uo more to-day. Oh, my 
 darling, my lost darling, may the great God be good to thee ! Si- 
 lence, though ! and " hope " if I can ! 
 
 My Jeannie came about the end of September. Brother John, 
 by industry of hers and mine (hers chiefly), acting on an opportu- 
 nity of Lord Advocate Jeffrey's, had got an appointment for Italy 
 (travelling physician, by which he has since made abundance of 
 money, and of work may be said to have translated Dante's "In- 
 ferno," were there nothing more!). We shifted from our uncom- 
 fortable lodging* into a clean, quiet, and modestly comfortable one 
 in Ampton Street (same St. Paucras region), and there, ourselves 
 two — brother John being off to Italy — set up for the winter under 
 tolerable omens. My darling was, as ever, the guardian spirit of 
 the establishment, and made all things bright and smooth. The 
 daughter of the house, a fine young Cockney specimen, fell quite 
 iu love with her, served like a fairy. Was next year, long after 
 we were gone, for coming to us at Craigenputtoch to be "maid 
 of all work" — an impossible suggestion; and did, in effect, keep 
 up an adoring kind of intercourse till the fatal day of April last, 
 never changing at all iu her poor tribute of love. A fine out- 
 pouring of her grief and admiring gratitude, written after that 
 event,t was Jiot thrown into the fire half- read, or unread, but is 
 still lying in a drawer at Chelsea, or perhaps adjoined to some 
 of the things I was writing there, as a genuine human utterance, 
 not without some sad value to me. My poor little woman had 
 often indifferent health, which seemed rather to worsen than 
 improve while we continued; but her spirit was indefatigable, 
 ever cheery, full of grace, ingenuity, dexterity ; and she much en- 
 joyed Loudon, and the considerable miscellany of people thai; came 
 about us — Charles Buller, John Mill, several professed " admirers " 
 of mine (among whom was, and for auglit I know still is, the mock- 
 ing Hayward!); Jeffrey almost daily, as an admirer of hers; not 
 to mention Mrs. Montague and Co., certain Holcrofts (Badams mar- 
 ried to one of them, a certain Captain Kenny married to the moth- 
 er of them, at whose house I once saw Godwin, if that was any- 
 
 * At Irving's youugest brother George's ; an incipient surgeon, amiable and 
 clear superficially, who soon after died. 
 
 t Letter to me, signed "Eliza Snowden ;" Mi'.es was her maiden name. 
 "Snowden," once a clerk with her uncle, is now himself, for long years back, a 
 prosperous upholsterer ; and the sylph-like Eliza, grown fat enough of shape, is 
 the mother of six or seven prosperous children to him. 
 
EDWARD IRVING. ISY 
 
 thing), Allan Cuuniugham from time to time, and fluctuating for- 
 eigners, etc., etc. We had company rather in superabundance than 
 otherwise, and a pair of the clearest eyes in the whole world were 
 there to take note of them all, a judgment to compare and contrast 
 them (as I afterwards found she had been doing, the dear soul !) 
 with what was already all her own. Ah me ! Ah me ! 
 
 Soon after New Year's Day a great sorrow came, unexpected 
 news of my father's death. He had been in bed, as ill, only a few 
 hours, when the last hour proved to be there, unexpectedly to all, 
 except perhaps to himself; for ever since my sister Margaret's 
 death he had been fast failing, though none of us took notice 
 enough, such had been his perfection of health almost all through 
 the seventy-three years he lived. I sat plunged in the depths of 
 natural grief, the pale kingdoms of eternity laid bare to me, and 
 all that was sad and grand and dark as death filling my thoughts 
 exclusively day after day. How beautiful She was to me, how 
 kind and tender ! Till after the funeral my father's noble old face 
 — one of the finest and strongest I have ever seen — was continual- 
 ly before my eyes. In these and the following days and nights I 
 hastily wrote down some memorials of him,* which I have never 
 since seen, but which still exist somewhere ; though, indeed, they 
 were not worth preserving, still less are after I have done with 
 tliem. "Posterity !" that is what I never thought of appealing to. 
 Wliat possible use can there be in appealing there, or in appealing 
 anywhere, except by absolute silence to the High Court of Eternity, 
 which can do no error, poor sickly transciencies that we are, cov- 
 eting we know not what! In the February ensuing I wrote 
 "Johnson" (the "Bozzy" part was published in "Eraser" for 
 March). A week or two before, we had made acquaintance, by 
 Hunt's own goodness, with Leigh Hunt, and were much struck 
 with him. Early in April we got back to Annandale and Craigen- 
 puttoch. Sadly present to my soul, most sadly, yet most beautiful- 
 ly, all that, even now ! 
 
 In the course of the winter sad things had occurred in Irving's 
 history. His enthusiastic studies and preachings were passing into 
 the practically "miraculous," and to me the most doleful of all 
 phenomena. The " Gift of Tongues " had fairly broken out among 
 the crazed and weakliest of his wholly rather dim and weakly flock. 
 I was never at all in his church during this visit, being at once 
 grieved and angered at the course he had fallen into; but once 
 
 • The first " Keminiscence " in this volume. 
 
158 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 or twice poor Eliza Miles came running home from some even- 
 ing sermon there was, all in a tremor of tears over these same 
 " Tongues," and a riot from the dissenting majority opposing them. 
 "All a tumult yonder, oh uie!" This did not happen above twice 
 or so f Irving (never himself a " Tongue " performer) having taken 
 some order vrith the thing, and I think discouraged and nearly sup- 
 pressed it as unfit during church service. It was greatly talked of 
 by some persons, with an inquiry, " Do you believe in it ?" " Believe 
 it ? As much as I do in the high priest of Otaheite I" answered 
 Lockhart once to Eraser, the inquiring bookseller, in my hearing. 
 Sorrow and disgust were naturally my own feeling. "How are 
 the mighty fallen ! my own high Irving come to this, by paltry 
 popularities and Cockney admirations puddling such a head !" We 
 ourselves saw less and less of Irving ; but one night in one of our 
 walks we did make a call, and actually heard what they called the 
 Tongues. It was in a neighboring room, larger part of the draw- 
 ing-room belike. Mrs. Irving had retired thither with the devo- 
 tees. Irving for our sake had stayed, and was pacing about the 
 floor, dandling his youngest child, and talking to us of this and 
 that, probably about the Tongues withal, when there burst forth 
 a shrieky hysterical "Lah lall lall!" (little or nothing else but Va 
 and a's continued for several minutes) to which Irving, with sin- 
 gular calmness, said only, " There, hear you, there are the Tongues !'' 
 And we too, except by our looks, which probably were eloquent, 
 answered him nothing, but soon came away, full of distress, provo- 
 cation, and a kind of shame. "Why was there not a bucket 
 of cold water to fling on that laTi-lalling hysterical madwoman ?" 
 thought we, or said to one another. " Oh, heaven, that it should 
 come to this!" I do not remember any call that we made there af- 
 terwards. Of course there was a farewell call ; but that too I rec- 
 ollect only obliquely by my Jeannie's distress and disgust at Mrs. 
 Irving's hypocritical final Mss; a "kiss" of the untruest, which 
 really ought to have been spared. Seldom was seen a more tragical 
 scene to us than this of Irving's Loudon life was now becoming ! 
 
 One other time we did see Irving, at our lodging, where he had 
 called to take leave of us a day or two before our quitting London. 
 I know not whether the interview had been preconcerted between 
 my darling and rae for the sake of our common friend, but it waa 
 abundantly serious and affecting to us all, and none of the three, I 
 believe, ever forgot it again. Preconcerting or not, I had privately 
 determined that I must tell Irving plainly what I thought of his 
 present course and posture. And I now did so, breaking in by the 
 
EDWARD IRVING. I59 
 
 first opportunity, and leading tlie dialogue wholly into that chan- 
 nel, till with all the delicacy, but also with all the fidelity possible 
 to me, I put him fully in possession of what my real opinion was. 
 Slie, my noble Jeannle, said hardly anything, but her looks, and 
 here and there a word, testified how deep her interest was, how 
 complete her assent. I stated plainly to him that he must permit 
 me a few words for relief of my conscience before leaving him for 
 we know not what length of time, on a course which I could not 
 but regard as full of danger to him. That the IZtJi of the CorintJiians 
 to which he always appealed, was surely too narrow a basis for so 
 high a tower as he was building upon it, a high lean tower, or quasi- 
 mast, piece added to piece, till it soared far above all human science 
 and experience, and flatly contradicted all that, founded solely on 
 a little text of writing in an ancient book ! No sound judgment on 
 such warranty could venture on such an enterprise. Authentic 
 " writings " of the Most High, were they found in old books only ? 
 They were in the stars and on the rocks, and in the brain and heart 
 of every mortal ; not dubious these to any person, as this Idth of 
 Corinthians very greatly was. That it did not beseem him, Ed- 
 ward Irving, to be hanging on the rearward of mankind, struggling 
 still to chain them to old notions not now well tenable, but to be 
 foremost in the van, leading on by the light of the eternal stars 
 across this hideous delirious wilderness where we all were, towards 
 promised lands that lay ahead. Bethink you, my friend, I said, is 
 not that your plainly commanded duty, more plain than any 13th 
 of Corinthians can be ? I bid you pause and consider ; that verily 
 is my solemn advice to you ! I added that, as he knew well, it was 
 in the name of old friendship I was saying all this. That I did not 
 expect he would at once, or soon, renounce his fixed views, connec- 
 tions, and methods for any words of mine ; but perhaps at some 
 future time of crisis and questioning dubiety in his own mind he 
 might remember the words of a well-afi'ected soul, and they might 
 then be a help to him. 
 
 During all this, which perhaps lasted about twenty minutes, Ir- 
 ving sat opposite to me, within a few feet ; my wife to his right 
 hand and to my left, silent and sad-looking, in the middle of the 
 floor, Irving, with head downcast, face indicating great pain, but 
 without the slightest word or sound from him till I had altogether 
 ended. He then began with the mildest low tone, and face full of 
 kindness and composed distress — " dear friend," and endeavored to 
 make his apology and defence, which did not last long or do any- 
 thing to convince me, but was in a style of modesty and friendly 
 
160 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 maguauirnity whicli no mortal could surpass, aud which remains to 
 me at this raomeut dear and memorable and worthy of all honor. 
 Which done, he went silently his way, no doubt wdth kindest farewell 
 to us, aud I remember nothing more. Possibly we had already made 
 farewell call in Judd Street the day before, and found Mm not there. 
 
 This was, in a manner, the last visit I ever made to Irving, the 
 last time either of us ever freely saw him, or spoke with him at 
 any length. We had to go our way, he his ; and his soon proved to 
 be precipitous, full of chasms and plunges, which rapidly led him to 
 the close. Our journey homewards — I have spoken of it elsewhere, 
 and of the dear reminiscences it leaves, ever sad, but also ever bless- 
 ed to me now. We were far away from Irving in our solitary moors, 
 stayed there still above two years (one of our winters in Edinburgh), 
 and heard of Irving and his catastrophes only from a distance. He 
 had come to Annan and been expelled from the Scottish Kirk. 
 That scene I remember reading in some newspaper with lively con- 
 ception and emotion. A poor aggregate of Keverend Sticks in black 
 gown, sitting in Presbytery, to pass formal condemnation on a man 
 and a cause which might have been tried in Patmos under presi- 
 dency of St. John without the right truth of it being got at! I 
 knew the " Moderator " (one Eoddick, since gone mad), for one 
 of the stupidest and barrenest of living mortals ; also the little 
 phantasm of a creature — Sloane his name — who went niddy-noddy- 
 ing with his head, and was infinitely conceited and phantasmal, by 
 whom Irving was rebuked with the " Remember where you are, 
 sir!" and got answer, ''I have not forgotten where I am; it is the 
 church where I was baptized, where I was consecrated to preach 
 Christ, where the bones of my dear ones lie buried." Condemna- 
 tion under any circumstances had to follow; " h droit de me damner 
 te reste toujours /" as poor Danton said in a far other case. 
 
 The feeling of the population was, too, strong and general for 
 Irving. Reverends Sloane and Roddick were not without their ap- 
 prehensions of some tumult perhaps, had not the people been so 
 reverent of the place they were in. Irving sent us no word of him- 
 self, made no appeal to any, friend or foe, unless his preaching to 
 the people up and down for some days, partly perhaps in the w^ay 
 of defence, though mostly on general Gospel subjects, could be taken 
 as such. He was followed by great crowds who eagerly heard 
 him. My brother Jamie, who had been at several of those open- 
 air preachings in different parts of the Annan neighborhood, and 
 who much admired and pitied the great Irving, gave me the last 
 notice I ever had of that tragic matter, " Irving's vocal appellaUo 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 161 
 
 ad populum,'^ when Presbytery liad condemned him. This time the 
 gathering was at Ecclefechan, probably the final one of all, and the 
 last time he ever preached to Annandale men. The assemblage 
 was large and earnest, gathered in the Middlebie road, a little way 
 off the main street and highway. The preacher stood on some ta- 
 ble or chair, which was fixed against the trunk of a huge, high, 
 strong, and many-branched elm tree, well known to me and to ev- 
 eryone that passes that way. The weather was of proper February 
 quality, grimly fierce, Avith windy snow showers flying. Irving had 
 a woollen comforter about his neck, skirts of comforter, hair, and 
 cloak tossing in the storms ; eloquent voice well audible under the 
 groaning of the boughs and piping of the wind. Jamie was on 
 business in the village and had paused awhile, much moved by 
 what he saw and heard. It was our last of Irving in his native 
 Annandale. Mrs. Oliphant, I think, relates that on getting back to 
 London he was put under a kind of arrest by certain Angels or au- 
 thorities of his New "Irviugite" Church (just established in New- 
 man Street, Oxford Street), for disobeying regulations — perhaps in 
 regard to those volunteer preachings in Annandale — and sat with 
 great patience in some penitential place among them, dumb for 
 about a week, till he had expiated that sin. Irving was now be- 
 come wholly tragical to us, and the least painful we could expect 
 in regard to him was what mainly happened, that we heard no news 
 from that side at all. His health we vaguely understood was becom- 
 ing uncertain, news naturally worse than none, had we much believed 
 i t ; which, knowing his old herculean strength, I suppose we did not. 
 In 1834 came our own removal to London, concerning which are 
 heavy fields of memory, laborious, beautiful, sad and sacred (oh, my 
 darling lost one !) were this the place for them, which it is not. Our 
 winter in Edinburgh, our haggles and distresses (badness of ser- 
 vants mainly), our bits of diligences, strenuous and sometimes hap- 
 py, brought in fine the clear resolution that we ought to go. I had 
 been in correspondence with London — with John Mill, Leigh Hunt, 
 Mrs. Austin, etc. — ever since our presence there. "Let us burn our 
 ships," said my noble one, and " get on march !" I went as precur- 
 sor early in May, ignorantly thinking this was, as in Scotland, the 
 general and sole term for getting houses in Loudon, and that after 
 May 28 there would be none but leavings ! We were not very prac- 
 tically advised, I should think, though there were counsellors many. 
 However, I roved hastily about seeking houses for the next three 
 weeks, w^hile my darling was still busier at home, getting all things 
 packed and put under way. 
 
162 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 What endless toils for her, undertaken with what courage, skill, 
 and cheery heroism ! By the time of her arrival I had been far 
 and wide round London, seeking houses. Had found out that the 
 western suburb was in important resxjects the fittest, and had seen 
 nothing I thought so eligible there as a certain one of three cheap 
 houses ; which one she on survey agreed to be the best, and which 
 is in fact No. 5 Great Cheyne Row, where the rest of our life was to 
 be passed together. Why do I write all this ? It is too sad to me 
 to think of it, broken down and solitary as I am, and the lamp of 
 my life, which "covered everything with gold" as it were, gone 
 out, gone out! 
 
 It was on one of those expeditions, a week or more after my ar- 
 rival, expedition to take survey of the proposed No. 5, in company 
 with Mrs. Austin, whom I had taken up in Bayswater, where she 
 lived, and with whom, attended also by Mrs. Jamieson, not known 
 to me before, but found by accident on a call there, we were pro- 
 ceeding towards Chelsea in the middle of a bright May day, when I 
 noticed well down in Kensington Gardens a dark male figure sitting 
 between two white female ones under a tree ; male figure, which 
 abruptly rose and stalked towards me, whom, seeing it was Irving, 
 I disengaged myself and stept out to meet. It was indeed Irving, 
 but how changed in the two years and two months since I had last 
 seen him! In look he was almost friendlier than ever; but he had 
 suddenly become an old man. His head, which I had left raven- 
 black, was grown gray, on the temples almost snow-white. The 
 face was hollow, wrinkly, collapsed ; the figure, still perfectly erect, 
 seemed to have lost all its elasticity and strength. We walked 
 some space slowly together, my heart smitten with various emo- 
 tions ; my speech, however, striving to be cheery and hopeful. He 
 was very kind and loving. It seemed to be a kind of tender grief 
 and regret that my Jeannie and I were taking so important a step, 
 and he not called at all to assist, rendered unable to assist. Cer- 
 tainly in all England there was no heart, and in all Scotland only 
 two or three, that wished us half as well. He admitted his weak 
 health, but treated it as temporary; it seemed of small account to 
 him. Friends and doctors had advised him to shift to Bayswater 
 for better air, had got him a lodging there, a stout horse to ride. 
 Summer they expected would soon set him up again. His tone was 
 not despondent, but it was low, pensive, full of silent sorrow. Once, 
 perhaps twice, I got a small bit of Annandale laughter from him, 
 strangely genuine, though so lamed and overclouded. This was to 
 me the most aflfecting thing of all, and still is when I recall it. He 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 163 
 
 gave me his address in Bayswater, his house as near as might he, 
 and I engaged to try and find him there ; I, him, which seemed the 
 likelier method in our widely diverse elements, both of them so full 
 of bustle, interruption, and uncertainty. And so adieu, my friend, 
 adieu ! Neither of us had spoken with the women of the other, 
 and each of us was gone his several road again, mine not specially 
 remembered farther. 
 
 It seems to me I never found Irving in his Bayswater lodging. 
 I distinctly recollect seeing him one dusty evening about eight at 
 the door there, mount his horse, a stout fine bay animal, of the kind 
 called cob, and set out towards Newman Street, whither he rode per- 
 haps twice or thrice a day for church services there were; but this 
 and his friendly regret at being obliged to go is all I can recall of in- 
 terview farther. Neither at the Bayswater lodging nor at his own 
 house in Newman Street when he returned thither, could I for many 
 weeks to come ever find him " at home." In Chelsea, we poor pair of 
 immigrants had, of course, much of our own to do, and right coura- 
 geously we marched together, my own brave darling (what a store 
 of humble, but high and sacred memories to me!) victoriously car- 
 rying the flag. But at length it struck me there was something 
 questionable in these perpetual " not-at-home's '^ of Irving, and that 
 perhaps his poor, jealous, anxious, and much-bewildered wife had 
 her hand in the phenomenon — as proved to be the fact according- 
 ly. I applied to William Hamilton (excellent City Scotsman, mar- 
 ried, not over well I doubt, to a sister of Mrs. Irving), with a brief 
 statement of the case, and had immediate remedy ; an appointment 
 to dinner at Newman Street on a given day, which I failed not to 
 observe. None but Irving and his wife, besides myself, were there. 
 The dinner (from a good joint of roast beef, in a dim but quite com- 
 fortable kind of room) was among the pleasantest of dinners to me, 
 Madam herself wearing nothing but smiles, and soon leaving us to- 
 gether to a fair hour or two of free talk. I think the main topic 
 must have been my own outlooks and affairs, my project of writing 
 on the French Revolution, which Irving warmly approved of (either 
 then or some other time). Of his church matters we never spoke. 
 I went away gratified, and for my own share glad, had not the out- 
 looks on his side been so dubious and ominous. He was evidently 
 growing weaker, not stronger, wearing himself down, as to me 
 seemed too clear, by spiritual agitations, which would kill him un- 
 less checked and ended. Could he but be got to Switzerland, to 
 Italy, I thought, to some pleasant country of which the language 
 was unknown to him, where he would be forced to silence, the one 
 
164 KEMINISCENCES. 
 
 salutary medicine for him in body and in soul ! I often thduglit of 
 this, hut he had now no brother, no father, on whom I could prac- 
 tically urge it, as I would with my whole strength have done, feeling 
 that his life now lay on it. I had to hear of his growing weaker 
 and weaker, while there was nothing whatever that I could do. 
 
 With himself I do not recollect that there was anything more of 
 interview since that dinner in Newman Street, or that I saw him 
 again in the world, except once only, to be soon noticed. Latish 
 in the autumn some of the Kirkcaldy Martins had come. I remem- 
 ber speaking to his father-in-law at Hamilton's in Cheapside one 
 evening, and very earnestly on the topic that interested us both. 
 Bat iu Martin, too, there was nothing of help, " Grows weaker and 
 weaker," said he, "and no doctor cau find the least disease in him ; 
 so weak now he cannot lift his little baby to his neck !" In my 
 desperate anxiety at this time I remember writing a letter on my 
 Switzerland or Italy scheme to Henry Drummond, whom I yet knew 
 nothing more of, but considered to be probably a man of sense and 
 practical insight ; letter stating briefly my sad and clear belief that, 
 unless carried into some element oi perfect silence, poor Irving would 
 soon die ; letter which lay some days on the mantelpiece at Chelsea, 
 under some misgivings about sending it, and was then thrown into 
 the fire. We heard before long that it was decided he should jour- 
 ney slowly into Wales, paying visits — perhaps into Scotland, which 
 seemed the next best to what I would have proposed, and was of 
 some hope to us. And late one afternoon, soon after, we had a short 
 farewell visit from him ; his first visit to Cheyne Row and his last ; 
 the last we two ever saw of him iu this world. It was towards 
 sunset, had there been any sun that damp, dim October day. He 
 came ambling gently on his bay horse, sate some fifteen or twenty 
 minutes, and went away while it was still daylight. It was in the 
 ground-floor room, where I still write (thanks to her last service 
 to me, shifting me thither again, the darling ever-helpful one!) 
 Whether she was sitting with me on his entrance I don't recollect, 
 but I well do his fine chivalrous demeanor to her, and how he 
 complimented her, as he well might, on the pretty little room she 
 had made for her husband and self, and running his eye over her 
 dainty bits of arrangements, ornamentations, all so frugal, simple, 
 full of grace, propriety, and ingenuity as they ever were, said, smil- 
 ing, " You are like an Eve, and make a little Paradise wherever you 
 are !" His manner was sincere, affectionate, yet with a great sup- 
 pressed sadness in it, and as if with a feeling that he must not 
 linger. It was perhaps on this occasion that he expressed to me 
 his satisfaction at my having taken to " writing history " (" French 
 
EDWARD IRVING. 165 
 
 Revolution " now "begun^ I suppose) ; study of history, he seemed 
 to intimate, was the study of things real, practical, aud actual, and 
 would briug me closer upon all reality whatever. With a fine 
 gimplicity of lovingness he hade us farewell. I followed him to 
 the door, held his bridle (doubtless) while he mounted, no groom 
 being ever with him on such occasions, stood on the steps as he 
 quietly walked or ambled up Cheyne Row, quietly turned the cor- 
 ner (at Wright's door, or the Rector's back garden door) into Cook's 
 grounds, and had vanished from my eyes for evermore ! In this 
 world neither of us ever saw him again. He was off northward in 
 a day or two, died at Glasgow in December following, age only 
 forty-three, aud except weakness, no disease traceable. 
 
 Mrs. Oliphant's narrative is nowhere so true and touching to me 
 as in that last portion, where it is drawn almost wholly from his 
 own letters to his wife. All there is true to the life, and recogniz- 
 able to me as perfect portraiture ; what I cannot quite say of any 
 other portion of the book. All Mrs. Oliphant's delineation shows 
 excellent diligence, loyalty, desire to be faithful, and indeed, is full 
 of beautiful sympathy and ingenuity ; but nowhere else are the 
 features of Irving or of his environment and life recognizably hit, 
 and the pretty picture^ to one who knew his looks throughout, is 
 more or less romantic pictorial, and " not like " till we arrive here, 
 at the grand close of all, which to me was of almost Apocalyptic 
 impressiveness when I first read it some years, ago. What a falling 
 of the curtain ! upon what a drama ! Rustic Annaudale begins it, 
 with its homely honesties, rough vernacularities, safe, innocently 
 kind, ruggedly mother -like, cheery, wholesome, like its airy hills 
 and clear-rushing streams ; prurient corrupted London is the mid- 
 dle part, wdth its volcanic stupidities and bottomless confusions ; 
 and in the end is terrible, mysterious, godlike, and awful ; what 
 Patmos could be more so ? It is as if the vials of Heaven's wrath 
 were pouring down npon a man, yet not wrath alone, for his heart 
 was filled with trust in Heaven's goodness withal. It must be said 
 Irving nobly expiates whatever errors he has fallen into. Like an 
 antique evangelist he walks his stony course, the fixed thought of 
 his heart at all times, " Though he slay me, yet will I trust in Him ;" 
 and these final deluges of sorrow are but washing the faithful soul 
 of him clear. 
 
 He sent from Glasgow a curions letter to his " Gift of Tongues" 
 congregation ; full of questionings, dubieties npon the Tongues, and 
 such points, full of wanderings in deep waters, with one light fixed 
 on high : " Humble ourselves before God, and he will show ns ;" 
 letter indicating a sincerity as of very death, which these New 
 
166 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 Church people (Heury Drummond and Co.) first printed for useful 
 private circulation, and then afterwards zealously suppressed and 
 destroyed, till almost everybody but myself had forgotten the ex- 
 istence of it. Luckily, about two years ago I still raked out a copy 
 of it from '^ Eev. Gavin Carlile,"* by whom I am glad to know it 
 has been printed and made prominent, as a document honorable 
 and due to such a memory. Less mendacious soul of a man than 
 my noble Irving's there could not well be. 
 
 It was but a little while before this that he had said to Drum- 
 mond, what was mentioned above, " I ought to have seen more of 
 T. Carlyle, and heard him more clearly than I have done." And 
 there is one other thing which dates several years before, which I 
 always esteem highly honorable to Irving's memory, and which I 
 will note here as my last item, since it was forgotten at its right 
 date. Right date is that of " German Romance," early 1826. The 
 report is from my brother John, to whom Irving spoke on the sub- 
 ject, w^hich with me he had always rather avoided. Irving did 
 not much know Goethe ; had generally a dislike to him as to a 
 kind of heathen ungodly person and idle singer, who had consid- 
 erably seduced me from the right path, as one sin. He read " Wil- 
 helm Meister's Travels " nevertheless, and he said to John one day, 
 "Very curious! in this German poet there are some pages about 
 Christ and the Christian religion, which as I study and re-study 
 them have more sense about that matter than I have found in all 
 the theologians I have ever read !" Was not this a noble thing 
 for such a man to feel and say ? I have a hundred times recom- 
 mended that passage in "Wilhelm Meister" to inquiring and de- 
 vout souls, but I think never elsewhere met with one who so thor- 
 oughly recognized it. One of my last letters, flung into the fire 
 just before leaving Loudon, was from an Oxford self-styled "re- 
 ligious inquirer," who asks me if in those pages of " Meister " there 
 is not a wonderfully distinct foreshadow of Comte and Positivism ! 
 Phcebus Apollo, god of the sun, foreshadowing the miserablest 
 phantasmal algebraic ghost I have yet met with among the ranks 
 of the living! 
 
 I have now ended, and am sorry to end, what I had to say of 
 Irving. It is like bidding him farewell for a second and the last 
 time. He waits in the eternities. Another, his brightest scholar, 
 has left me and gone thither. God be about us all. Amen. Amen. 
 Finished at Mentone, January 2, 1867, looking towards the east- 
 ward hills, bathed in sunshine, under a brisk west wind ; two p.m. 
 
 T. C. 
 
 • Nephew of Irving. Now editing " Irving's Select Workss," or some such title. 
 
LORD JEFFREY 
 
LORD JEFFREY. 
 
 OF FRANCIS JEFFREY, HON. LORD JEFFREY, THE LAWYER AND 
 REVIEWER. 
 
 Mentone: January 3, 1867. 
 
 Few sights have been more impressive to me than the sudden 
 one I had of the " Outer House" in Parliament Square, Edinburgh, 
 on the evening of November 9, 1809, some hours after my arrival 
 in that city for the first time. We had walked some twenty miles 
 that day, the third day of our journey from Ecclefeehan ; my com- 
 panion one "Tom Small," who had already been to college last 
 year, and was thought to be a safe guide and guardian to me. He 
 was some years older than myself, had been at school along with 
 me, though never in my class. A very innocent, conceited, insig- 
 nificant, but strict-minded orthodox creature, for whom, knowing 
 him to be of no scholarship or strength of judgment, I had private- 
 ly very small respect, though civilly following him about in things 
 he knew better than I. As in the streets of Ediuburgh, for exam- 
 ple, on my first eveniug there. On our journey thither he had been 
 wearisome, far from entertaining, mostly silent, having, indeed, 
 nothing to say. He stalked on generally some steps ahead, lan- 
 guidly whistling through his teeth some similitude of a wretched 
 Irish tune, which I knew too well as that of a still more wretched 
 doggrel song called the " Belfast Shoemaker," most melancholy to 
 poor me, given up to my bits of reflections in the silence of the 
 moors and hills. 
 
 How strangely vivid, how remote and wonderful, tinged with 
 the hues of far-oflf love and sadness, is that journey to me now, 
 after fifty-seven years of time ! My mother and father walking 
 with me in the dark frosty November morning through the village 
 to set us on our way; my dear and loving mother and her tremu- 
 lous affection, my etc., etc. But we must get to Edinburgh and 
 Moffat, over Airock Stane (Burnswark visible there for the last 
 time, and my poor little sister Margaret " bursting into tears" when 
 
170 KEMINIISCENCES. 
 
 she heard of this in my first letter home). I hid my sorrow and 
 my weariness, but had abundance of it, checkering the mysterious 
 hopes and forecastings of what Edinburgh and the student element 
 would be. Tom and I had entered Edinburgh, after twenty miles 
 of walking, between two and three p.m., got a clean-looking, most 
 cheap lodging (Simon Square the poor locality), had got ourselves 
 brushed, some morsel of dinner doubtless, and Palinurus Tom sal- 
 lied out into the streets with me to show the novice mind a little 
 of Edinburgh before sundown. The novice mind was not excess- 
 ively astonished all at once, but kept his eyes well open, and said 
 nothing. What streets we went through I don't the least recollect, 
 but have some faint image of St. Giles's High Kirk, and of the 
 Luckenbooths there, with their strange little ins and outs, and 
 eager old women in miniature shops of combs, shoe-laces, and 
 trifles ; still fainter image, if any whatever, of the sublime horso 
 statue in Parliament Square hard by. Directly after which Smail 
 audaciously (so I thought) pushed open a door free to all the 
 world, and dragged me in with him to a scene which I have never 
 forgotten. 
 
 An immense hall, dimly lighted from the top of the walls, and 
 perhaps with candles burning in it here and there, all in strange 
 chiar-osciiro, and filled with what I thought (exaggeratively) a thou- 
 sand or two of human creatures, all astir in a boundless buzz of talk, 
 and simmering about in every direction, some solitary, some in 
 groups. By degrees I noticed that some were in wig and black 
 gown, some not, but in common clothes, all well dressed ; that here 
 and there, on the sides of the hall, were little thrones with inclos- 
 ures,and steps leading up, red-velvet figures sitting in said thrones, 
 and the black-gowned eagerly speaking to them ; advocates plead- 
 ing to judges, as I easily understood. How they could be heard in 
 such a grinding din was somewhat a mystery. Higher up on the 
 walls, stuck there like swallows in their nests, sate other humbler 
 figures. These, I found, were the sources of certain wildly plangent 
 lamentable kinds of sounds or echoes which from time to time 
 pierced the universal noise of feet and voices, and rose unintelligi- 
 bly above it as if in the bitterness of incurable woe. Criers of the 
 Court, I gradually came to understand. And this was Themis in 
 her " Outer House," such a scene of chaotic din and hurly-burly as I 
 had never figured before. It seems to me there were four times or 
 ten times as many people in that " Outer House" as there now usu- 
 ally are, and doubtless there is something of fact in this, such have 
 been the curtailments and abatements of law practice in the head 
 
LORD JEFFREY. 171 
 
 courts since tlien, and transference of it to the county jurisdiction. 
 Last time I was in that Outer House (some six or seven years ago, 
 in broad daylight), it seemed like a place fallen asleep, fallen al- 
 most dead. 
 
 Notable figures, now all vanished utterly, were doubtless wander- 
 ing about as part of that continual hurly-burly when I first set foot 
 in it, fifty-seven years ago : great Law Lords this and that, great 
 advocates alors celebres, as Thiers has it ; Cranstoun, Cockburn, Jef- 
 frey, Walter Scott, John Clerk. To me at that time they were not 
 even names, but I have since occasionally thought of that night 
 and place when probably they were living substances, some of them 
 in a kind of relation to me afterward. Time with his tenses, what a 
 miraculous entity is he always ! The only figure I distinctly recol- 
 lect and got printed on my brain that night was John Clerk, there 
 veritably hitching about, whose grim strong countenance, with its 
 black far-projecting brows and look of great sagacity, fixed him in 
 my memory. Possibly enough poor Smail named others to me, 
 Jeffrey perhaps, if we saw him, though he was not yet quite at the 
 top of his celebrity. Top was some three or four years afterwards, 
 and went on without much drooping for almost twenty years more. 
 But the truth is, except Clerk I carried no figure away with me ; 
 nor do I in the least recollect how we made our exit into the streets 
 again, or what we did next. Outer House, vivid now to a strange 
 degree, is bordered by darkness on both hands. I recall it for Jef- 
 frey's sake, though we see it is but potentially his, and I mean not 
 to speak much of his law procedures in what follows. 
 
 Poor Smail, too, I may dismiss as thoroughly insignificant, con- 
 ceitedly harmless. He continued in some comradeship with me 
 (or with James Johnston and me) for perhaps two seasons more, 
 but gained no regard from me, nor had any effect on me, good or 
 bad. Became, with success, an insignificant flowery Burgher min- 
 ister (somewhere in Galloway), and has died only within few years. 
 Poor Jamie Johnston, also my senior by several years, was far dear- 
 er, a man of real merit, with whom about my 17th-21st years I had 
 much genial companionship. But of him also I must not speak, 
 the good, the honest, not the strong enough, much-suffering soul. 
 He died as school-master of Haddington in a time memorable to 
 me. Ay de mi ! 
 
 It was about 1811 when I began to be familiar with the figure 
 of Jeffrey, as I saw him in the courts. It was in 1812-13 that he 
 became universally famous, especially in Dumfries-shire, by his sav- 
 ing from the gallows one "Nell Kennedy," a country lass who had 
 
172 KEMINISCENCES. 
 
 sliocked all Scotland, and especially that region of ifc, by a whole- 
 sale mnrdeTj done on her next neighbor and all his household in 
 mass, in the most cold-blooded and atrocious manner conceivable 
 to the oldest artist in such horrors. Nell went down to Eccle- 
 fechan one afternoon, purchased a quantity of arsenic, walked back 
 with it towards Burnswark Leas, her father's farm, stopped at Burns- 
 wark Farm, which was old Tom Stoddart's, a couple of furlongs 
 short of her own home, and there sate gossiping till she pretend- 
 ed it was too late, and that she would now sleep with the maid. 
 Slept accordingly, old Tom giving no welcome, only stingy permis- 
 sion ; rose with the family next morning, volunteered to make por- 
 ridge for breakfast, made it, could lierself take none of it, went 
 home instead, " having a headache," and in an hour or so after poor 
 old Tom, his wife, maid, and every living creature in the house (ex- 
 cept a dog who had vomited, and not except the cat who couldn't) 
 was dead or lay dying. Horror was universal in those solitary 
 quiet regions. On the third day my father, finding no lawyer take 
 the least notice, sent a messenger express to Dumfries, w^hereupon 
 the due precognitions, due et ceteras, due arrest of Helen Kennedy, 
 with strict questioning and strict locking up as the essential ele- 
 ment. I was in Edinburgh that summer of 1812, but heard enough 
 of the matter there. In the Border regions, where it was the uni- 
 versal topic, i^erhaps not one human creature doubted but Nell was 
 the criminal, and would get her doom. Assize time came, Jeffrey 
 there; and Jeffrey by such a play of advocacy as was never seen 
 before bewildered the poor jury into temporary deliquium or loss 
 of wits (so that the poor foreman, Scottice chancellor, on whose 
 casting vote it turned, said at last, with the sweat bursting from 
 his brow, Mercy, then, mercy !), and brought Nell clear off; home 
 that night, riding gently out of Dumfries in men's clothes to escape 
 the rage of the mob. The jury chancellor, they say, on awakening 
 next morning, smote his now dry brow with a gesture of despair 
 and exclaimed, " Was I mad ?" I have heard from persons who 
 were at the trial that Jeffrey's art in examining of witnesses was 
 extreme, that he made them seem to say almost what he would, 
 and blocked them up from saying what they evidently wished to 
 say. His other great resource was urging the " want of motive " 
 on Nell's part; no means of fancying how a blousy rustic lass 
 should go into such a thing ; thing must have happened otherwise ! 
 And indeed the stagnant stupid soul of Nell, awake only to its own 
 appetites, and torpid as dead bacon to all else in this universe, had 
 needed uncommonly little motive. A blackguard young farmer of 
 
FRANCIS JEFFREY. 
 
LORD JEFFREY. 173 
 
 the neigliborhood, it was understood, had answered her in a trying 
 circumstance : " No, oh no, I cannot marry you. Tom Stoddart has 
 a bill against me of £50 ; I have no money. How can I marry ?" 
 "Stoddart £50," thought Nell to herself j and without difficulty 
 decided on removing that small ohstacle ! 
 
 Jeffrey's advocate fame from this achievement was, at last, al- 
 most greater than he wished, as indeed it might well be. Nell was 
 next year indicted again for murdering a child she had borne (sup- 
 posed to be the blackguard young farmer's). She escaped this 
 time too, by want of evidence and by good advocacy (not Jeffrey's, 
 but the very best that could be hired by three old miser uncles, 
 bringing out for her their long-hoarded stock with a generosity 
 nigh miraculous). Nell, free again, proceeded next to rob the treas- 
 ure-chest of these three miraculous uncles one night, and leave 
 them with their house on fire and singular reflections on so delect- 
 able a niece ; after which, for several years, she continued wander- 
 ing in the Border by-ways, smuggling, stealing, etc. ; only intermit- 
 tently heard of, but steadily mounting in evil fame, till she had 
 become the facile princeps of Border devils, and was considered a 
 completely uncanny and quasi-infernal object. Was found twice 
 over in Cumberland ships, endeavoring to get to America, sailors 
 universally refusing to lift anchor till she were turned out ; did at 
 length, most probably, smuggle herself through Liverpool or some 
 other place to America ; at last vanished out of Annandale, and 
 was no more talked of there. I have seen her father mowing at 
 Scotsbrig as a common day-laborer in subsequent years, a snuffling, 
 unpleasant, deceitful-looking body: very ill thought of while still 
 a farmer, and before his Nell took to murdering. Nell's three mi- 
 raculous uncles were maternal, and were of a very honest kin. 
 
 The merit of saving such an item of the world's population could 
 not seem to Jeffrey very great, and it was said his brethren quizzed 
 him upon it, and made him rather uncomfortable. Long after at 
 Craigenputtoch my Jeannie and I brought him on the topic : which 
 he evidently did not like too well, but was willing to talk of for 
 our sake, and perhaps his own. He still affected to think it uncer- 
 tain whether Nell was really guilty ; such an intrepidity, calmness, 
 and steadfast immovability had she exhibited, persisting in mere 
 unshaken " No" under the severest trials by him ; but there was no 
 persuading us that he had the least real doubt, and not some real 
 regret rather. Advocate morality was clearly on his side. It is a 
 strange trade, I have often thought, that of advocacy. Your intel- 
 lect, your highest heavenly gift, hung up in the shop window like 
 
174 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 a loaded pistol for sale ; will either blow out a pestilent scoundrers 
 brains, or the scoundrel's salutary sheriff's officer's (in a sense), as 
 you please to choose for your guinea ! Jeffrey rose into higher and 
 higher professional repute from this time ; and to the last was very 
 celebrated as what his satirists might have called a " felon's friend.'* 
 All this, however, was swallowed among quite nobler kinds of re- 
 nown, both as advocate and as " man of letters" and as member of 
 society; everybody recognizing his honorable ingenuity, sagacity, 
 and opulent brilliancy of mind ; and nobody ascribing his felon 
 help to anything but a pitying disposition and readiness to exer- 
 cise what faculty one has. 
 
 I seem to remember that I dimly rather felt there was some- 
 thing trivial, doubtful, and not quite of the highest type in our 
 Edinburgh admiration for our great lights and law sages, and poor 
 Jeffrey among the rest ; but I honestly admired him in a loose way 
 as my neighbors were doing, was always glad to notice him when 
 I strolled into the courts, and eagerly enough stept up to hear if I 
 found him pleading ; a delicate, attractive, dainty little figure as 
 he merely walked about, much more if he were speakiug ; uncom- 
 monly bright black eyes, instinct with vivacity, intelligence, and 
 kindly fire ; roundish brow, delicate oval face full of rapid expres- 
 sion, figure light, nimble, pretty though so small, perhaps hardly 
 five feet in height. He had his gown, almost never any wig, wore 
 his black hair rather closely crox)t ; I have seen the back part of it 
 jerk suddenly out in some of the rapid expressions of his face, and 
 knew even if behind him that his brow was then puckered, and his 
 eyes looking archly, half-contemptuously out, in conformity to 
 some conclusive little cut his tongue was giving. His voice, clear, 
 harmonious, and sonorous, had something of metallic in it, some- 
 thing almost plangent ; never rose into alt, into any dissonance or 
 shrillness, nor carried much the character of humor, though a fine 
 feeling of the ludicrous always dwelt in him — as you would notice 
 best when he got into Scotch dialect, and gave you, with admirable 
 truth of mimicry, old Edinburgh incidents and experiences of his 
 — very great upon old " Judge Baxie," " Peter Peebles," and the 
 like. For the rest, his laugh was small and by no means Homeric ; 
 he never laughed loud (could not do it, I should think), and indeed 
 oftener sniggered slightly than laughed in any way. 
 
 For above a dozen or fourteen years I had been outwardly fa- 
 miliar with the figure of Jeffrey before we came to any closer ac- 
 quaintance, or, indeed, had the least prospect of any. His sphere 
 lay far away above mine ; to him, in his shining elevation, my ex- 
 
LORD JEFFREY. 175 
 
 istence down among the shadows was unknown. In May, 1814, 1 
 heard him once pleading in the General Assembly, on some poor 
 cause there ; a notable, but not the notablest thing to me, while I 
 sate looking diligently, though mostly as dramatic spectator, into 
 the procedure of that venerable Church Court for the first time, 
 which proved also the last. Queer old figures there ; Hill of St. 
 Andrews, Johnston of Carmichael, Dr. Inglis with the voice jin- 
 gling in perpetual unforeseen alternation between deep bass and 
 shrill treble (ridiculous to hear, though shrewd cunning sense lay 
 in it), Dr. Chalmers once, etc., etc., all vanished now! Jeffrey's 
 pleading, the first I had heard of him, seemed to me jibundantly 
 clever, full of liveliness, free flowing ingenuity ; my admiration 
 went frankly with that of others, but I think was hardly of very 
 deep character. 
 
 This would be the year I went to Annan as teacher of mathe- 
 matics; not a gracious destiny, nor by any means a joyful, indeed 
 a hateful, sorrowful, and imprisoning one, could I at all have 
 helped it, which I could not. My second year there at Rev. Mr. 
 Glen's (reading Newton's " Principia" till three a.m., and voracious- 
 ly many other books) was greatly more endurable, nay, in parts 
 was genial and spirited, though the paltry trade and ditto envi- 
 ronment for the most part were always odious to me. In late au- 
 tumn, 1816, I went to Kirkcaldy in like capacity, though in cir- 
 cumstances "(what with Edward Irving's company, what with, etc., 
 etc.) which were far superior. There in 1818 1 had come to the grim 
 conclusion that school-mastering must end, whatever pleased to 
 follow; that "it were better to perish," as I exaggeratively said 
 to myself, " than continue school-mastering." I made for Edin- 
 burgh, as did Irving too, intending, I, darkly towards potential 
 " literature," if I durst have said or thought so. But hope hardly 
 dwelt in me on that or on any side ; only fierce resolution in abun- 
 dance to do my best and utmost in all honest ways, and to suffer 
 as silently and stoically as might be, if it proved (as too likely!) 
 that I could do notMng. This kind of humor, what I sometimes 
 called of " desperate hope," has largely attended me all my life. 
 In short, as has been enough indicated elsewhere, I was advancing 
 towards huge installments of bodily and spiritual wretchedness in 
 this my Edinburgh purgatory, and had to clean and purify myself 
 in penal fire of various kinds for several years coming ; the first 
 and much the worst two or three of which were to be enacted in 
 this once-loved city. Horrible to think of in part even yet ! The 
 bodily part of them was a kind of base agony (arising mainly in 
 
176 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 the waut of any extant or discoverable /encc between my coarser 
 fellow-creatures and my more sensitive self), and might and could 
 easily (had the age been pious or thoughtful) have been spared a 
 poor creature like me. Those hideous disturbances to sleep, etc., 
 a very little real care and goodness might prevent all that ; and I 
 look back upon it still with a kind of angry protest, and would 
 have my successors saved from it. But perhaps one needs suffer- 
 ing more than at first seems, and the spiritual agonies would not 
 have been enough! These latter seem wholly blessed in retro- 
 spect, and were infinitely worth suffering, with whatever addition 
 was needful. God be thanked always. 
 
 It was still some eight or ten years before any personal contact 
 occurred between Jeffrey and me ; nor did I ever tell him what a 
 bitter passage, known to only one party, there had been between 
 us. It was probably in 1819 or 1820 (the coldest winter I ever 
 knew) that I had taken a most private resolution, and executed it 
 in spite of physical and other misery, to try Jeffrey with an actual 
 contribution to the "Edinburgh Review." The idea seemed great, 
 and might be tried, though nearly desperate. I had got hold some- 
 where (for even books were all but inaccessible to me) of a foolish 
 enough, but new French book, a mechanical theory of gravitation 
 elaborately worked out by a late foolish M. Pictet (I think that 
 was the name) in Geneva. This I carefully read, judged of, and 
 elaborately dictated a candid account and condemnation of, or 
 modestly firm contradiction of (my amanuensis, a certain feeble 
 but inquiring quasi-disciple of mine called George Dalgleish of 
 Annan, from whom I kept my ulterior purpose quite secret). Well 
 do I remember those dreary evenings in Bristo Street ; oh, what 
 ghastly passages and dismal successive spasms of attempt at " lit- 
 erary enterprise !'' — " Herclii Selenographia," with poor Horrox's 
 " Venus in Sole visa," intended for some life of the said Horrox — 
 this for one other instance. I read all Saussure's four quartos of 
 Travels in Switzerland too (and still remember much of it), I know 
 not with what object. I was banished solitary as if to the bottom 
 of a cave, and blindly had to try many impossible roads out ! My 
 " Review of Pictet " all fairly written out in George Dalgleish's 
 good clerk hand, I penned some brief polite note to the great ed- 
 itor, and walked off with the small parcel one night to his address 
 in George Street. I very well remember leaving it with his valet 
 there, and disappearing in the night with various thoughts and 
 doubts. My hopes had never risen high, or, in fact, risen at all; 
 but for a fortnight or so they did not quite die out, and then it was 
 
LORD JEFFREY. 177 
 
 in absolute Zero; no answer, no return of MS., absolutely no notice 
 taken, which was a form of catastrophe more complete than even 
 I had anticipated. There rose in my head a pungent little note 
 which might be written to the great man, with neatly cutting con- 
 siderations offered him from the small unknown ditto ; but I wisely 
 judged it was still more dignified to let the matter lie as it was, 
 and take what I had got for my own benefit only. Nor did I ever 
 mention it to almost anybody, least of all to Jeffrey in subsequent 
 changed times, when at any rate it was fallen extinct. It was my 
 second, not quite my first, attempt in that fashion. Above two 
 years before, from Kirkcaldy, I had forwarded to some magazine 
 editor in Edinburgh what, perhaps, was a likelier little article (of 
 descriptive tourist kind after a real tour by Yarrow country into 
 Annandale), which also vanished without sign ; not much to my 
 regret that first one, nor indeed very much the second either (a 
 dull affair altogether, I could not but admit), and no third adven- 
 ture of the kind lay ahead for me. It must be owned my first 
 entrances into glorious " literature " were abundantly stinted and 
 pitiful ; but a man does enter if, even with a small gift, he persists ; 
 and perhaps it is no disadvantage if the door be several times 
 slammed in his face as a preliminary. 
 
 In spring, 1827, 1 suppose it must have been, a letter came to 
 me at Comley Bank* from Procter (Barry Cornwall, my quondam 
 London acquaintance), offering, with some " congratulations," etc., 
 to introduce me formally to Jeffrey, whom he certified to be a 
 "very fine fellow," with much kindness in him, among his other 
 known qualities. Comley Bank, except for one darling soul, 
 whose heavenly nobleness, then as ever afterwards, shone on me, 
 and should have made the darkest place bright (ah me ! ah me ! I 
 only know now how noble she was !), was a gloomy, intricate abode 
 to me, and in retrospect has little or nothing of pleasant but her. 
 This of Jeffrey, however, had a practical character of some promise; 
 and I remember striding off with Procter's introduction one evening 
 towards George Street and Jeffrey (perhaps by appointment of hour 
 and place by himself) in rather good spirits. " I shall see the fa- 
 mous man, then," thought I, "and if he can do nothing for me, 
 wliy not !" I got ready admission into Jeffrey's study, or rather 
 "office," for it had mostly that air — a roomy, not overneat, apart- 
 ment on the ground-floor, with a big baize-covered table, loaded 
 with book rows and paper bundles. On one, or perhaps two, of 
 
 * Carlyle's first home after his marriage ; a suburb of Edinburgh. 
 8* 
 
178 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 thfe walls were book-shelves likewise well filled, but with books in 
 tattery, ill-bouDd, or unbound condition. " Bad new literature 
 these will be," thought I ; " the table ones are probably on hand !" 
 Five pair of candles were cheerfully burning, in the light of which 
 sate my famous little gentleman ; laid aside his work, cheerfully 
 invited me to sit, and began talking in a perfectly human manner. 
 Our dialogue was perfectly human and successful ; lasted for per- 
 haps twenty minutes (for I could not consume a great man's time), 
 turned upon the usual topics, what I was doing, what I had pub- 
 lished, " German Romance," translations my last thing ; to which 
 I remember he said, kindly, " We must give you a lift," an offer 
 which in some complimentary way I managed to his satisfaction 
 to decline. — My feeling with him was that of embarrassment ; a 
 reasonable veracious little man, I could perceive, with whom any 
 truth one felt good to utter would have a fair chance. Whether 
 much was said of German literature, whether anything at all on 
 my writing of it for him, I don't recollect ; but certainly I took 
 my leave in a gratified successful kind of mood ; and both those 
 topics, the latter in practical form, did soon abundantly spring up 
 between us, with formal return call by him (which gave a new 
 speed to intimacy), agreement for a little paper on "Jean Paul," 
 and whatever could follow out of an acquaintanceship well begun. 
 The poor paper on Jean Paul, a study piece, not without humor 
 and substance of my own, appeared in (I suppose) the very next 
 "Edinburgh Review," and made what they call a sensation among 
 the Edinburgh buckrams, which was greatly heightened next num- 
 ber by the more elaborate and grave article on "German Literature" 
 generally, which set many tongues wagging, and some few brains 
 considering, ivhat this strange monster could be that was come to 
 disturb their quiescence and the established order of Nature! 
 Some newspapers or newspaper took to denouncing the "Mystic 
 Scbool," which my bright little woman declared to consist of me 
 alone, or of her and me, and for a long while after merrily used to 
 designate us by that title, "Mystic School" signifying ws, in the 
 pretty coterie speech which she was always so ready to adopt, and 
 which lent such a charm to her talk and writing. She was beau- 
 tifully gay and hopeful under these improved phenomena, the 
 darling soul! "Foreign Review," "Foreign Quarterly," etc., fol- 
 lowed, to which I was eagerly invited. Articles for Jeffrey (about 
 parts of which I had always to dispute with him) appeared also 
 from time to time. In a word, I was now in a sort fairly launched 
 upon literature, and bad even to sections of the public become a 
 
LORD JEFFREY. 179 
 
 ''Mystic School ;" not quite prematurely, being now of the age of 
 thirty-two, and having had my hits of experiences, and gotten 
 really something which I wished much to say— and have ever 
 since been saying the best way I could. 
 
 After Jeffrey's call at Comley Bank, the intimacy rapidly increased. 
 He was much taken with my little Jeannie, as he well might be : 
 one of the brightest and cleverest creatures in the whole workl; 
 full of innocent rustic simplicity and veracity, yet with the grace- 
 fulest discernment, calmly natural deportment; instinct with 
 beauty and intelligence to the finger-ends ! He became, in a sort, 
 her would-be openly declared friend and quasi-lover ; as was his 
 way in such cases. He had much the habit of flirting about with 
 women, especially pretty women, much more the both pretty and 
 clever ; all in a weakish, mostly dramatic, and wholly theoretic way 
 (his age now fifty gone) ; would daintily kiss their hands in bid- 
 ding good-morning, offer his due homage, as he phrased it; trip 
 about, half like a lap-dog, half like a human adorer, with speeches 
 pretty and witty, always of trifling import. I have known some 
 women (not the prettiest) take offense at it, and awkwardly draw 
 themselves up, but without the least putting him out. The most 
 took it quietly, kindly, and found an entertainment to themselves 
 in cleverly answering it, as he did in pertly offering it ; pertly, yet 
 with something of real reverence, and always in a dexterous light 
 way. Considerable jealousy attended the reigning queen of his 
 circle among the now non-reigning : who soon detected her posi- 
 tion, and gave her the triumph of their sometimes half- visible 
 spleen. An airy environment of this kind was, wherever possi- 
 ble, a coveted charm in Jeffrey's way of life. I can fancy he had 
 seldom made such a surprising and agreeable acquaintance as this 
 new one at Comley Bank ! My little woman perfectly understood 
 all that sort of thing, the methods and the rules of it ; and could 
 lead her clever little gentleman a very pretty minuet, as far as sbe 
 saw good. They discovered mutual old cousinships by the mater- 
 nal side, soon had common topics enough : I believe he really en- 
 tertained a sincere regard and affection for her, in the heart of his 
 theoretic dangling; which latter continued unabated for several 
 years to come, with not a little quizzing and light interest on her 
 part, and without shadow of offense on mine, or on anybody's. Nay, 
 I had my amusements in it too, so naive, humorous, and pretty were 
 her bits of narratives about it, all her procedures in it so dainty, 
 delicate, and sure— the noble little soul! Suspicion of her noble- 
 ness would have been mad in me ; and could I grudge her the little 
 
180 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 bit of entertainment she might be able to extract from this poor 
 harmless sport in a life so grim as she cheerfully had with me ? My 
 Jeannie ! oh, my bonny little Jeannie ! how did I ever deserve so 
 queen-like a heart from thee ? Ah me ! 
 
 Jeffrey's acquaintanceship seemed, and was for the time, an im- 
 mense acquisition to me, and everybody regarded it as my highest 
 good fortune ; though in the end it did not practically amount to 
 much. Meantime it was very pleasant, and made us feel as if no 
 longer cut off and isolated, but fairly admitted, or like to be ad- 
 mitted, and taken in tow by the world and its actualities. Jef- 
 frey had begun to feel some form of bad health at this time (some 
 remains of disease in the trachea, caught on circuit somewhere, 
 "successfully defending a murderess," it was said). He rode al- 
 most daily, in intervals of court business, a slow amble, easy to ac- 
 company on foot ; and I had much walking with him, and many a 
 pleasant sprightly dialogue, cheerful to my fancy (as speech with 
 an important man), but less instructive than I might have hoped. 
 To my regret, he would not talk of his experiences in the world, 
 which I considered would have been so instructive to me, nor of 
 things concrete and current, but was theoretic generally ; aud 
 seemed bent on, first of all, converting me from what he called my 
 " German mysticism," back merely, as I could perceive, into dead 
 Edinburgh Whigism, skepticism, and materialism; which I felt to 
 be a forever impossible enterprise. We had long discussions and 
 argumentative parryings and thrustings, which I have known con- 
 tinue night after night till two or three in the morning (when I 
 was his guest at Craigcrook, as once or twice happened in coming 
 years) : there we went on in brisk logical exercise with all the 
 rest of the house asleep, and parted usually in good-humor, though 
 after a game which was hardly worth the candle. I found him 
 infinitely witty, ingenious, sharp of fence, but not in any sense 
 deep ; and used without difficulty to hold my own with him. A 
 pleasant enough exercise, but at last not a very profitable one. 
 
 He was ready to have tried anything in practical help of me ; 
 and did, ou hint given, try two things: vacant "Professorship of 
 Moral Philosophy " at St. Andrews ; ditto of something similar 
 (perhaps it was "English Literature") in the new Gower Street 
 University at London ; but both (thank Heaven !) came summarily 
 to nothing. Nor were his review articles any longer such an im- 
 portant employment to me, nor had they ever been my least trou- 
 blesome undertakings — plenty of small discrepancy about details 
 as we went along, though no serious disagreement ever, and his 
 
LORD JEFFREY. 181 
 
 treatment throughout was liberal and handsome. Indeed, he had 
 much patience with me, I must say ; for there was throughout a 
 singular freedom in my way of talk with him ; and though far 
 from wishing or intending to be disrespectful, I doubt there was 
 'at times an unembarrassment and frankness of hitting and repel- 
 ling, which did not quite beseem our respective ages and positions. 
 He never testified the least ofifense, but possibly enough remem- 
 bered it afterward, being a thin-skinned sensitive man, with all 
 his pretended pococurantism and real knowledge of what is called 
 the "world." I remember pleasant strolls out to Craigcrook (one 
 of the prettiest places in the world), where on a Sunday especially 
 I might hope, what was itself a rarity with me, to find a really 
 companionable human acquaintance, not to say one of such qual- 
 ity as this. He would wander about the woods with me, looking 
 on the Firth and Fife Hills, on the Pentlands and Edinburgh Cas- 
 tle and city ; nowhere was there such a view. Perhaps he would 
 walk most of the way back with me ; quietly sparkling and chat- 
 tiug, probably quizzing me in a kind of way if his wife were with 
 us, as sometimes happened. If I met him in the streets, in the 
 Parliament House, or accidentally anywhere, there ensued, un- 
 less he were engaged, a cheerful bit of talk and promenading. He 
 frequently rode round by Comley Bank in returning home : and 
 there I would see him, or hear something pleasant of him. He 
 never rode fast, but at a walk, and his little horse was steady as 
 machinery. He on horseback, I on foot, was a frequent form of 
 our dialogues. I suppose we must have dined sometimes at Craig- 
 crook or Moray Place in this incipient period, but don't recollect. 
 
 The incipient period was probably among the best, though for 
 a long while afterwards there was no falling off in intimacy and 
 good-will. But sunrise is often lovelier than noon. Much in this 
 first stage was not yet fulfillment, and was enhanced by the colors 
 of hope. There was the new feeling, too, of what a precious con- 
 quest and acquisition had fallen to us, which all the world might 
 envy. Certainly in every sense the adventure was a flattering and 
 cheering one, and did both of us good. I forget how long it had 
 lasted before our resolution to remove to Craigenputtoch came to 
 be fulfilled ; it seems to me some six or eight months. The flitting 
 to Craigenputtoch took place in May, 1828; we staid a week in 
 Moray Place (Jeffrey's fine new house there) after our furniture 
 was on the road, and we were waiting till it should arrive and ren- 
 der a new home possible amid the moors and mountains. Jeffrey 
 promised to follow us thither with wife and daughter for three 
 
182 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 days in vacation-time ensuing, to see what kind of a tiling we were 
 making of it, which of course was great news. Douhtless he, like 
 most of my Edinburgh acquaintances, had been strongly dissuasive 
 of the step we were takiug; but his or other people's arguments 
 availed nothing, and I have forgotten them. The step had been 
 well meditated, saw itself to be founded on irrefragable considera- 
 tions of health, finance, etc., etc., unknown to by-standers, and could 
 not be forborne or altered. " I will come and see you at any rate," 
 said Jeffrey, and dismissed us with various expressions of interest, 
 and no doubt with something of real regret. 
 
 Of our history at Craigenputtoch there might a great deal be 
 written which might amuse the curious ; for it was in fact a very 
 singular scene and arena for such a pair as my darling and me, 
 with such a life ahead ; and bears some analogy to the settlement 
 of Robinson Crusoe in his desert isle, surrounded mostly by the 
 wild populations, not wholly helpful or even harmless; and re- 
 quiring for its equipment into habitability and convenience infi- 
 nite contrivance, patient adjustment, and natural ingenuity in the 
 head of Robinson himself. It is a history which I by no means 
 intend to write, with such or with any object. To me there is a 
 aacrednesa of interest in it consistent only with ailence. It was the 
 field of endless nobleness and beautiful talent and virtue in her 
 who is now gone; also of good industry, and many loving and 
 blessed thoughts in myself, while living there by her side. Pov- 
 erty and mean obstruction had given origin to it, and continued 
 to preside over it, but were transformed by human valor of vari- 
 ous sorts into a kind of victory and royalty. Something of high 
 and great dwelt in it, though nothing could be smaller and lower 
 than many of the details. How blessed might poor mortals be in 
 the straitest circumstances, if only their wisdom and fidelity to 
 Heaven and to one another were adequately great ! It looks to me 
 now like a kind of humble russet-coated epic, that seven years' set- 
 tlement at Craigenputtoch, very poor in this world's goods, but 
 not without an intrinsic dignity greater and more important than 
 then appeared ; thanks very mainly to her, and her faculties and 
 magnanimities, without whom it had not been possible. I incline 
 to think it the poor best place that could have been selected for 
 the ripening into fixity and composure of anything useful which 
 there may have been in me against the years that were coming. 
 And it is certain that for living in and thinking in, I have never 
 since found in the world a place so favorable. And we were driven 
 and pushed into it, as if by necessity, and its beneficent though 
 
LORD JEEFREY. I33 
 
 ugly little shocks and pushes, shock after shock, gradually com- 
 pelling us thither! "For a divinity doth shape our ends, rough 
 hew them how we may." Often in my life have I been brought 
 to think of this, as probably every considering person is ; and look- 
 ing before and after, have felt, though reluctant enough to believe 
 in the importance or significance of so infinitesimally small an 
 atom as oneself, that the doctrine of a special providence is in 
 some sort natural to man. All piety points that way, all logic 
 points the other ; one has in one's darkness and limitation a trem- 
 bling faith, and can at least with the voices say, " Wir heissen euch 
 hofferif" if it be the will of the Highest. 
 
 The Jeffreys failed not to appear at Craigenputtoch ,• their big 
 carriage climbed our rugged hill roads, landed the three guests— 
 Charlotte ("Sharlie") with pa and ma — and the clever old valet 
 maid that waited on them ; stood three days under its glazed sheet- 
 ing in our little back court, nothing like a house got ready for it, 
 and indeed all the out-houses and appurtenances still in a much 
 unfinished state, and only the main house quite ready aud habita- 
 ble. The visit was pleasant and successful, but I recollect few or 
 no particulars. Jeffrey and I rode one day (or perhaps this was 
 on another visit ?) round by the flank of Dunscore Craig, the Shil- 
 lingland, and Craigenery, and took a view of Loch Gor and the 
 black moorlands round us, with the Granite mountains of Gallo- 
 way overhanging in the distance ; not a beautiful landscape, but 
 it answered as well as another. Our party, the head of it espe- 
 cially, was chatty and cheery ; but I remember nothing so well as 
 the consummate art with which my dear one played the domestic 
 field-marshal, and spread out our exiguous resources, without fuss . 
 or bustle ; to cover everything a coat of hospitality and even ele- 
 gance and abundance. I have been in houses ten times, nay, a 
 hundred times as rich, where things went not so well. Though 
 never bred to this, but brought up in opulent plenty by a mother 
 that could bear no partnership in housekeeping, she, finding it be- 
 come necessary, loyally applied herself to it, and soon surpassed in 
 it all the women I have ever seen. My noble one, how beautiful 
 has our poverty made thee to me! She was so true and frank 
 withal; nothing of the skulking Balderstone in her. One day at 
 dinner, I remember, Jeffrey admired the fritters or bits of pancake 
 he was eating, and she let him know, not without some vestige 
 of shock to him, that she had made them. " What, you ! twist up 
 the frying-pan and catch them in the air?" Even so, my high 
 friend, and you may turn it over in your mind ! On the fourth or 
 
184 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 third day the Jeffreys went, and "carried off our little temporary 
 paradise," as I sorrowfully expressed it to them, while shutting 
 their coach door in our hack yard; to which bit of pathos Jeffrey 
 answered by a friendly little sniff of quasi-mockery or laughter 
 through the nose, and rolled prosperously away. 
 
 They paid at least one other visit, probably not just next year, 
 but the one following. We met them by appointment at Dumfries 
 (I think in the intervening year), and passed a night with them in 
 the King's Arms there, which I well enough recollect ; huge ill-kept 
 " head inn," bed opulent in bugs, waiter a monstrous baggy un- 
 wieldy old figure, hebetated, dreary, as if parboiled ; upon whom 
 Jeffrey quizzed his daughter at breakfast : " Comes all of eating 
 eggs, Sharlie ; poor man as good as owned it to me." After break- 
 fast he went across with my wife to visit a certain Mrs. Richardson, 
 authoress of some novels, really a superior kind of woman and much 
 a lady, who had been an old flame of his, perhaps twenty-five or 
 thirty years before. " These old loves don't do," said Mrs. Jeffrey, 
 with easy sarcasm, who was left behind with me. And according- 
 ly there had been some embarrassment I after found, but on both 
 sides a gratifying of some good though melancholy feelings. 
 
 This Mrs. Jeffrey was the American Miss Wilkes, whose marriage 
 with Jeffrey, or at least his voyage across to marry her, had made 
 considerable noise in its time. She was mother of this " Sharlie" 
 (who is now the widow Mrs. Empsou, a morbidly shy kind of crea- 
 ture, who lives withdrawn among her children at Harrogate and 
 such places). Jeffrey had no other child. His first wife, a Hunter 
 of St. Andrews, had died very soon. This second, the American 
 Miss Wilkes, was from Pennsylvania, actual brother's daughter 
 of our demagogue " Wilkes." She was sister of the " Commodore 
 Wilkes" who boarded the Trent some years ago, and almost involved 
 us in war with Yankee-land, during that beautiful Nigger agony 
 or " civil war" of theirs.* She was roundish-featured, not pretty 
 but comely, a sincere and hearty kind of woman, with a great deal 
 of clear natural insight, often sarcastically turned ; to which a cer- 
 tain nervous tic or jerk of the head gave new emphasis or singu- 
 larity ; for her talk went roving about in a loose random way, and 
 hit down like a flail unexpectedly on this or that, with the jerk for 
 
 * Some years after these words were written, Carlyle read *' The Harvard Memo- 
 rial Biographies." He was greatly impressed by the account of the gallant young 
 men whose lives are there described, and said to me, "Perhaps there was more in 
 that matter, after all, than I was aware of."— J. A. F. 
 
LOKD JEFFREY. 185 
 
 accompaniment, in a really genial fashion. She and I were mutual 
 favorites. She liked my sincerity, as I hers. The daughter Char- 
 lotte had inherited her nervous infirmity, and indeed I think was 
 partly lame of one arm ; for the rest, an inferior specimen to either 
 of her parents ; abstruse, suspicious, timid, enthusiastic ; and at 
 length, on death of her parents and of her good old jargoning hus- 
 band, Empson (a long-winded Edinburgh Reviewer, much an adorer 
 of Macaulay, etc.), became quite a morbid, exclusive character, and 
 lives withdrawn as above. Perhaps she was already rather jealous 
 of us ? She spoke very little, wore a half-pouting, half-mocking 
 expression, and had the air of a prettyish spoiled child. 
 
 The " old love " business finished, our friends soon rolled away, 
 and left us to go home at leisure in our good old gig (value £11), 
 which I always look back upon with a kind of veneration, so sound 
 and excellent was it, though so unfashionable ; the conquest of 
 good Alick, my ever shifty brother, which carried us many a plea- 
 sant mile till Craigenputtoch ended. Probably the Jeffreys were 
 bound for Cumberland, on this occasion, to see Brougham ; of whom, 
 as I remember, Mrs. Jeffrey spoke to me with candor, not with en- 
 thusiasm, during that short "old love" absence. Next year, it 
 must have been, they all came again to Craigenputtoch, and with 
 more success than ever. 
 
 One of the nights there, on this occasion, encouraged possibly by 
 the presence of poor James Anderson, an ingenuous, simple, young- 
 ish man, and our nearest gentleman neighbor, Jeffrey in the draw- 
 ing-room was cleverer, brighter, and more amusing than I ever saw 
 him elsewhere. We had got to talk of public speaking, of which 
 Jeffrey had plenty to say, and found Anderson and all of us ready 
 enough to hear. Before long he fell into mimicking of public 
 speakers, men unknown, perhaps imaginary generic specimens; and 
 did it with such a felicity, flowing readiness, ingenuity, and perfec- 
 tion of imitation as I never saw equalled, and had not given him 
 credit for before. Our cozy little drawing-room, bright-shining, 
 hidden in the lowly wilderness, how beautiful it looked to us, be- 
 come suddenly as it were a Temjile of the Muses ! The little man 
 strutted about full of electric fire, with attitudes, with gesticula- 
 tions, still more with winged words, often broken-winged, amid our 
 admiring laughter; gave us the windy grandiloquent specimen, 
 the ponderous stupid, the airy ditto, various specimens, as the talk, 
 chiefly his own, spontaneously suggested, of which there was a lit- 
 tle preparatory interstice between each two. And the mimicry 
 was so complete, you would have said not his mind only, but his 
 
186 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 very body became the specimeDs, bis face filled with the expression 
 represented, and his little figure seeniing to grow gigantic if the 
 personage required it. At length he gave us the abstruse costive 
 specimen, which had a meaning and no utterance for it, but went 
 about clambering, stumbling, as on a path of loose bowlders, and 
 ended in total down-break, amid peals of the heartiest laughter 
 from us all. This of the aerial little sprite standing there in fatal 
 collapse, with the brightest of eyes sternly gazing into utter noth- 
 ingness and dumbness, was one of the most tickling and genially 
 ludicrous things I ever saw, and it prettily winded up our little 
 drama. I often thought of it afterwards, and of what a part mim- 
 icry plays among human gifts. In its lowest phase no talent can 
 be lower (for even the Papuans and monkeys have it) ; but in its 
 highest, where it gives you domicile in the spiritual world of a Shaks- 
 peare or a Goethe, there are only some few that are higher. No 
 clever man, I suppose, is originally without it. Dickens's essential 
 faculty, I often say, is that of a first-rate play-actor. Had he been 
 born twenty or forty years sooner, we should most probably have 
 had a second and greater Mathews, Incledon, or the like, and no 
 writing Dickens. 
 
 It was probably next morning after this (one of these mornings 
 it certainly was) that we received, i. e. Jeffrey did (I think through 
 my brother John, then vaguely trying for " medical practice " in 
 London, and present on the scene referred to), a sternly brief letter 
 from poor Hazlitt, to the effect and almost in the words, " Dear sir, 
 I am dying; can you send me £10, and so consummate your many 
 kindnesses to me ? W. Hazlitt." This was for Jeffrey ; my bro- 
 ther's letter to me, inclosing it, would of course elucidate the situ- 
 ation. Jeffrey, with true sympathy, at once wrote a check for £50, 
 and poor Hazlitt died in peace, from, duns at least. He seemed to 
 have no old friends about, to have been left in his poor lodging to 
 the humanity of medical people and transient recent acquaint- 
 ances, and to have died in a grim stoical humor, like a worn-out 
 soldier in hospital. The new doctor people reckoned that a certain 
 Dr. Darling, the first called in, had fatally mistreated him. Hazlitt 
 had just finished his toilsome, unrewarded (not quite worthless) 
 " Life of Napoleon," which at least recorded his own loyal ad- 
 miration and quasi-adoration of that questionable person ; after 
 which he felt excessively worn and low, and was by unlucky Dr. 
 Darling recommended, not to port-wine, brown soup, and the like 
 generous regimen, but to a course of purgatives and blue-pill, which 
 irrecoverably wasted his last remnants of strength, and brought 
 
LOKD JEFFREY. 187 
 
 him to his end in this sad way. Poor Hazlitt ! he was never ad- 
 mirable to me ; but I had my estimation of him, my pity for him ; 
 a man recognizably of fine natural talents and aspirations, but of 
 no sound culture whatever, and flung into the roaring caldron of 
 stupid, prurient, anarchic London, there to try if he could find some 
 culture for himself. 
 
 This was Jeffrey's last visit to Craigenputtoch. I forget when 
 it was (probably next autumn late) that we made our fortnight's 
 visit to Craigcrook and him. That was a shining sort of affair, but 
 did not in effect accomplish much for any of us. Perhaps, for one 
 thing, we staid too long ; Jeffrey was beginning to be seriously in- 
 commoded in health, had bad sleep, cared not how late he sate, and 
 we had now more than ever a series of sharp fencing bouts, night 
 after night, which could decide nothing for either of us, except our 
 radical inxjompatibility in respect of world theory, and the incurable 
 divergence of our opinions on the most important matters. " You 
 are so dreadfully in earnest !" said he to me once or oftener. Be- 
 sides, I own now I was deficient in reverence to him, and had not 
 then, nor, alas ! have ever acquired in my solitary and mostly silent 
 existence, the art of gently saying strong things, or of insinuating 
 my dissent, instead of uttering it right out at the risk of offence or 
 otherwise. At bottom I did not find his the highest kind of in- 
 sight in regard to any province whatever. In literature he had a 
 respectable range of reading, but discovered little serious study; 
 and had no views which I could adopt in preference [to my own]. 
 On all subjects I had to refuse him the title of deep, and secretly 
 to acquiesce in much that the new opposition party (Wilson, Lock- 
 hart, etc., who had broken out so outrageously in " Blackwood" for 
 the last ten years) were alleging against the old excessive Edin- 
 burgh hero-worship — an unpleasant fact, which probably was not 
 quite hidden to so keen a pair of eyes. One thing struck me in sad 
 elucidation of his forensic glories. I found that essentially he was 
 always as if speaking to a jury ; that the thing of which he could 
 not convince fifteen clear-headed men was to him a nothing, good 
 only to be flung over the lists, and left lying without notice farther. 
 This seemed to me a very sad result of law ! For " the highest can- 
 not be spoken of in words," as Goethe truly says, as in fact all truly 
 deep men say or know. I urged this on his consideration now and 
 then, but without the least acceptance. These " stormy sittings," 
 as Mrs. Jeffrey laughingly called them, did not improve our relation 
 to one another. But these were the last we had of that nature. 
 In other respects Edinburgh had been barren ; effulgences of 
 
188 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 "Edinburgli society," big dinners, parties, we in due measure had; 
 but nothing there was very interesting either to her or to me, and 
 all of it passed away as an obliging pageant merely. Well do I 
 remember our return to Craigenputtoch, after night-fall, amid the 
 clammy yellow leaves and desolate rains, with the clink of Alick's 
 stithy alone audible of human, and have marked it elsewhere. 
 
 A great deal of correspondence there still was, and all along had 
 been ; many Jeffrey letters to me and many to her, which were all 
 cheerfully answered. I know not what has become of all these 
 papers ;* by me they never were destroyed, though indeed neither 
 hers nor mine were ever of much importance except for the pass- 
 ing moment. I ought to add that Jeffrey, about this time (next 
 summer I should think), generously offered to confer on me an 
 annuity of £100, which annual sum, had it fallen on me from the 
 clouds, would have been of very high convenience at that time, but 
 which I could not for a moment have dreamt of accepting as gift 
 or subventionary help from any fellow-mortal. It was at once in 
 my handsomest, gratefullest, but brief and conclusive way [de- 
 clined] from Jeffrey: "Republican equality the silently fixed law 
 of human societj'^ at present ; each man to live on his own resources, 
 and have an equality of economies with every other man ; danger- 
 ous and not possible, except through cowardice or folly, to depart 
 from said clear rule, till perhaps a better era rise on us again." 
 Jeffrey returned to the charge twice over in handsome enough 
 sort ; but my new answer was in briefest words a repetition of the 
 former, and the second time I answered nothing at all, but stood 
 by other topics ; upon which the matter dropped altogether. It 
 was not mere pride of mine that frustrated this generous resolu- 
 tion, but sober calculation as well, and correct weighing of the re- 
 sults probable in so dangerous a copartnery as that xiroposed. In 
 no condition well conceivable to me could such a proposal have 
 been accepted, and though I could not doubt but Jeffrey had in- 
 tended an act of real generosity, for which I was and am grateful, 
 perhaps there was something in the manner of it that savored of 
 consciousness and of screwing one's self up to the point ; less of 
 godlike pity for a fine fellow and his struggles, than of human de- 
 termination to do a fine action of one's own, which might add to 
 the promptitude of my refusal. He had abundance of money, but 
 he was not of that opulence which could render such an " annuity," 
 in 6ase I should accept it, totally insensible to him ; I therefore en- 
 
 • All preserved, and in my possession.— Editob. 
 
LOliD JEFFREY. Igg 
 
 deavored all the more to be thankful; and if the heart would not 
 quite do (as was probably the case), forced the intellect to take 
 part, which it does at this day. Jeffrey's beneficence was undoubt- 
 ed, and his gifts to poor people in distress were a known feature 
 of his way of life. I once, some months after this, borrowed £100 
 from him, my pitiful bits of " periodical literature " incomings hav- 
 ing gone awry (as they were too liable to do), but was able, I still 
 remember with what satisfaction, to repay punctually within a few 
 Aveeks ; and this was all of pecuniary chivalry we two ever had be- 
 tween us. 
 
 Probably he was rather cooling in his feelings towards me, if 
 they ever had been very warm, so obstinate and rugged had he 
 found me, "so dreadfully in earnest!" And now the time of the 
 Eeform Bill was coming on ; Jeffrey and all high Whigs getting 
 summoned into an ofBcial career ; and a scene opening which 
 (in effect), instead of irradiating with new glory^ and value, 
 completely clouded the remaining years of Jeffrey's life. His 
 health had for some years been getting weaker, and proved now 
 unequal to his new honors; that was the fatal circumstance which 
 rendered all the others irredeemable. He was not what you could 
 call ambitious, rather the reverse of that, though he relished pub- 
 lic honors, especially if they could be interpreted to signify public 
 love. I remember his great pleasure in having been elected Dean 
 of Faculty, perhaps a year or so before this very thing of Reform 
 agitation, and my surprise at the real delight he showed in this 
 proof of general regard from his fellow-advocates. But now, am- 
 bitious or not, he found the career flung open, all barriers thrown 
 down, and was forced to enter, all the world at his back crushing 
 him in. 
 
 He was, naturally, appointed Lord Advocate (political president 
 of Scotland), had to get shoved into Parliament — some vacancy 
 created for him by the great Whigs — "Malton, in Yorkshire," the 
 place, and was whirled away to London and public life ; age now 
 about fifty-six, and health bad. I remember in his correspond- 
 ence considerable misgivings and gloomy forecastings about all 
 this, which in my inexperience and the general exultation then 
 prevalent I had treated with far less regard than they merited. 
 He found them too true ; and what I, as a by-stander, could not 
 quite see till long after, that his worst expectations were realized. 
 The exciting, agitated scene abroad and at home, the unwhole- 
 some hours, bad air, noisy hubbub of St. Stephen's, and at home 
 the incessant press of crowds, and of business mostly new to Mm, 
 
190 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 rendered his life completely miserable, and gradually broke down 
 bis health altogether. He had some momentary glows of exulta- 
 tion, and dashed off triumphant bits of lette^^s to my wife, which I 
 remember we both of us thought somewhat juvenile and idyllic (es- 
 pecially one written in the House of Commons library, just after 
 his "great speech," and "with the cheers of that House still ring- 
 ing in my ears"), and which neither of us pitied withal to the due 
 degree. For there was in the heart of all of them — even of that 
 "great speech" one — a deep misery traceable ; a feeling how blessed 
 the old peace and rest would be, and that peace and rest were now 
 fled far away ! We laughed considerably at this huge hurly-burly, 
 comparable in certain features to a huge Sorcerer's Sabbath, pros- 
 perously dancing itself out in the distance; and little knew how 
 lucky we were, instead of unlucky (as perhaps was sometimes one's 
 idea in perverse moments), to have no concern with it except as 
 spectators in the shilling gallery or the two-shilling ! 
 
 About the middle of August, as elsewhere marked, I set off for 
 London with "Sartor Resartus" in my pocket. I found Jeffrey 
 much preoccupied and bothered, but willing to assist me with Book- 
 seller Murray and the like, and studious to be cheerful. He lived 
 in Jermyn Street, wife and daughter with him, in lodgings at £11 
 a week, in melancholy contrast to the beautiful tenements and 
 perfect equipments they had left in the north. On the ground- 
 floor, in a room of fair size, was a kind of secretary, a blear-eyed, 
 tacit Scotch figure, standing or sitting at a desk with many papers. 
 This room seemed also to be anteroom or waiting-room, into which 
 I was once or twice shown if important company was upstairs. 
 The secretary never spoke ; hardly even answered if spoken to, ex- 
 cept by an ambiguous smile or sardonic grin. He seemed a shrewd 
 enough fellow, and to stick faithfully by his own trade. Upstairs 
 on the first floor were the apartments of the family ; Lord Advo- 
 cate's bedroom the back portion of the sitting-room, shut off from 
 it merely by a folding-door. If I called in the morning, in quest, 
 perhaps, of letters (though I don't recollect much troubling him in 
 that way), I would find the family still at breakfast, ten a.m. or 
 later ; and have seen poor Jeffrey emerge in flowered dressing- 
 gown, with a most boiled and suffering expression of face, like one 
 who had slept miserably, and now awoke mainly to paltry misery 
 and bother; poor official man ! " I am made a mere post-office of!" 
 I heard him once grumble, after tearing up several packets, not 
 one of which was internally for himself. 
 
 Later in the day you were apt to find certain Scotch people 
 
LORD JEFFREY. 191 
 
 dangling about, on business or otherwise, Rutherford, the advo- 
 cate, a frequent figure — I never asked or guessed on what errand ; 
 he, florid, fat, and joyous, his old chieftain very lean and dreary. 
 On the whole, I saw little of the latter in those first weeks, and 
 might have recognized more than I did how to me he strove al- 
 ways to he cheerful and obliging, though himself so heavy laden 
 and internally wretched. One day he did my brother John, for 
 ray sake (or perhaps for hers still more), an easy service which 
 proved very important. A Dr. Baron, of Gloucester, had called one 
 day, and incidentally noticed that " the Lady Clare" (a great though 
 most unfortunate and at length professedly valetudinary lady) 
 "wanted a travelling physician, being bound forthwith to Rome." 
 Jeffrey, the same day, on my calling, asked, "Wouldn't it suit your 
 brother ?" and in a day or two the thing was completely settled, 
 and John, to his and our great satisfaction (I still remember him 
 on the coach-box in Regent Circus), under way into his new Ro- 
 man locality, and what proved his new career. My darling had 
 arrived before this last step of the process, and was much obliged 
 by what her little "Duke" had done. Duke was the name we 
 called him by ; for a foolish reason connected with one of Macau- 
 lay's swaggering articles in the "Edinburgh Review," and an in- 
 solent response to it in " Blackwood." " Horsewhipped by a duke," 
 had said Macaulay of his victim in the article. " Duke ! quotha !" 
 answered "Blackwood;" "such a set of dukes!" and hinted that 
 "Duke Macaulay" and "the Duke of Craigcrook " were extremely 
 unheraldic dignitaries, both of them. 
 
 By my Jeannie too had come for John and me the last note we 
 ever had from our father. It was full of the profoundest sorrow 
 (now that I recall it), " drawing nigh to the gates of death," which 
 none of us regarded as other than common dispiritment, and the 
 weak chagrin of old age. Ah me, how blind, how indifferent are 
 all of us to sorrows that lie remote from us, and in a sphere not 
 ours ! In vain did our brave old father, sinking in the black gulfs 
 of eternity, seek even to convince us that he was sinking. Alone, 
 left alone, with only a tremulous and fitful though eternal star of 
 hope, he had to front that adventure for himself — with an awe- 
 struck imagination of it such as few or none of men now know. 
 More valiant soul I have never seen ; nor one to whom death was 
 more unspeakably " the King of Terrors." Death, and the Judg- 
 ment Bar of the Almighty following it, may well be terrible to the 
 bravest. Death with nothing of that kind following it, one readily 
 enough finds cases where that is insignificant to very mean and 
 
192 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 silly natures. Within three months my father was suddenly gone. 
 I might have noticed something of what the old Scotch people used 
 to call fey in his last parting with me (though I did not then so 
 read it, nor do superstitiously now, but only nndeistand it and the 
 superstition): it is visible in Frederick Wilhelm's Ultimatum too. 
 But nothing of all that belongs to this place ! 
 
 My Jeannie had brought us silhouettes of all the faces she had 
 found at Scotsbrig ; one of them (and I find they are all still at 
 Chelsea) is the only outward shadow of my father's face now left 
 me.* Thanks to her for this also, the dear and ever helpful one ! 
 
 After her arrival, and our settlement in the Miles's lodgings 
 (Ampton Street, Gray's Inn Lane — a place I will go to see if I re- 
 turn), Jeffrey's appearances were more frequent and satisfactory. 
 Very often in the afternoon he came to call, for her sake mainly, I 
 believe, though mostlj^ I was there too ; I perceive now his little 
 visits to that unfashionable place Avere probably the golden item 
 of his bad and troublous day; poor official man, begirt with empty 
 botheration! I heard gradually that he was not reckoned "suc- 
 cessful" ill public life; that as Lord Advocate the Scotch, with 
 their multifarious business, found him irritable, impatient (which 
 I don't wonder at); that his "great speech" with "the cheers of 
 that House," etc., etc., had been a Parliamentary failure, rather un- 
 adapted to the place, and what was itself very moriifying, that the 
 reporters had complained of his "Scotch accent" to excuse them- 
 selves for various omissions they had made ! His accent was, in- 
 deed, singular, but it was by no means Scotch : at his first going 
 to Oxford (where he did not stay long) he had peremptorily crush- 
 ed down his Scotch (which he privately had in store in excellent 
 condition to the very end of his life, producible with highly ludi- 
 crous effect on occasion), and adopted instead a strange, swift, 
 sharp-sounding, fitful modulation, part of it pungent, quasi-latrant, 
 other parts of it cooing, bantery, lovingly quizzical, which no 
 charms of his fine ringing voice (metallic tenor of sweet tone), and 
 of his vivacious rapid looks, and pretty little attitudes and gest- 
 ures, could altogether reconcile you to, but in which he persisted 
 through good report and bad. Old Braxey (Macqueen, Lord Brax- 
 field), a sad old cynic, on whom Jeffrey used to set me laughing 
 often enough, was commonly reported to have said, on hearing 
 Jeffrey again after that Oxford sojourn, " The laddie has clean tint 
 his Scotch, and found nae English !" which was an exaggerative 
 
 * Eugraved and inserted in ttiis volume. 
 
LORD JEFFREY. I93 
 
 reading of the fact, his vowels and syllables being elaborately Eng- 
 lish (or English and more, e. g. "heppy," "my lud/' etc., etc.), while 
 the tune which he sang them to was all his own. 
 
 There was not much of interest in what the Lord Advocate 
 brought to us in Ampton Street ; but there was something friendly 
 and home-like in his manners there ; and a kind of interest and 
 sympathy in the extra-official fact of his seeking temporary shelter 
 in that obscure retreat. How he found his way thither I know 
 not (perhaps in a cab, if quite lost in his azimuth) ; but I have 
 more than once led him back through Lincoln's Inn Fields, 
 launched him safe in Long Acre, with nothing but Leicester Square 
 and Piccadilly ahead ; and he never once could find his way home ; 
 wandered about, and would discover at last that he had got into 
 Lincoln's Inn Fields again. He used to tell us sometimes of minis- 
 terial things, not often, nor ever to the kindling of any admiration 
 in either of us; how Lord Althorp would bluffly say, etc., etc. 
 (some very dull piece of bluff candor) ; more sparingly what the 
 aspects and likelihoods were, in which my too Radical humor but 
 little sympathized. He was often unwell, hidden for a week at 
 Wimbledon Park (Lord Althorp's, and then a beautiful secluded 
 place), for quiet and rural air. We seldom called at Jermyn Street ; 
 but did once in a damp clammy evening, which I still fondly recol- 
 lect ; ah me ! Another ditto evening I recollect being there my- 
 self. We were sitting in homely ease by the fire, ourselves four, I 
 the only visitor, when the house -bell rang, and something that 
 sounded like "Mr. Fisher" (Wishaw it should have been) was an- 
 nounced as waiting down stairs ; the emotion about whom, on Mrs. 
 Jeffrey's part, and her agitated industry in sorting the apartment 
 in the few seconds still available, struck me somewhat all the more 
 when "Mr. Fisher" himself Avaddled in, a puffy, thickset, vulgar 
 little dump of an old man, whose manners and talk (talk was of 
 cholera then, threatened as imminent or almost come) struck me 
 as very cool, but far enough from admirable. By the first good 
 chance I took myself away ; learned by-and-by that this had been 
 a " Mr. Wishaw," whose name I had sometimes heard of (in connec- 
 tion with Muugo Park's Travels or the like) ; and long afterwards, 
 on asking old Sterling who or what this Wishaw specially was, 
 " He's a damned old humbug ; dines at Holland House," answered 
 Sterling, readily. Nothing real in him but the stomach and the 
 effrontery to fill it, according to his version : which was all the his- 
 tory I ever had of the poor man, whom I never heard of more, nor 
 saw, except that one time. 
 
 9 
 
194 EEMINISCENCES. 
 
 We were at first rather surprised that Jeffrey did not introduce 
 me to some of his grand literary figures, or try in some way to be 
 of help to one for whom he evidently had a value. The explana- 
 tion I think partly was that I myself expressed no trace of aspira- 
 tion that way ; that his grand literary or other figures were clearly 
 by no means so adorable to the rustic, hopelessly Germanized soul 
 as an introducer of one might have wished; and chiefly that in 
 fact Jefi'rey did not consort with literary or other grand people, 
 but only with Wishaws and bores in this bad time ; that it was 
 practically the very worst of times for him, and that he was him- 
 self so heartily miserable as to think me and his other fellow-creat- 
 ures happy in comparison, and to have no care left to bestow on 
 us. I never doubted his real wish to help me should an opportu- 
 nity ofier, and while it did not, we had no want of him, but plenty 
 of society, of resources, outlooks, and interests otherwise. Truly 
 one might have pitied him this his influx of unexpected dignities, 
 as I hope I in silence loyally sometimes did. So beautiful and ra- 
 diant a little soul, plunged on the sudden into such a mother of 
 (gilt) dead dogs! But it is often so; and many an envied man 
 fares like that mythic Irishman who had resolved on treating him- 
 self to a Sedan-chair, and on whom the mischievous chairmen, giv- 
 ing one another the wink, left the bottom open and ran away with 
 him, to the sorrow of his poor shins. "And that's your Sedan- 
 chairs!" said the Irish gentleman, paying his shilling, and satisfied 
 to finish the experiment. 
 
 In March or the end of February I set to writing " Johnson ;" 
 and having found a steady table (what fettling in that poor room, 
 and how kind and beautiful she was to me !), I wrote it by her side 
 for most part, pushing my way through the mud elements, with » 
 certain glow of victory now and then. This finished, this and 
 other objects and arrangements (Jeffrey much in abeyance, to judge 
 by my memory now so blank), we made our adieus (Irving, Bad- 
 ams, Mill, Leigh Hunt, who was a new acquaintance, but an inter- 
 esting), and by Birmingham, Liverpool, Scotsbrig, with incidents 
 all fresh in mind to me just now, arrived safely home, well pleased 
 with our London sojouru, and feeling our poor life to a certain de- 
 gree made richer by it. Ah me ! " so strange, so sad, the days that 
 are no more !" 
 
 Jeffrey's correspondence continued brisk as ever, but it was now 
 chiefly to her address ; and I regarded it little, feeling, as she too 
 did, that it greatly wanted practicality, and amounted mainly to 
 a flourish of fine words, and the pleasant expenditure now and 
 
LORD JEFFREY. I95 
 
 then of an idle hour iu intervals of worry. My time, with little 
 " Goethe" papers and excerptings (Das Mahrcheu, etc., etc.), print- 
 ing of" Sartor" piecemeal in " Fraser," and London correspondin«-s 
 went more prosperously than heretofore. Had there been good 
 sei'vants procurable, as there were not, one might almost have called 
 it a happy time, this at Craigenputtoch, and it might have lasted 
 longer ; but permanent we both silently felt it could not be, nor 
 even very lasting, as matters stood. I think it must have been the 
 latter part of next year, 1833, when Jeffrey's correspondence with 
 me sputtered out into something of sudden life again; and some- 
 thing so unlucky that it proved to be essentially death instead ! 
 The case was this : we heard copiously in the newspapers that the 
 Edinburgh people, in a meritorious scientific spirit, were about re- 
 modelling their old Astronomical Observatory; and at length that 
 they had brought it to the proper pitch of real equipment, and that 
 nothing now was wanting but a fit observer to make it scientific- 
 ally useful and notable. I had hardly even looked through a tel- 
 escope, but I had good strength in mathematics, in astronomy, and 
 did not doubt but I could soon be at home in such an enterprise 
 if I fairly entered on it. My old enthusiasms, I felt too, were not 
 dead, though so long asleep. We wore eagerly desirous of some 
 humblest -anchorage, in the finance way, among our fellow-creat- 
 ures; my heart's desire, for many years past and coming, was al- 
 ways to find any honest employment by which one might regularly 
 gain one's daily bread. Often long after this (while hopelessly 
 writing the " French Revolution," for example, hopelessly of money 
 or any other success from it), I thought my case so tragically hard : 
 " could learn to do honestly so many things, nearly all the things I 
 have ever seen done, from the making of shoes up to the engineer- 
 ing of canals, architecture of mansions as palatial as you liked, and 
 perhaps to still higher things of the physical or spiritual kind ; 
 would moreover toil so loyally to do my task right, not wrong, and 
 am forbidden to try any of them ; see the practical world closed 
 against me as with brazen doors, and must stand here and perish 
 idle!" 
 
 In a word, I had got into considerable spirits about that astro- 
 nomical employment, fancied myself iu the silent midnight inter- 
 rogating the eternal stars, etc., w4th somethiug of real geniality — 
 in addition to financial considerations ; and, after a few days, in 
 the light friendly tone, with modesty and brevity, applying to 
 my Lord Advocate for his countenance as the first or preliminary 
 step of procedure, or perhaps it was virtually in his own appoint- 
 
196 . REMINISCENCES. 
 
 meut — or i^erhaps, again (for I quite forget), I wrote rather as 
 inquiring what he would think of me in reference to it ? The 
 poor bit of letter still seems to me unexceptionable, and the an- 
 swer was prompt and surprising! Almost or quite by return of 
 post I got not a flat refusal only, but an angry, vehement, almost 
 shrill-sounding and scolding one, as if it had been a crime and an 
 insolence in the like of me to think of such a thing. Thing was 
 intended, as I soon found, for his old Jcrmyn Street secretary (my 
 taciturn friend with the blear eyes) ; and it was indeed a plain in- 
 convenience that the like of me should apply for it, but not a crime 
 or an insolence by any means. '^ The like of me f thought I, and 
 my provocation quickly subsided into contempt. For I had in 
 Edinburgh a kind of mathematical reputation withal, and could 
 have expected votes far stronger than Jeffrey's on that subject. 
 But I perceived the thing to be settled, believed withal that the 
 poor secretary, though blear-eyed when I last saw him, would do 
 well enough, as in effect I understood he did; that his master 
 might have reasons of his oAvn for wishing a provisionary settle- 
 ment to the poor man ; and that, in short, I was an outsider, and 
 had nothing to say to all that. By the first post I accordingly 
 answered, in the old light style, thanking briefly for at least the 
 swift dispatch, affirming the maxim his dat qui cito dat even in case 
 of refusal^ and good-humoredly enough leaving the matter to rest 
 on its own basis. Jeffrey returned to it, evidently somewhat in 
 repentant mood (his tone had really been splenetic, sputtery, and 
 improj)er, poor worried man) ; but I took no notice, and only mark- 
 ed for my own private behoof what exiguous resource of practical 
 help for me lay in that quarter, and how the economical and useful, 
 there as elsewhere, would always override the sentimental and or- 
 namental. 
 
 I had internally no kind of anger against ray would-be generous 
 friend. Had not he after all a kind of gratuitous regard for me ; 
 perhaps as much as I for him ? Nor was there a diminution of 
 respect, perhaps only a clearer view how little respect there had 
 been ! My own poor task was abundantly serious, my posture in 
 it solitary ; and I felt that silence would be fittest. Then and sub- 
 sequently I exchanged one or two little notes of business with Jef- 
 frey, but this of late autumn, 1833, was the last of our sentimental 
 passages, and may be said to have closed what of correspondence 
 we had in the friendly or effusive strain. For several years more 
 he continued corresponding with my wife, and had, I think, to the 
 end a kind of lurking regard to us, willing to show itself j but our 
 
LORD JEFFREY. 197 
 
 own struggle with tlie world was now become stern and grim, not 
 fitly to be interrupted by these theoretic flourishes of epistolary 
 trumpeting: and (toward the finale of "French Revolution," if I 
 recollect) my dearest also gave him up, and nearly altogether 
 ceased corresponding. 
 
 What a finger of Providence once more was this of the Edin- 
 burgh Observatory ; to which, had Jeffrey assented, I should cer- 
 tainly have gone rejoicing. These things really strike one's heart. 
 The good Lord Advocate, who really was pitiable and miserably 
 ill off in his eminent position, showed visible embarrassment at 
 sight of me (in 1834), come to settle in London without further- 
 ance asked or given ; and, indeed, on other occasions, seemed to 
 recollect the Astronomical catastrophe in a way which touched 
 mo, and was of generous origin or indication. He was quitting 
 his Lord Advocateship, and returning home to old courses and 
 habits, a solidly Avise resolution. He always assiduously called 
 on us in his subsequent visits to London ; and we had our kind 
 thoughts, our pleasant reminiscences, and loyal pities of the once 
 brilliant man and friend; but he was now practically become lit- 
 tle or nothing to us, and had withdrawn as it were to the sphere 
 of the past. I have chanced to meet him in a London party; 
 found him curiously exotic. I used punctually to call if passing 
 through Edinburgh ; some recollection I have of an evening, per- 
 haps a night, at Craigcrook, pleasantly hospitable, with Empson 
 (son-in-law) there, and talk about Dickens, etc. Jeffrey was now 
 a judge, and giving great satisfaction in that office; "seldom a 
 better judge," said everybody. His health was weak, and age ad- 
 vancing, but he had escaped his old London miseries, like a sailor 
 from shipwreck, and might now be accounted a lucky man again. 
 The last time I saw him was on my return from Glen Truin in In- 
 verness-shire or Perthshire, and my Ashburton visit there (in 1849 
 or '50). He was then at least for the time withdrawn from judg- 
 ing, and was reported very weak in health. His wife and he, saun- 
 tering for a little exercise on the shore at Newhaven, had stumbled 
 over some cable, and both of them fallen and hurt themselves, his 
 wife so ill that I did not see her at all. Jeffrey I did see after 
 some delay, and we talked and strolled slowly some hours togeth' 
 er ; but there was no longer stay possible, such the evident dis- 
 tress and embarrassment Craigcrook was in. I had got breakfast 
 on very kind terms from Mrs. Empson, with husband and three or 
 four children (of strange Edinburgh type). Jeffrey himself on 
 coming down was very kind to me, but sadly weak; much worn 
 
198 EEMINISCENCES. 
 
 away in body, and in mind more thin and sensitive than ever. He 
 talked a good deal, distantly alluding once to our clianged courses, 
 in a friendly (not a very dexterous wajO? was throughout friendly, 
 good, hut tremulous, thin, almost affecting, in contrast with old 
 times ; grown Lunar now, not Solar any more ! He took .me, hag- 
 gage and all, in his carriage to the railway station, Mrs. Empson 
 escorting, and there said farewell, for the last time as it proved. 
 Going to the Grange some three or four months after this, I acci- 
 dentally heard from some newspaper or miscellaneous fellow-pas- 
 senger, as the news of the morning, that Lord Jeffrey in Edinburgh 
 was dead. Dull and heavy, somewhere in the Basingstoke locali- 
 ties, the tidings fell on me, awakening frozen memories not a few. 
 He had died, I afterward heard, with great constancy and tirmness ; 
 lifted his finger as if in cheerful encouragement amid the lament- 
 ing loved ones, and silently passed away. After that autumn 
 morning at Craigcrook I have never seen one of those friendly 
 souls, not even the place itself again. A few mouths afterwards 
 Mrs. Jeffrey followed her husband ; in a year or two, at Haileybury 
 (some East India college where he had an office or presidency), 
 Empson died, " correctiug proof-sheets of the ' Edinburgh Eeview,' " 
 as appears, " while waiting daily for death " — a most quiet editorial 
 procedure, which I have often thought of! Craigcrook was sold ; 
 Mrs. Empson with her children vanished mournfully into the dumb 
 distance ; and all was over there, and a life scene once so bright 
 for us and others had ended, and was gone like a dream. 
 
 Jeffrey was perhaps at the height of his reputation about 1816 ; 
 his "Edinburgh Eeview" a kind of Delphic oracle and voice of the 
 inspired for great majorities of what is called the "intelligent pub- 
 lic," and himself regarded universally as a man of consummate 
 penetration and the facile princeps in the department he had chosen 
 to cultivate and practice. In the half-century that has followed, 
 what a change in all this ! the fine gold become dim to such a de- 
 gree, and the Trismegistus hardly now regarded as a Megas by any 
 one, or by the generality remembered at all. He may be said to 
 have begun the rash, reckless style of criticising everything in hea- 
 ven and earth by appeal to Moliere's maid; " Do you like it ?" " DonH 
 you like it ?" a style which iu hands more and more inferior to that 
 sound-hearted old lady afcd him, has since grown gradually to such 
 immeasurable length among us; aud he himself is one of the first 
 that suffers by it. If praise and blame are to be perfected, not in 
 the mouth of Moliere's maid only, but in that of mischievous pre- 
 cocious babes and sucklings, you will arrive at singular judgments 
 
LORD JEFFREY. I99 
 
 by degrees ! Jeffrey was by no means tlie supreme in criticism or 
 in anytliing else; but it is certain tliere has no critic appeared 
 among us since who was worth naming beside him ; and his in- 
 fluence for good and for evil in literature and otherwise has been 
 very great. Democracy, the gradual uprise and rule in all things 
 of roaring million-headed unreflecting, darkly suffering, darkly sin- 
 ning " Demos," come to call its old superiors to account at its mad- 
 dest of tribunals ; nothing in my time has so forwarded all this as 
 Jeffrey and his once famous " Edinburgh Review." 
 
 He was not deep enough, pious or reverent enough, to have been 
 great in literature; but he was a man intrinsically of veracity; 
 said nothing without meaning it to some considerable degree, had 
 the quickest perceptions, excellent practical discernment of what 
 lay before him ; was in earnest, too, though not " dreadfully in 
 earnest ;" in short, was well fitted to set forth that " Edinburgh Re- 
 view " (at the dull opening of our now so tumultuous century, and 
 become coryphaeus of his generation in the waste, wide-spreading, 
 and incalculable course appointed it among the centuries. I used 
 to find in him a finer talent than any he has evidenced in writing. 
 This was chiefly when he got to speak Scotch, and gave me anec- 
 dotes of old Scotch Braxfields and vernacular (often enough but 
 not always cynical) curiosities of that type, which he did with a 
 greatness of gusto quite peculiar to the topic, with a fine and deep 
 sense of humor, of real comic mirth, much beyond what was notice- 
 able in him otherwise ; not to speak of the perfection of the mim- 
 icry, which itself was something. I used to think to myself, 
 " Here is a man whom they have kneaded into the shape of an 
 Edinburgh reviewer, and clothed the soul of in Whig formulas and 
 blue and yellow ; but he might have been a beautiful Goldoni too, 
 or something better in that kind, and have given us comedies and 
 aerial pictures true and poetic of human life in a far other way." 
 There was something of Voltaire in him, something even in bodily 
 features; those bright-beaming, swift, and piercing hazel eyes, 
 with their accompaniment of rapid keen expression in the other 
 lineaments of face, resembled one's notion of Voltaire ; and in the 
 voice, too, there was a fine half-plangent kind of metallic ringing 
 tone which used to remind me of what I fancied Voltaire's voice 
 might have been : " voix sombre et majestueuse," Duvernet calls it. 
 The culture and respective natal scenery of the two men had been 
 very different ; nor was their magnitude of faculty anything like the 
 same, had their respective kinds of it been much more identical 
 than they were. You could not define Jeffrey to have been more 
 
200 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 than a potential Voltaire ; say " Scotch Voltaire ;" with ahout as 
 much reason (which was not very much) as they used in Edin- 
 burgh to call old Playfair the " Scotch D'Alemhert." Our Voltaire, 
 too, whatever else might be said of him, was at least worth a large 
 multiple of our D'Alembert. A beautiful little man the former of 
 these, and a bright island to me and to mine in the sea of things, 
 of whom it is now again mournful and painful to take farewell. 
 
 [Finished at Mentone, this Saturday, January 19, 1867; day 
 bright as June (while all from London to Avignon seems to be 
 choked under snow and frost) ; other conditions, especially the in- 
 ternal, not good, but baddish or bad.] 
 
JANE WELSH CAELYLE 
 
JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 
 
 " In the ancient county town of Haddington, July 14, 1801, there 
 was born to a lately wedded pair, not natives of the place, but 
 already reckoned among the best class of people there, a little 
 daughter, whom they named Jane Baillie Welsh, and whose sub- 
 sequent and final name (her own common signature for many 
 years) was Jane Welsh Carlyle, and now so stands, now that she is 
 mine in death only, on her and her father's tombstone in the Ab- 
 bey Kirk of that town. July 14, 1801 ; I was then in my sixth 
 year, far away in every sense, now near and infinitely concerned, 
 trying doubtfully after some three years' sad cuuctation, if there 
 is anything that I can profitably put on record of her altogether 
 bright, beneficent, and modest little life, and her, as my final task 
 in this world." 
 
 These are the words in which Mr. Carlyle commenced an in- 
 tended sketch of his wife's history, three years after she had been 
 taken from him ; but finding the effort too distressing, he passed 
 over her own letters, with notes and recollections which he had 
 written down immediately after her death, directing me, as I have 
 already stated,* either to destroy them, or arrange and publish 
 them, as I might think good. I told him afterwards that before 
 I could write any biography either of Mrs. Carlyle or himself, I 
 thought that these notes ought to be printed in the shape in 
 which he had left them, being adjusted merely into some kind of 
 order. He still left me to my own discretion; on myself, there- 
 fore, the responsibility rests entirely for their publication. The 
 latter part of the narrative flows on consecutively ; the beginning 
 is irregular from the conditions under which Mr. Carlyle was writ- 
 ing. He had requested Miss Geraldine Jewsbury, who had been 
 his wife's most intimate friend, to tell him any biographical anec- 
 dotes which she could remember to have heard from Mrs. Carlyle's 
 
 * See Preface. 
 
204 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 lips. On these anecdotes, wlien Miss Jewsbury gave him as mucli 
 as she was able to give, Mr. Carlyle made his own observations, 
 but he left them undigested, still for the most part remaining in 
 Miss Jewsbury's words ; and in the same words I think it best 
 that they shall appear here, as material which may be used here- 
 after in some record more completely organized, but for the pres- 
 ent serviug to make intelligible what Mr. Carlyle has to say about 
 them. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM JANE WELSH CARLYLE.* 
 
 Ob. April 21, 1866. 
 
 She told me that once, when she was a very little girl, there was going 
 to be a dinner party at home, and she was left alone with some tempting 
 custards, ranged in their glasses upon a stand. She stood looking at them, 
 and the thought, " What would be the consequence if I should eat one of 
 them ?" came into her mind. A whimsical sense of the dismay it would 
 cause took hold of her ; she thought of it again, and scarcely knowing 
 what she was about, she put forth her hand, and — took a Uttle from the 
 top of each ! She was discovered ; the sentence upon her was to eat all 
 the remaining custards, and to hear the company told the reason why there 
 were none for them ! The poor child hated custards for a long time af- 
 terwards. 
 
 THE BUBBLY JOCK. 
 
 On her road to school, when a very small child, she had to pass a gate 
 where a horrid turkey-cock was generally standing. He always ran up to 
 her, gobbling, and looking very hideous and alarming. It frightened her at 
 first a good deal, and she dreaded having to pass the place ; but after a 
 little time she hated the thought of living in fear. The next time she pass- 
 ed the gate, several laborers and boys were near, who seemed to enjoy the 
 thought of the turkey running at her. She gathered herself together, and 
 made up her mind. The turkey ran at her as usual, gobbling and swelling ; 
 she suddenly darted at him, and seized him by the throat, and swung him 
 round. The men clapped their hands, and shouted, "Well done, Uttle 
 Jeannie Welsh !" and the Bubbly Jock never molested her again. 
 
 LEARNING LATIN. 
 
 She was anxious to learn lessons like a boy ; and, when a very little 
 thing, she asked her father to let her " learn Latin like a boy." Her moth- 
 er did not wish her to learn so much ; her father always tried to push 
 her forwards ; there was a division of opinion on the subject. Jeannie 
 
 • Described by Mr. Carlyle as Geraldine's Mythic Jottings. 
 

 MRS. THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 
JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 205 
 
 / 
 went to one of the town scholars in Haddington, and made him teach her 
 a noun of the first declension (" Penna^ a pen," I think it was). Armed 
 with this, she watched her opportunity; instead of going to bed, she crept 
 under the table, and was concealed by the cover. In a pause of conversa- 
 tion, a little voice was heard, " Fenna^ a pen ; pennce^ of a pen," etc., and as 
 there was a pause of surprise, she crept out, and went up to her father, say- 
 ing, " I want to learn Latin ; please let me be a boy." Of course she had 
 her own way in the matter. 
 
 SCHOOL AT HADDINGTON. 
 
 Boys and girls went to the same school ; they were in separate rooms, 
 except for Arithmetic and Algebra. Jeannie was the best of the girls at Al- 
 gebra. Of course she had many devoted slaves among the boys ; one of 
 them especially taught her, and helped her all he knew ; but he was quite 
 a poor boy, whilst Jeannie was one of the gentry of the place ; but she felt 
 no difficulty, and they were great friends. She was fond of doing every- 
 thing difficult that boys did. There was one particularly dangerous feat to 
 which the boys dared each other ; it was to walk on a very narrow ledge on 
 the parapet of the bridge overhanging the water ; the ledge went in an 
 arch, and the height was considerable. One fine morning Jeannie got up 
 early and went to the Nungate Bridge ; she lay down on her face, and 
 crawled from one end of the bridge to the other, to the imminent risk of 
 either breaking her neck or drowning. 
 
 One day, in the boys' school-room, one of the boys said something to dis- 
 please her. She Ufted her hand, doubled it, and hit hira hard ; his nose 
 began to bleed, and in the midst of the scuffle the master came in. He 
 saw the traces of the fray, and said, in an angry voice, " You know, boys, 
 I have forbidden you to fight in school, and have promised that I would 
 flog the next. Who has been fighting this time ?" Nobody spoke, and 
 the master grew angry, and threatened taiose all round unless the culprit 
 were given up. Of course no boy would tell of a girl, so there was a 
 pause : in the midst of it Jeannie looked up and said, " Please, I gave that 
 black eye." The master tried to look grave, and pursed up his mouth ; 
 but the boy was big, and Jeannie was little, so, instead of the tawse, he 
 burst out laughing, and told her she was " a httle deevil," and had no busi- 
 ness there, and to go her ways back to the girls. 
 
 Her friendship with her school-fellow teacher came to an untimely end. 
 An aunt who came on a visit saw her standing by a stile with him, and a 
 book between them. She was scolded, and desired not to keep his compa- 
 ny. This made her very sorry, for she knew how good he was to her ; but 
 she never had a notion of disobedience in any matter, small or great. She 
 did not know how to tell him or to explain ; she thought it shame to tell 
 him he was not thought good enough, so she determined he should imag- 
 ine it a fit of caprice, and from that day she never spoke to him, or took 
 the least notice ; she thought a sudden cessation would pain him less than 
 
206 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 a gradual coldness. Years and years afterwards, going back on a visit to 
 Haddington, when she was a middle-aged woman, and he was a man mar- 
 ried and doing well in the world, she saw him again, and then, for the first 
 time, told him the explanation. 
 
 She was always anxious to work hard, and would sit up half the night 
 over her lessons. One day she had been greatly perplexed by a problem 
 in Euclid ; she could not solve it. At last she went to bed ; and in a dream 
 got up and did it, and went to bed again. In the morning she had no con- 
 sciousness of her dream ; but on looking at her slate, there was the problem 
 solved. 
 
 She was afraid of sleeping too much, and used to tie a weight to one of 
 her ankles that she might awake. Her mother discovered it ; and her father 
 forbade her to rise before five o'clock. She was a most healthy little thing 
 then ; only she did her best to ruin her health, not knowing what she did. 
 She always would push everything to its extreme to find out if possible the 
 ultimate consequence. One day her mother was ill, and a bag of ice had to 
 be appUed to her head. Jeannie wanted to know the sensation, and took 
 an opportunity when no one saw her to get hold of the bag, and put it on 
 her own head, and kept it on till she was found lying on the ground in- 
 sensible. 
 
 She made great progress in Latin, and was in Virgil when nine years old. 
 She always loved her doll ; but when she got into Virgil she thought it 
 shame to care for a doll. On her tenth birthday she built a funeral pile of 
 lead-pencils and sticks of cinnamon, and poured some sort of perfume over 
 all, to represent a funeral pile. She then recited the speech of Dido, stabbed 
 her doll, and let out all the sawdust ; after which she consumed her to ash- 
 es, and then burst into a passion of tears. 
 
 HER APPEARANCE IN GIRLHOOD. 
 
 As a child she was remarkable for her large black eyes with their long 
 curved lashes. As a girl she was extremely pretty — a graceful and beauti- 
 fully formed figure, upright and supple — a delicate complexion of creamy 
 white with a pale rose tint in the cheeks, lovely eyes full of fire and soft- 
 ness, and with great depths of meaning. Her head was finely formed, with 
 a noble arch, and a broad forehead. Her other features were not regular ; 
 but they did not prevent her conveying all the impression of being beauti- 
 ful. Her voice was clear, and full of subtle intonations, and capable of great 
 variety of expression. She had it under full control. She danced with much 
 grace ; and she was a good musician. She was ingenious in all works that 
 required dexterity of hand ; she could draw and paint, and she was a good 
 carpenter. She could do anything well to which she chose to give herself. 
 She was fond of logic — too much so ; and she had a keen, clear, incisive 
 faculty of seeing through things, and hating all that was make-believe or 
 pretentious. She had good sense that amounted to genius. She loved to 
 learn, and she cultivated all her faculties to the utmost of her power. She 
 
JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 207 
 
 was always witty, with a gift for narration ; in a word, she was fascinating, 
 and everybody fell in love with her. A relative of hers told me that every 
 man who spoke to her for five minutes felt impelled to make her an offer 
 of marriage ! From which it resulted that a great many men were made 
 unhappy. She seemed born " for the destruction of mankind." Another 
 person told me that she was " the most beautiful starry-looking creature 
 that could be imagined," with a peculiar grace of manner and motion that 
 was more charming than beauty. She had a great quantity of very fine 
 silky black hair, and she always had a natural taste for dress. The first 
 thing I ever heard about her was that she dressed well — an excellent gift 
 for a woman. 
 
 Her mother was a beautiful woman, and as charming as her daughter, 
 though not so clever. She had the gift of dressing well also. Genius is 
 profitable for all things, and it saves expense. Once her mother was going 
 to some grand fete, and she wanted her dress to be something specially 
 beautiful. She did not want to spend money. Jeannie was intrusted with a se- 
 cret mission to gather ivy leaves and trails of ivy of different kinds and sizes, 
 also mosses of various kinds, and was enjoined to silence. Mrs. Welsh 
 arranged these round her dress, and the moss formed a beautiful embossed 
 trimming, and the ivy made a graceful scroll-work ; the effect was lovely ; 
 nobody could imagine of what the trimming was composed, but it was 
 generally supposed to be a French trimming of the latest fashion and of 
 fabulous expense. 
 
 She always spoke of her mother with deep affection and great admira- 
 tion. She said she was so noble and generous that no one ever came near 
 her without being the better. She used to make beautiful presents by 
 saving upon herself — she economized upon herself to be generous to oth- 
 ers ; and no one ever served her in the least without experiencing her gen- 
 erosity. She was almost as charming and as much adored as her daughter. 
 
 Of hex father she always spoke with reverence; he was the only person 
 who had any real influence over her. But however willful or indulged she 
 might be, obedience to her parents — unquestioning and absolute — lay at the 
 foundation of her life. She was accustomed to say that this habit of 
 obedience to her parents was her salvation through life — that she owed 
 all that was of value in her character to this habit as the foundation. Her 
 father, from what she told me, was a man of strong and noble character — 
 very true, and hating all that was false. She always spoke of any praise 
 he gave her as of a precious possession. She loved him with a deep rev- 
 erence ; and she never spoke of him except to friends whom she valued. 
 It was the highest token of her regard when she told any one about her 
 father. She told me that once he was summoned to go a sudden journey 
 to see a patient, and he took her with him. It was the greatest favor and 
 pleasure she had ever had. They travelled at night, and were to start for 
 their return by a very early hour in the morning. She used to speak of 
 this journey as something that made her perfectly happy ; and during that 
 
208 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 journey her father told her that her conduct and character satisfied him. 
 It was not often he praised her ; and this unreserved flow of communica- 
 tion was very precious to her. Whilst he went to the sick person, she was 
 sent to bed until it should be time to return. She had his watch that she 
 might know the time. When the chaise came round, the landlady brought 
 her some tea ; but she was in such haste not to keep him waiting that she 
 forgot the watch, and they had to return several miles to fetch it. This 
 was the last time she was with her father ; a few days afterwards he fell ill 
 of typhus fever, and would not allow her to come into the room. She made 
 her way once to him, and he sent her away. He died of this illness, and 
 it was the very greatest sorrow she ever experienced. She always relapsed 
 into a deep silence for some time after speaking of her father. \^Not very 
 correct. T. C] 
 
 After her father's death they ['WAcy," wo/] left Haddington, and went 
 to live at Templand, near Thornhill, in Dumfries-shire. It was a country 
 house, standing in its own grounds, prettily laid out. The house has been 
 described to me as furnished with a certain elegant thrift which gave it a 
 great charm. I do not know how old she was when her father died,* but 
 she was one with whom years did not signify, they conveyed no meaning 
 as to what she was. Before she was fourteen she wrote a tragedy in five 
 acts, which was greatly admired and wondered at ; but she never wrote 
 another. She used to speak of it " as just an explosion." I don't know 
 what the title was ; she never told me. 
 
 She had many ardent lovers, and she owned that some of them had rea- 
 son to complain. I think it highly probable that \i flirting were a capital 
 crime, she would have been in danger of being hanged many times over. 
 She told me one story that showed a good deal of character : There was a 
 young man who was very much in love, and I am afraid he had had reason 
 to hope she cared for him : and she only liked him. She refused him de- 
 cidedly when he proposed ; but he tried to turn her from her decision, 
 which showed how little he understood her ; for her will was very stead- 
 fast through life. She refused him peremptorily this time. He then fell 
 ill, and took to his bed, and his mother was very miserable about her son. 
 She was a widow, and had but the one. At last he wrote her another let- 
 ter, in which he declared that unless she would marry him, he would kill 
 himself. He was in such distraction that it was a very likely thing for 
 him to do. Her mother was very angry indeed, and reproached her bit- 
 terly. She was very sorry for the mischief she had done, and took to her 
 bed, and made herself ill with crying. The old servant, Betty, kept im- 
 ploring her to say just one word to save the young man's mother from her 
 ' misery. But though she felt horribly guilty, she was not going to be forced 
 or frightened into anything. She took up the letter once more, which she 
 
 * Eighteen, just gone. 
 
JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 209 
 
 said was very moving, but a slight point struck her ; and she put down the 
 letter, saying to her mother : " You need not be frightened ; he won't kill 
 himself at all ; look here, he has scratched out one word to substitute an- 
 other. A man intending anything desperate would not have stopped to 
 scratch out a word ; he would have put his pen through it, or left it." 
 That was very sagacious, but the poor young man was very ill, and the 
 doctor brought a bad report of him to the house. She suddenly said, 
 " We must go away, go away for some time ; he will get well when we are 
 gone." It was as she had said it would be ; her going away set his mind 
 at rest, and he began to recover. In the end he married somebody else, 
 and what became of him I forget, though I think she told me more about him. 
 There was another man whom she had allowed to fall in love, and never 
 tried to hinder him, though she refused to marry him. After many years 
 she saw him again. He was then an elderly man ; had made a fortune, 
 and stood high as a county gentleman. He was happily married, and the 
 father of a family. But one day he was driving her somewhere, and he 
 slackened the pace to a walk, and said: "I once thought I would have 
 broken my heart about you, but I think my attachment to you was the best 
 thing that ever happened to me : it made me a better man. It is a part of 
 my life that stands out by itself, and belongs to nothing else. I have 
 heard of you from time to time, and I know what a brilliant lot yours has 
 been, and I have felt glad that you were in your rightful place, and I felt 
 glad that I had suffered for your sake, and I have sometimes thought that 
 if I had known, I would not have tried to turn you into any other path." 
 This, as well as I can render it, is the sense of what he said, gravely and 
 gently, and I admired it very much when she told me : but it seems to me 
 that it was much better as she told it to me. Nobody could help loving 
 her, and nobody but was the better for doing so. She had the gift of call- 
 ing forth the best qualities that were in people. 
 
 I don't know at what period she knew Ir^^ing, but he loved her, and 
 wrote letters and poetry (very true and touching) ; but there had been 
 some vague understanding with another person, not a definite engagement, 
 and. she insisted that he must keep to it, and not go back from what had 
 once been spoken. There had been Just then some trial and a great scan- 
 dal about a Scotch minister who had broken an engagement of marriage, 
 and she could not bear that the shadow of any similar reproach should be 
 cast on him. Whether, if she had cared for him very much, she could or 
 would have insisted on such punctilious honor, she did not know herself ; 
 but anyhow that is what she did. After Irving's marriage, years after- 
 wards, there was not much intercourse between them ; the whole course of 
 his life had changed. 
 
 I do not know in what year she married, nor anything connected with her 
 marriage. I believe that she brought no money, or very little, at her mar- 
 
210 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 riage. Her father had left everything to her, but she made it over to her 
 mother, and only had what her mother gave her. Of course people thought 
 she was making a dreadfully bad match ; they only saw the outside of the 
 thing ; but she had faith in her own insight. Long afterwards, when the 
 world began to admire her husband, at the time he delivered the " Lectures 
 on Hero- Worship," she gave a little half-scornful laugh, and said, " They 
 tell me things as if they were new that I found out years ago." She knew 
 the power of help and sympathy that lay in her, and she knew she had 
 strength to stand the struggle and pause before he was recognized. She 
 told me that she resolved that he should never write for money, only when 
 he wished it, when he had a message in his heart to deliver, and she deter- 
 mined that she would make whatever money he gave her answer for all 
 needful purposes ; and she was ever faithful to this resolve. She bent her 
 faculties to economical problems, and she managed so well that comfort 
 was never absent from her house, and no one looking on could have guessed 
 whether they were rich or poor. Until she married, she had never minded 
 household things ; but she took them up when necessary, and accomplished 
 them, as she accomplished everything else she undertook, well and grace- 
 fully. Whatever she had to do, she did it with a peculiar personal grace 
 that gave a charm to the most prosaic details. No one who in later years 
 saw her lying on the sofa in broken health, and languor, would guess the 
 amount of energetic hard work she had done in her life. She could do 
 everything and anything, from mending the Venetian blinds to making 
 picture-frames or trimming a dress. Her judgment in all literary matters 
 was thoroughly good ; she could get to the very core of a thing, and her 
 insight was like witchcraft. 
 
 Some of her stories about her servants in the early times were very 
 amusing, but she could make a story about a broom-handle, and make it 
 entertaining. Here are some things she told me about their residence at 
 Craigenputtoch. 
 
 At first on their marriage they lived in a small pretty house in Edinburgh 
 called " Comley Bank." Whilst there her first experience of the difficulties 
 of housekeeping began. She had never been accustomed to anything of 
 the kind ; but Mr. Carlyle was obliged to be very careful in diet. She learn- 
 ed to make bread, partly from recollecting how she had seen an old servant 
 set to work ; and she used to say that the first time she attempted brown- 
 bread it was with awe. She mixed the dough, and saw it rise ; and then 
 she put it into the oven, and sat down to watch the oven door, with feel- 
 ings like Benvenuto Cellini's when he watched his Perseus put into the 
 furnace. She did not feel too sure what it would come out. But it came 
 out a beautiful crusty loaf, very light and sweet ; and proud of it she was. 
 The first time she tried a pudding she went into the. kitchen and locked 
 the door on herself, having got the servant out of the road. It was to be 
 a suet pudding — not just a common suet pudding, but something special — 
 and it was good, being made with care by weight and measure with exact- 
 
JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 211 
 
 ness. Whilst they were in Edinburgh they knew everybody worth know- 
 ing ; Lord Jeffrey was a great admirer of hers, and an old friend ; Chalmers, 
 Guthrie, and many others. But Mr. Carlyle's health and work needed 
 perfect quietness and absolute solitude. They went to live at the end of 
 two years at Craigenputtoch — a lonely farm-house belonging to Mrs. Welsh, 
 her mother. A house was attached to the farm, beside the regular farm- 
 house. The farm was let ; and Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle lived in the house, 
 which was separated from the farm-yard and buildings by a yard. A gar- 
 den and out-buildings were attached to it. They had a cow, and a horse, 
 and poultry. They were fourteen miles from Dumfries, which was the 
 nearest town. The country was uninhabited for miles round, being all 
 moor-land, with rocks, and a high steep green hill behind the house. She 
 used to say that the stillness was almost awful, and that when she walked 
 out she could hear the sheep nibbling the grass, and they used to look at 
 her with innocent wonder. The letters came in once a week, which was 
 as often as they sent into Dumfries. All she needed had to be sent for 
 there or done without. One day she had desired the farm-servant to bring 
 her a bottle of yeast. The weather was very hot. The man came back 
 looking scared, and without the yeast. He said doggedly that he would 
 do anything lawful for her ; but he begged she would never ask him to 
 fetch such an uncanny thing again, for it had just worked and worked till 
 it flew away with the bottle ! When asked where it was, he replied " it 
 had a' gane into the ditch, and he had left it there." 
 
 Lord Jeffrey and his family came out twice to visit her, expecting, as 
 he said, to find that she had hanged herself upon a door-nail. But she 
 did no such thing. It was undoubtedly a great strain upon her nerves, 
 from which she never entirely recovered; but she lived in the solitude 
 cheerfully and willingly for six years. It was a much greater trial than it 
 sounds at first; for Mr. Carlyle was engrossed in his work, and had to 
 give himself up to it entirely. It was work and thought with which he 
 had to wrestle with all his might to bring out the truths he felt, and to 
 give them due utterance. It was his life that his work required, and it 
 was his life that he gave, and she gave her life too, which alone made such 
 life possible for him. All those who have been strengthened by Mr. Car- 
 lyle's written words — and they have been wells of life to more than have 
 been numbered — owe to her a debt of gratitude no less than to him. If 
 she had not devoted her life to him, he could not have worked ; and if she 
 had let the care for money weigh on him, he could not have given his best 
 strength to teach. Hers was no holiday task of pleasant companionship ; 
 she had to live beside him in silence that the people in the world might 
 profit by his full strength and receive his message. She lived to see his 
 work completed, and to see him recognized in full for what he is, and for 
 what he has done. 
 
 Sometimes she could not send to Dumfries for butcher's-meat ; and then 
 she was reduced to her poultry. She had a peculiar breed of very long- 
 
212 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 legged hens, and she used to go into the yard amongst them with a long 
 stick, and point out those that were to be killed, feeling, she said, like 
 Fouquier Tinville pricking down his victims. 
 
 One hard winter her servant Grace asked leave to go home to see her 
 parents ; there was some sort of a fair held in her village. She went, and 
 was to return at night. The weather was bad, and she did not return. 
 The next morning there was nothing for it but for her to get up to light 
 the fires and prepare breakfast. The house had beautiful and rather 
 elaborate steel grates ; it seemed a pity to let them rust, so she cleaned 
 them carefully, and then looked round for wood to kindle the fire. There 
 was none in the house ; it all lay in a little out-house across the yard. On 
 trying to open the door, she found it was frozen beyond her power to open 
 It, so Mr. Carlyle had to be roused ; it took all his strength, and when 
 opened, a drift of snow six feet high fell into the hall. Mr, Carlyle had to 
 make a path to the wood-house, and bring over a supply of wood and coal ; 
 after which he left her to her own resources. 
 
 The fire at length made, the breakfast had to be prepared ; but it had to 
 be raised from the foundation. The bread had to be made, the butter to 
 be churned, and the coffee ground. All was at last accomplished, and the 
 breakfast was successful. After breakfast she went about the work of 
 the house, as there was no chance of the servant being able to return. 
 The work fell into its natural routine. Mr. Carlyle always kept a supply 
 of wood ready ; he cut it, and piled it ready for her use inside the house ; 
 and he fetched the water, and did things she had not the strength to do. 
 ^he poor cow was her greatest perplexity. She could continue to get hay 
 down to feed it, but she had never in her life milked a cow. The first day 
 the servant of the farmer's wife who lived at the end of the yard milked 
 it for her willingly, but the next day Mrs. Carlyle heard the poor cow 
 making an uncomfortable noise ; it had not been milked. She went herself 
 to the byre, and took the pail and sat down on the milking-stool and began 
 to try to milk the cow. It was not at first easy ; but at last she had the 
 delight of hearing the milk trickle into the can. She said she felt quite 
 proud of her success ; and talked to the cow as though it were a human 
 creature. The snow continued to lie thick and heavy on the ground, and 
 it was impossible for her maid to return. Mrs, Carlyle got on easily with 
 all the house-work, and kept the whole place bright and clean except the 
 large kitchen or house place, which grew to need scouring very much. At 
 length she took courage to attack it. Filling up two large pans of hot 
 water, she knelt down and began to scrub ; having made a clean space 
 round the large arm-chair by the fireside, she called Mr, Carlyle and in- 
 stalled him with his pipe to watch her progress. He regarded her benefi- 
 cently, and gave her from time to time words of encouragement. Half the 
 large floor had been successfully cleansed, and she felt anxious of making a 
 good ending, when she heard a gurgling sound. For a moment or two she 
 took no notice, but it increased, and there was a sound of something falling 
 
JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 213 
 
 upon the fire, and instantly a great black thick stream came down the 
 chimney, pouring like a flood along the floor, taking precisely the lately 
 cleaned portion first in its course, and extinguishing the fire." It was too 
 much ; she burst into tears. The large fire, made up to heat the water, 
 had melted the snow on the top of the chimney, it came down mingling 
 with the soot, and worked destruction to the kitchen floor. All that could 
 be done was to dry up the flood. She had no heart to recommence her 
 task. She rekindled the fire and got tea ready. That same night her 
 maid came back, having done the impossible to get home. She clasped 
 Mrs. Carlyle in her arms, crying and laughing, saying, " Oh, my dear mis- 
 tress, my dear mistress, I dreamed ye were deed !" 
 
 During their residence at Craigenputtoch she had a good little horse, 
 called " Harry," on which she sometimes rode long distances. She was an 
 excellent and fearless horsewoman, and went about like the women used 
 to do before carriages were invented. One day she received news that 
 Lord Jeffrey and his family, with some visitors, were coming. The letter 
 only arrived the day they were expected (for letters only came in one day 
 in the week). She mounted " Harry " and galloped off to Dumfries to get 
 what was needed, and galloped back, and was all ready and dressed to re- 
 ceive her visitors, with no trace of her thirty-mile ride except the charming 
 history she made of it. She said that " Harry " understood all was needed 
 of him. 
 
 She had a long and somewhat anxious ride at another time. Mr. Car- 
 lyle had gone to London, leaving her to finish winding up affairs at Crai- 
 genputtoch and to follow him. The last day came. She got the money 
 out of the bank at Dumfries, dined with a friend, and mounted her horse 
 to ride to Ecclefechan, where she was to stay for a day or two. Whether 
 she paid no attention to the road or did not know it I don't know ; but she 
 lost her way: and at dusk found herself entering Dumfries from the other 
 side, having made a circuit. She alighted at the friend's house where she 
 had dined, to give her horse a rest. She had some tea herself, and then 
 mounted again to proceed on her Journey, fearing that those to whom she 
 was going would be alarmed if she did not appear. This time she made 
 sure she was on the right tack. It was growing dusk, and at a joining of 
 two roads she came upon a party of men half-tipsy, coming from a fair. 
 They accosted her, and asked where she was going, and would she come 
 along with them ? She was rather frightened, for she had a good deal of 
 money about her, so she imitated a broad country dialect, and said their 
 road was not hers, and that she had " a gey piece to ride before she got to 
 Annan." She whipped her horse, and took the other road, thinking she 
 could easily return to the right track ; but she had again lost her way, 
 and seeing a house with a light in the lower story, she rode up the avenue 
 which led to it. Some women-servants had got up early, or rather late at 
 
214 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 night, to begin their washing. She knocked at the window. At first they 
 thought it was one of their sweethearts ; but when they saw a lady on a 
 horse they thought it a ghost. After a wliile she got them to Hsten to her, 
 and when she told them her tale they were vehement in their sympathy, 
 and would have had her come in to refresh herself. They gave her a cup 
 of their tea, and one of them came with her to the gate, and set her face 
 towards the right road. She had actually come back to within a mile of 
 Dumfries once more ! The church clocks struck twelve as she set out a 
 third time, and it was after two o'clock in the morning before she arrived, 
 dead tired, she and her horse too, at Ecclefechan, where, however, she had 
 long since been given up. The inmates had gone to bed, and it was long 
 before she could make them hear. After a day or two of repose, she pro- 
 ceeded to join Mr. Carlyle in London. At first they lived in lodgings with 
 some people who were very kind to them, and became much attached to 
 her. They looked upon her as a superior being, of another order, to them- 
 selves. The children were brought up to think of her as a sort of fairy 
 lady. One day, a great many years afterwards, when I had come to live in 
 London, it was my birthday, and we resolved to celebrate it " by doing 
 something;" and at last we settled that she should take me to see the 
 daughter of the people she used to lodge with, who had been an affection- 
 ate attendant upon her, and who was now very well married, and an ex- 
 tremely happy woman. Mrs. Carlyle said it was a good omen to go and 
 see " a happy woman " on such a day. So she and I, and her dog " Nero," 
 who accompanied her wherever she went, set off to Dalston, where the 
 "happy woman" lived; I forget her name, except that she was called 
 '■'■Eliza.'''' It was washing-day, and the husband was absent ; but I remem- 
 ber a pleasant-looking kind woman, who gave us a nice tea, and rejoiced 
 over Mrs. Carlyle, and said she had brought up her children in the hope of 
 seeing her some day. She lived in a house in a row, with little gardens 
 before them. We saAv the children, who were like others ; and we went 
 home by omnibus; and we had enjoyed our little outing; and Mrs. Carlyle 
 gave me a pretty lace collar, and Bohemian-glass vase, which is still 
 unbroken. 
 
 I end these " stories told by herself," not because there are no more. 
 They give some slight indication of the courage and nobleness and fine 
 qualities which lay in her who is gone. Very few women so truly great 
 come into the world at all ; and no two like her at the same time. Those 
 who were her friends will only go on feeling their loss and their sorrow 
 more and more every day of their own lives. G. E. J. 
 
 Chelsea, May 20, 1866. 
 
 So far Miss Jewsbuiy. Mr. Carlyle now continues : 
 Few or none of these narratives are correct in details, "but there 
 is a certain mythical truth in all or most of them. That of young 
 
JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 215 
 
 lovers, especially that of flirting, is much exaggerated. If " flirt " 
 means one who tries to inspire love without feeling it, I do not 
 think she ever was a flirt ; but she was very charming, full of grave 
 clear insight, playful humor, and also of honest dignity and pride ; 
 and not a few young fools of her own, and perhaps a slightly better 
 station, made offers to her which sometimes to their high temporary 
 grief and astonishment Avere decisively rejected. The most seri- 
 ous-looking of those affairs was that of George Eennie, nephew of 
 the first Engineer Rennie, a clever, decisive, ambitious, but quite 
 wnmelodious young fellow, whom we knew afterwards here as sculp- 
 tor, as M.P. for a while, finally as retired Governor of the Falkland 
 Islands, in which latter character he died here seven or eight years 
 ago. She knew him thoroughly, had never loved him, but respected 
 various qualities in him, and naturally had some peculiar interest 
 in him to the last. In his final time he used to come pretty often 
 down to us here, and was well worth talking to on his Falkland or 
 other experiences ; a man of sternly sound common-sense (so call- 
 ed), of strict veracity, who much contemned imbecility, falsity, or 
 nonsense wherever met with ; had swallowed manfully his many 
 bitter disappointments, and silently awaited death itself for the 
 last year or more (as I could notice), with a fine honest stoicism al- 
 ways complete. My poor Jane hurried to his house, and was there 
 for three days zealously assisting the widow. 
 
 The wooer who would needs die for want of success, was a Fyfe 
 M.D., an extremely conceited, limited, strutting little creature, who 
 well deserved all he got or more. The end of him had something 
 of tragedy in it, but is not worth recording. 
 
 Dods is the "peasant school- fellow's" name, about seven or eight 
 years her senior, son of a nurseryman, now rich abundantly, bank- 
 er, etc., etc., and an honest, kindly, though clumsy prosaic man. 
 
 The story of her being taken as a child to drive with her father 
 has some truth in it, but consists of two stories rolled into one. 
 Child of seven or eight " with watch forgotten," was to the Press 
 Inn (then a noted place, and to her an ever-memorable expedition 
 beside a father almost her divinity) ; but drive second, almost still 
 more memorable, was for an afternoon of several hours as a young 
 girl of eighteen, over some district of her father's duties. She 
 waiting in the carriage unnoticed, while he made his visits. The 
 usually tacit man, tacit especially about his bright daughter's gifts 
 and merits, took to talking with her that day in a style quite new ; 
 told her she was a good girl, capable of being useful and precious 
 to him and the circle she would live in ; that she must summon 
 
216 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 her utmost judgment and seriousness to choose her path, and bo 
 "what he expected of her ; that he did not think she had yet seen 
 the life partner that would be worthy of her — in short, that he ex- 
 pected her to be wise as well as good-looking and good ; all this in 
 a tone and manner which filled her poor little heart with surprise, 
 and a kind of sacred joy, coming from the man she of all men 
 revered. 
 
 Often she told me about this, for it was her last talk with him. 
 On the morrow, perhaps that evening, certainly within a day or 
 two, he caught from some poor old woman patient a typhus fever, 
 which under injudicious treatment killed him in three or four days 
 (September, 1819), and drowned the world for her in the very black- 
 ness of darkness. In eifect it was her first sorrow, and her great- 
 est of all. It broke her health for the next two or three years, and 
 in a sense almost broke her heart. A father so mourned and loved 
 I have never seen ; to the end of her life his title even to me was 
 " he " and " him ;" not above twice or thrice, quite in late years, did 
 she ever mention (and then in a quite slow tone), "my father;" 
 nay, I have a kind of notion (beautiful to me and sad exceeding- 
 ly), she was never as happy again, after that sunniest youth of hers, 
 as in the last eighteen months, and especially the last two weeks 
 of her life, when after wild rain deluges and black tempests many, 
 the sun shone forth again for another's sake with full mild bright- 
 ness, taking sweet farewell. Oh, it is beautiful to me, and oh, it is 
 humbling and it is sad! Where was my Jeaunie's peer in this 
 world ? and she fell to me, and I could not screen her from the bit- 
 terest distresses ! God pity and forgive me! My own burden, too, 
 might have broken a stronger back, had not she been so loyal and 
 loving. 
 
 The Geraldine accounts of her childhood are substantially cor- 
 rect, but without the light melodious clearness and charm of a 
 fairy tale all true, which my lost one used to give them in talking 
 to me. She was fond of talking about her childhood ; nowhere in 
 the world did I ever hear of one more beautiful, all sunny to her 
 and to me, to our last years together. 
 
 That of running on the parapet of the Nungate Bridge (John 
 Knox's old suburb), I recollect well ; that of the boy with the 
 bloody nose; many adventures skating and leaping; that of penna, 
 pennae, from below the table is already in print through Mrs. Oli- 
 phant's "Life of Irving." In all things she strove to "be a boy" 
 in education ; and yet by natural guidance never ceased to be the 
 prettiest and gracefullest of little girls, full of intelligence, of ve- 
 
JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 217 
 
 racity, vivacity, and bright curiosity; she went into all manner 
 of shops and workshops that were accessible, eager to see and un- 
 derstand what was going on. One morning, perhaps in her third 
 or fourth year, she went into the shop of a barber on the opposite 
 side of the street, back from which by a narrow entrance was her 
 own nice, elegant, quiet home. Barber's shop was empty ; my 
 Jeannie went in silently, sate down on a bench at the wall, old 
 barber giving her a kind glance, but no word. Presently a cus- 
 tomer came in, was soaped and lathered in silence mainly or alto- 
 gether, was getting diligently shaved, my bonny little bird as at- 
 tentive as possible, and all in perfect silence. Customer at length 
 said in a pause of the razor, " How is John so and so now ?" "He's 
 deed " (dead), replied barber, in a rough hollow voice, and instant- 
 ly pushed on with business again. The bright little child burst 
 into tears and hurried out. This she told rae not half a year ago. 
 Her first school-teacher was Edward Irving, who also gave her 
 l^rivate lessons in Latin, etc., and became an intimate of her fam- 
 ily. It was from him (probably in 1818) that I first heard of her 
 father and her, some casual mention, the loving and reverential 
 tone of which had struck me. Of the father he spoke always as 
 of one of the wisest, truest, and most dignified of men. Of her as 
 a paragon of gifted young girls, far enough from me both, and ob- 
 jects of distant reverence and unattainable longing at that time! 
 The father, whom I never saw, died next year. Her I must have 
 seen first, I think, in June, 1821. Sight forever memorable to me. 
 I looked up at the windows of the old room, in the desolate moon- 
 light of my last visit to Haddington,* five weeks ago come Wednes- 
 day next : and the old summer dusk, and that bright pair of eyes 
 inquiringly fixed on me (as I noticed for a moment), came up clear 
 as yesterday, all drowned in woes and death. Her second teacher 
 (Irving's successor) was a Rev. James Brown, who died in India, 
 whom also I slightly knew. The school, I believe, was, and is, at 
 the western end of the Nungate Bridge, and grew famed in tlie 
 neighborhood by Irving's new methods and managements (adopt- 
 ed as far as might be by Brown), a short furlong or so along paved 
 streets from her father's house. Thither daily at an early hour 
 (perhaps eight a.m. in summer) might be seen my little Jeannie 
 tripping nimbly and daintily along, her little satchel in hand, dress- 
 ed by her mother (who had a great talent that way) in tasteful 
 simplicity; neat bit of pelisse (light blue sometimes), fastened 
 
 • Mrs. Carlyle'8 funeral. 
 10 
 
218 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 witli black belt, dainty little cap, perhaps little beaverkin, with 
 flap turued up, and, I think, one at least with modest little plume 
 in it. Fill that figure with electric intellect, ditto love and gener- 
 ous vivacity of all kinds, where in nature will you find a prettier? 
 
 At home was opulence without waste, elegance, good sense, si- 
 lent practical afi'ection, and manly wisdom, from threshold to roof- 
 tree ; no paltriness or unveracity admitted into it. I often told her 
 how very beautiful her childhood was to me, so authentic-looking 
 actual, in her charming naive and humorous way of telling, and 
 that she must have been the prettiest little Jenny Spinner (Scotch 
 name for a long-winged, long-legged, extremely bright and airy in- 
 sect) that was dancing in the summer rays in her time. More en- 
 Tiable lot than all this was I cannot imagine to myself in any 
 house high or low, in the higher and highest still less than in the 
 other kind. 
 
 Three or four child anecdotes I will mark as ready at this time. 
 
 Father and mother returning from some visit (probably to 
 Nitbsdale) along with her (age say four), at the Black Bull, Edin- 
 burgh, and were ordering dinner. Waiter, rather solemn person- 
 age, inquired, '' And what will little missy eat ?" " A roasted bumm- 
 bee" (humming or field bee), answered little missy. 
 
 "Mamma, wine makes cozy!" said the little^ naturalist once at 
 home (year before, perhaps), while sipping a drop of wine mamma 
 had given her. 
 
 One of the prettiest stories was of the child's first ball, " Dan- 
 cing-school Ball," her first public appearance, as it were, on the 
 theatre of the world. Of this, in the daintiest style of kind mock- 
 ery, I often heard, and have the general image still vivid ; but 
 have lost the express details, or rather, in my ignorance of such 
 things, never completely understood the details. How the even- 
 ing was so great ; all the higher public, especially the maternal 
 or paternal sections of it, to see the children dance ; and Jeaunie 
 Welsh, then about six, had been selected to perform 8omG pas seul 
 beautiful and difficult, the jewel of the evening, and was private- 
 ly anxious in her little heart to do it well; how she was dressed to 
 perfection, with elegance, with simplicity, and at the due hour was 
 carried over in a clothes-basket (streets being muddy, and no car- 
 riage), and landed safe, pretty silks and pumps uninjured. 
 Through the ball everything went well and smoothly, nothing to 
 be noted tillthe^as seul came. My little woman (with a look that 
 I can still fancy) appeared upon the scene, stood waiting for the 
 music ; music began, but also, alas ! it was the wrong music, im- 
 
JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 219 
 
 possible to dauce that pas seul to it. Slie shook her little head, 
 looked or made some sign of distress. Music ceased, took counsel, 
 scraped ; began again ; again wrong ; hopelessly, flatly impossi- 
 ble. Beautiful little Jane, alone against the world, forsaken by 
 the music, but not by her presence of mind, plucked up her little 
 skirt, flung it over her head, and courtesyiug in that veiled manner, 
 withdrew from the adventure amidst general applause. 
 
 The last of my anecdotes is not easily intelligible except to my- 
 self. Old Walter Welsh, her maternal grandfather, was a most 
 picturesque, peculiar, generous-hearted, hot-tempered, abrupt, and 
 impatient old man. I guess she might be about six, and was with 
 her mother on a visit ; I know not whether at Capelgill (Moffat 
 Water) or at Strathmilligan. Old Walter, who was of few words, 
 though of very lively thought and insight, had a hurr in pronoun- 
 cing his r, and spoke in the old style generally. He had taken lit- 
 tle Jeannie out to ride on a quiet pony; very pleasant winding 
 ride, and at length, Avhen far enough, old Walter said, "Noav we 
 will go back by so and so, etc., to vary the scene." Home at din- 
 ner, the company asked her, " Where did you ride to. Pen V (Pen 
 was her little name there, from paternal grandfather's house, Pen- 
 fiUan, to distinguish her from the other Welshes of Walter's house- 
 hold.) "We rode to so, then to so," answered she, punctually ; 
 " then from so returned by so, to vah-chry the shane !" At which 
 I suppose the old man himself burst into his cheeriest laugh at the 
 mimicry of tiny little Pen. " Mamma, oh, mamma, don't exposie 
 me," exclaimed she once, not yet got quite the length of speaking, 
 when her mother for some kind purpose was searching under her 
 clothes. 
 
 But I intend to put down something about her parentage now, 
 and what of reminiscence must live with me on that head. 
 
 John Welsh, farmer, of PenfiUan, near Thornhill, Nithsdale, for 
 the greater part of his life, was born, I believe, at Craigenputtoch, 
 December 9, 1757, and was sole heir of that place, and of many an- 
 cestors there ; my wife's paternal grandfather, of whom she had 
 many pretty things to report, in her pleasant, interesting way ; 
 genuine affection blending so beautifully with perfect candor, and 
 with arch recognition of whatever was, comically or otherwise, 
 singular in the subject-matter. Her father's name was also John; 
 which from of old had specially been that of the laird, or of his 
 first-born, as her father was. This is one of the probabilities they 
 used to quote in claiming to come from John Knox's youngest 
 daughter and her husband, the once famous John Welsh, minister 
 
220 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 of Ayr, etc. A better probability, perhaps, is tbe topographical one 
 that Craigenputtoch, which by site and water-shed would belong 
 to Galloway, is still part of Dumfries-shire, and did apparently form 
 part of Colliestou, fertile little farm still extant, which probably 
 was an important estate when the antique "John Welsh's father" 
 had it in Knox's day: to which Collieston, Craigenputtoch, as 
 moorland, extending from the head of the Glenessland valley, and 
 a two miles farther southward (quite over the slope and down to 
 Orr, the next river), does seem to have been an appendage. My 
 Jeannie cared little or nothing about these genealogies, but seeing 
 them interest me, took some interest in them. Within the last 
 three mouths (d propos of a new life of the famed John Welsh) she 
 mentioned to me some to me new, and still livelier spark of likeli- 
 hood, which her "Uncle Robert" (an expert Edinburgh lawyer) 
 had derived from reading the old Craigenputtoch law-papers. 
 What this new " spark" of light on the matter was (quite forgotten 
 by me at the time, and looking "new") I in vain strive to recall, 
 and have again forgotten it (swallowed in the sad Edinburgh hur- 
 ly-burlies of "three months ago," which have now had such an 
 issue!). To my present judgment there is really good likelihood 
 of the genealogy, and likelihood all going that way, but no cer- 
 tainty attained, or perhaps ever attainable. That "famed John 
 Welsh" lies buried (since the end of James I.'s reign) in some 
 church-yard of Eastern London, name of it known, but nothing 
 more. His grandson was minister of Erncray ("Irongray" they 
 please to spell it), near by, in Clavers's bloody time ; and there all 
 certainty ends. . . . By her mother's mother, who was a Baillie, of 
 somewhat noted kindred in Biggar country, my Jeannie was fur- 
 ther said to be descended from " Sir William Wallace " (the great) ; 
 but this seemed to rest on nothing but air and vague fireside ru- 
 mor of obsolete date, and she herself, I think, except perhaps in 
 quizzical allusion, never spoke of it to me at all. Edward Irving 
 once did (1822 or so) in his half-laughing Grandison way, as we 
 three sat together talking. " From Wallace and from Knox," said 
 he, with a wave of the hands : " there's a Scottish pedigree for 
 you !" The good Irving : so guileless, loyal always, and so hoping 
 and so generous. 
 
 My wife's grandfather, I can still recollect, died September 20, 
 1823, aged near sixty-six ; I was at Kinnaird (BuUer's in Perth- 
 shire), and had it in a letter from her : letters from her were almost 
 the sole light-points in my dreary miseries there (fruit of miserable 
 health mainly, and of a future blank and barred to me, as I felt). 
 
JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 22 X 
 
 Trustfully slie gave me details ; how lie was sixty-three f hair still 
 raven black, only within a year eyebrows had grown quite white ; 
 which had so softened and sweetened the look of his bright glan- 
 cing black eyes, etc., etc. A still grief lay in the dear letter, too, 
 and much affection and respect for her old grandfather just gone. 
 Sweet and soft to me to look back upon ; and very sad now, from 
 the threshold of our own grave. My bonnie darling ! I shall fol- 
 low thee very soon, and then — ! 
 
 Grandfather's youngest years had been passed at Craigenput- 
 toch ; mother had been left a widow there, and could not bear to 
 part with him ; elder sisters there were, he the only boy. Jane al- 
 ways thought him to have fine faculty, a beautiful clearness, de- 
 cision, and integrity of character; but all this had grown up in 
 solitude and vacancy, under the silent skies on the wild moors for 
 most part. She sometimes spoke of his (and her) ulterior ances- 
 tors ; '^ several blackguards among them," her old grandfather used 
 to say, " but not one blockhead that I heard of!" Of one, flourish- 
 ing in 1745, there is a story still current among the country people 
 thereabouts ; how, though this laird of Craigenputtoch had not 
 himself gone at all into the Eebellion, he received with his best 
 welcome certain other lairds or gentlemen of his acquaintance who 
 had, and who were now flying for their life ; kept them there, as in 
 a seclusion lonelier almost than any other in Scotland ; heard time- 
 fully that dragoons were coming for tliem ; shot them thereupon 
 instantly away by various well-contrived routes and equipments, 
 and waited his dragoon guests as if nothing were wrong. " Such 
 and such men here with you, aren't they, you—!" said they. 
 " Truly they were, till three hours ago ; and they are rebels, say 
 you ? Fie, the villains, had I but known or dreamt of that ! But 
 come, let us chase immediately; once across the Orr yonder (and 
 the swamps on this side, which look green enough from here), you 
 find firm road, and will soon catch the dogs !" Welsh mounted his 
 galloway, undertook to guide the dragoons through that swamp or 
 " bottom " (still a place that needed guiding in our time, though 
 there did come at last a " solid road and bridge)". Welsh, trotting 
 along on his light galloway, guided the dragoons in such way that 
 their heavy animals sank mostly or altogether in the treacherous 
 element, safe only for a native galloway and man ; and with much 
 pretended lamentation, seeing them provided with work that would 
 last till darkness had fallen, rode his ways again. I believe this 
 
 * Near sixty-six in fact. 
 
222 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 was true in substance, but neverheard anyof the saved rebels namerl. 
 Maxwells, etc., who are of Roman-Catholic Jacobite type, abound 
 in those parts : a Maxwell, I think, is feudal superior of Craigen- 
 puttoch. This Welsh, I gather, must have been grandfather of my 
 wife's grandfather. She had strange stories of liis wives (three in 
 succession, married perhaps all, especially the second and third, for 
 money), and how he kept the last of them, a decrepit, ill-natured 
 creature, invisible in some corner of his house, and used gravely to 
 introduce visitors to her "gown and bonnet" hanging on a stick as 
 " Mrs. Welsh III." Him his grandson doubtless ranked among the 
 "blackguard" section of ancestry; I suppose his immediate heir 
 may have died shortlj'^ after him, and was an unexcexitionable man. 
 
 In about 177.3, friends persuaded the widow of this latter that 
 she absolutely must send her boy away for some kind of schooling, 
 his age now fourteen, to which she sorrowfully consentiug, he was 
 despatched to Tynron school (notable at that time), about twelve 
 miles over the hills Nithsdale waj', and consigned to a farmer 
 named Hunter, whose kin are now well-risen in the world there- 
 abouts, and who was thought to be a safe person for boarding and 
 supervising the young moor-land laird. The young laird must have 
 learned well at school, for he wrote a fine hand (which I have seen), 
 and had acquired the ordinary elements of country education in a 
 respectable way in the course of one year, as turned out. Within 
 one year, February 16, 1774, these Hunters had married him to 
 their eldest girl (about sixteen, four months younger than himself), 
 aud his school-days were suddenly completed. This youug girl 
 was my Jeannie's grandmother ; had, I think, some fourteen chil- 
 dren, mostly men (of whom, or of whose male posterity, none now 
 survive, excej^t the three Edinburgh aunts, youngest of them a 
 month younger than my Jane was) ; and thus held the j)oor laird's 
 face considerably to the grindstone all his days. I have seen the 
 grandmother, in her old age and widowhood, a respectable-looking 
 old person (lived then with her three daughters in a house they 
 had purchased at Dumfries) ; silently my woman never much liked 
 her or hers (a palpably rather tricky, cunning set these, with a 
 turn for ostentation and hypocrisy in them) ; and was accustomed 
 to divide her uncles (not without some ground, as I could see) into 
 " Welshes," and " Welshes with a cross of Hunter," traceable often- 
 est (not always, though) in their very physiognomy and complex- 
 ion. They are now all gone ; the kindred as good as out, on)y 
 their works following them, talia, qualia ! 
 
 This imprudent marriage reduced the poor young man to pecun- 
 
JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 223 
 
 iary straits (had to sell first Nether Craigeupiittoch, a minor part, 
 in order to pay his sisters' portion, then long years afterwards, in 
 the multitude of his children, Upper Craigenputtoch, or Craigen- 
 puttoch Proper ', to my wife's father this latter sale), and though, 
 being a thrifty, vigorous, and solid manager, he prospered hand- 
 somely in his farming, first of Milton, then ditto of PenfiUan, the 
 best thing he could try in the circumstances, and got completely 
 above all money difificulties, the same " circumstances" kept him all 
 his days a mere " terrm filius,^^ restricted to Nithsdale and his own 
 eyesight (which indeed was excellent) for all the knowledge he 
 could get of this universe ; and on the whole had made him — such 
 the contrast between native vigor of faculty and accidental con- 
 traction of arena — a singular and even interesting man, a Scottish 
 Nithsdale son of nature ; highly interesting to his bright young 
 granddaughter, with the clear eyesight and valiant true heart like 
 liis own, when she came to look into him in her childhood and girl- 
 hood. He was solidly devout, truth's own self in what he said and 
 did, had dignity of manners too ; in fact, a really brave, sincere, and 
 honorable soul (reverent of talent, honesty, and sound sense beyond 
 all things), and was silently a good deal respected and honorably es- 
 teemed (though with a grin here and there) in the district where 
 he lived. For chief or almost sole intimate he had the neighbor- 
 ing (biggish) laird, "old Hoggan of Waterside," almost close by 
 Penfillan, whose peremptory ways and angularities of mind and 
 conduct are still remembered in that region sorrowfully and 
 strangely, as his sons, grandsons, and now great-grandson, have 
 distinguished themselves in the other direction there. It was de- 
 lightful to hear my bright on© talk of this old grandfather; so 
 kindly yet so playfully, with a vein of fond affection, yet with the 
 justest insight. In his last will (owing to Hunterian artifices and 
 unkind whisperings, as she thought) he had omitted her, though 
 her father had been such a second father to all the rest: — £1000 
 apiece might be the share of each son and each daughter in this 
 deed of the old man's ; and my Jane's name was not found there, 
 as if she too had been dead like her beneficent father. Less care 
 for the money no creature in the w^orld could have had ; but the 
 neglect had sensibly grieved her, though she never at all blamed 
 the old man himself, and before long, as was visible, had forgiven 
 the suspected Hunterian parties themselves, " poor souls, so earnest 
 about their paltry bits of interests, which are the vitallest and 
 highest they have ! or perhaps it was some whim of the old man 
 himself? Never mind, never mind !" And so, as I could perceive 
 
224 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 it actually was abolished in that generous heart, and not there any 
 longer before much time had passed. Here are two pictures, a 
 wise and an absurd, two of very many she used to give me of loved 
 old grandfather, with which surely I may end : 
 
 1. "Never hire as servant a very poor person's daughter or 
 son ; they have seen nothing but confusion, waste, and hugger- 
 mugger, mere want of thrift or method." This was a very wise 
 opinion surely. On the other hand — 
 
 He was himself a tall man, perhaps six feet or more, and stood 
 erect as a column. And he had got gradually into his head, sup- 
 ported by such observation as the arena of Kier parish and neigh- 
 boring localities afforded, the astonishing opinion — 
 
 2. That small people, especially short people, were good for 
 nothing ; and, in fine, that a man's bodily stature was a correctish 
 sign of his spiritual! Actually so, and would often make new 
 people, aspiring to be acquaintances, stand up and be measured, 
 that he might have their inches first of all. Nothing could drive 
 this out of him ; nothing till he went down once to sit on a jury 
 at Dumfries, and for f)leader to him had Francis Jeffrey, a man 
 little above five feet, and evidently the cleverest advocate one had 
 ever heard or dreamed of! Ah me ! these were such histories and 
 portrayings as I shall never hear again, nor I think did ever hear, 
 for some of the qualities they had. 
 
 John Welsh, my wife's father, was born at Craigenputtoch (I 
 now find, which gives the place a new interest to me), April 4, 
 1776, little more than eighteen years younger than his father or 
 than his mother. His first three years or so (probabjf^ till May 26, 
 1779,Avhe'n the parents may have moved to Milton in Tynron) 
 must have been passed in those solitudes. At Milton he would 
 see his poor young sister die — wonted playmate sadly vanish from 
 the new hearth — and would no doubt have his thoughts about it 
 (my own little sister Jenny in a similar stage, and my dear moth- 
 er's tears about her, I can vividly remember; the strangely si- 
 lent white-sheeted room, white-sheeted linen-curtained bed, and 
 small piece of elevation there, which the joiner was about meas- 
 uring; and my own outburst into weeping thereupon, I hardly 
 knew why, my first passing glance at the spectre Death). More 
 we know not of the boy's biography there, except that it seems to 
 have lasted about seven years at Milton, and that, no doubt, he 
 had been for three or four years at school there (Tynron school, 
 we may well guess) when (1785 or 6) the family shifted with him to 
 Penfillan. There probably he spent some four or five years more ; 
 
JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 225 
 
 Tyuron was still his school, to which he could walk, and where I 
 conclude he must have got what Latin and other education he had. 
 Very imperfect he himself, as I have evidence, considered it ; and 
 in his busiest time he never ceased to struggle for improvement of 
 it. Touching to know, and how superlatively well, in other far 
 more important respects, nature and his own reflections and in- 
 spirations had "educated" him. Better than one of many thou- 
 sands, as I do perceive ! Closeburn (a school still of fame) lay on 
 the other side of Nith River, and would be inaccessible to him, 
 though daily visible. 
 
 What year he first went to Edinburgh or entered the Universi- 
 ty I do not know ; I think he was first a kind of apprentice to a 
 famous Joseph or Charles Bell (father of a surgeon still in great 
 practice and ren.own, though intrinsically stupid, reckoned a sad 
 falling oif from his father, in my own time); and with this famed 
 Bell he was a favorite, probably, I think, attending the classes, etc., 
 while still learning from Bell. I rather believe he never took an 
 M.D. degree ; but was, and had to be, content with his diploma as 
 surgeon ; very necessary to get out of his father's way, and shift 
 for himself in some honest form ! Went, I should dimly guess, as 
 assistant to some old doctor at Haddington on Bell's recommenda- 
 tion. Went first, I clearly find, as Regimental Surgeon, August 16, 
 1796, into the "Perthshire Fencible Cavalry," and served there 
 some three years. Carefully tied up and reposited by pious hands 
 (seemingly in 1819), I find three old " commissions" on parchment, 
 with their stamps, seals, signatures, etc. (Surgeon, August 10, 1796; 
 Cornet, September 15, 1796 ; and Lieutenant, April 5, 1799), which 
 testify to this ; after which there could have been no " assistant- 
 ship" with Somers, but purchase and full practice at once, marriage 
 itself having followed in 1800, the next year after that " Lieuten- 
 ancy" promotion. I know not in what year (say about 1796, his 
 twentieth year, my first in this world) Somers, finding his assistant 
 able for everything, a man fast gaining knowledge, and acceptable 
 to all the better public, or to the public altogether, agreed in a 
 year or two to demit, withdraw to country retirement, and declare 
 his assistant successor, on condition, which soon proved easy and 
 easier, of being paid (I know not for how long, possibly for life of 
 self and wife, but it did not last long) an annuity of £200. Of 
 which I find trace in that poor account-book (year ) of his ; pi- 
 ously preserved, poor solitary relic [no ; several more, " commis- 
 sions," lancet, etc., found by me since (July 28, '66)'], by his daugh« 
 ter ever since his death. 
 
 10* 
 
226 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 Dr. Welsh's success appears to have been, henceforth and former- 
 ly, swift and constant ; till, before long, the whole sphere or sec- 
 tion of life he was placed in had in all senses, pecuniary and other, 
 become his own, and there remained nothing more to conquer in it, 
 only very much to retain by the methods that had acquired it, and 
 to be extremely thankful for as an allotment in this world. A 
 truly superior man, according to all the evidence I from all quar- 
 ters have. A very valiant man, Edward Irving once called him in 
 my hearing. His medical sagacity was reckoned at a higher and 
 higher rate, medical and other honesty as well ; for it was by no 
 means as a wise physician only, but as an honorable, exact, and 
 quietly dignified man, punctual, faithful in all points, that he was 
 esteemed over the country. It was three years after his death 
 when I first came into the circle which had been his ; and nowhere 
 have I met with a posthumous reputation that seemed to be more 
 unanimous or higher among all ranks of men. The brave man 
 himself I never saw , but my poor Jeanuie, in her best moments, 
 often said to me about this or that, " Yes, he would have done 
 it so!" "Ah, he would have liked you!" as her highest praise. 
 "Punctuality" Irving described as a thing he much insisted on. 
 Many miles daily of riding (three strong horses in saddle always, 
 with inventions against frost, etc.) ; he had appointed the minute 
 everywhere; and insisted calmly on having it kept by all interest- 
 ed parties, high or low. Gravely inflexible where right was con- 
 cerned, and " very independent " where mere rank, etc., attempted 
 to avail upon him. Story of some old valetudinarian Nabal of 
 eminence (Nisbet of Dlrletou, immensely rich, continually cocker- 
 ing himself, and suffering) ; grudging audibly once at the many 
 fees he had to pay (from his annual £30,000): "Dare say I have 
 to pay you £300 a year. Dr. Welsh?" "Nearly or fully that, I 
 should say ; all of it accurately for work done." " It's a great deal 
 of money, though !" " Work not demanded, drain of payment will 
 cease of course; not otherwise," answered the doctor, and came 
 home with the full understanding that his Dirleton practice and 
 connection had ended. My Jeannie recollected his quiet report of 
 it to mamma and her, with that corollary ; however, after some 
 short experience (or re-experience of London doctors) Nabal Nisbet 
 (who had " butter churned daily for breakfast," as one item of ex- 
 penditure) came back, with the necessary Peccavi expressed or un- 
 derstood. 
 
 One anecdote I always remember, of the per contra kind. Rid- 
 ing along one day on his multifarious business, he noticed a poor 
 
JANE WELSH CAELYLE. 22*7 
 
 wounded partridge flutteriug and struggling about, wing or leg, 
 or both, broken by some sportsman's lead. He alighted in his 
 haste, or made the groom alight if he had one, gathered up the 
 poor partridge, looped it gently in his handkerchief, brought it 
 home, and by careful spliut aud salve and other treatment, had 
 it soon on wing again, aud sent it forth healed. This in so grave 
 and practical a man had always in it a fine expressiveness to me ; 
 she never told it me but once, long ago ; and perhaps we never 
 spoke of it again. 
 
 Some time in autumn, 1800 (I think), the young Haddington 
 doctor married; my wife, his first and only child, was born July 
 14 (Bastile-day, as we often called it), 1801 ; 64^ years old when 
 she died. The bride was Grace Welsh, of Capelgill (head of Mof- 
 fat Water in Annandale) ; her father an oi)ulent store-farmer up 
 there, native of Nithsdale; her mother a Baillie from Biggar re- 
 gion, already deceased. Grace was beautiful, must have been : 
 she continued what might be called beautiful till the very end, iu 
 or beyond her sixtieth, year. Her Welshes were Nithsdale people 
 of good condition, though beyond her grandfather and uncles, big 
 farmers in Thoruhill Parish (the Welshes of Morton Mains for I 
 know not for Avhat length of time before, nor exactly what after, 
 only that it ceased some thirty or perhaps almost fifty years ago, 
 in a tragic kind of way) ; I can learn nothing certain of them 
 from Rev. Walter of Auchtertool, nor from his sister Maggie here, 
 who are of that genealogy, children of my mother-in-law's brother 
 John; concerning whom perhaps a word afterwards. When the 
 young Haddington doctor and his beautiful Grace had first made 
 acquaintance I know not; probably on visits of hers to Morton 
 Mains, which, is but a short step from Penfillan. Acquainted they 
 evidently were, to the degree of mutually saying, "Be it for life, 
 then ;" aud, I believe, were and continued deeply attached to one 
 another. Sadder Avidow than my mother-in-law, modestly, deli- 
 cately, yet discernibly was, I have seldom or never seen, and my 
 poor Jeannie has told me he had great love of her, though obliged 
 to keep it rather secret or undemonstrative, being well aware of 
 her too sensitive, fanciful, and capricious ways. 
 
 Mrs. Welsh when I first saw her (1822, as dimly appears) must 
 have been in the third year of her widowhood. I think, when 
 Irving and I entered, she was sitting in the room with Benjamin* 
 and my Jane, but soon went away. An air of deep sadness lay on 
 
 * Brother of Dr. Welsh. 
 
228 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 her, and on everybody, except on poor dying Benjamin, who affect- 
 ed to be very sprightly, though overwhelmed as he must have felt 
 himself. His spirit, as I afterwards learned from his niece, who did 
 not love him or feel grateful to him, was extraordinary, in the 
 worldly-wise kind. Mrs. Welsh, though beautiful, a tall aquiline 
 figure, of elegant carriage and air, was not of an intellectual or 
 specially distinguished physiognomy ; and, in her severe costume 
 and air, rather repelled me than otherwise at that time. A day or 
 so after, next evening perhaps, both Irving and I were in her draw- 
 ing-room, Avith her daughter and her, both very humane to me, 
 especially the former, which I noticed with true joy for the mo- 
 ment. I was miserably ill in health ; miserable every way more 
 than enough, in my lonely imprisonment, such as it was, which 
 lasted many years. The drawing-room seemed to me the finest 
 apartment I had ever sate or stood in ; in fact, it was a room of large 
 and fine proportions, looking out on a garden, on more gardens or 
 garden walls and sprinkling of trees, across the valley or plain of 
 the Tyne (which lay hidden), house quite at the back of the town, 
 facing towards Lethington, etc., the best rooms of it ; and every- 
 where bearing stamp of the late owner's solid temper. Clean, all 
 of it, as spring-water; solid and correct as well as pertinently or- 
 namented ; in the drawing-room, on the tables there, perhaps rath- 
 er a superfluity of elegant whimwhams. The summer twilight, I 
 remember, was pouring in rich and soft ; I felt as one walking 
 transiently in upper spheres, where I had little right even to make 
 transit. Ah me ! they did not know of its former tenants when I 
 went to the house again in April last. I remember our all sitting, 
 another evening, in a little parlor off the dining-room (down- 
 stairs), and talking a long time ; Irving mainly, and bringing out 
 me, the two ladies benevolently listening with not much of speech, 
 but the younger with a lively apprehension of all meanings and 
 shades of meaning. Above this parlor I used to sleep, in my visits 
 in after years, while the house was still unsold. Mrs. W. left it at 
 once, autumn 1826, the instant her Jeannie had gone with me ; went 
 to Templand, Nithsdale, to her father; and turned out to have de- 
 cided never to behold Haddington more. 
 
 She was of a most generous, honorable, affectionate turn of mind ; 
 had consummate skill in administering a household ; agoodish well- 
 tending intellect — something of real drollery in it, from which my 
 Jeannie, I thought, might have inherited that beautiful lambency 
 and brilliancy of soft genial humor, which illuminated her percep- 
 tions and discoursings so often to a singular degree, like pure soft 
 
JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 229 
 
 morning radiance falling upon a perfect picture, true to the facts. 
 Indeed, I once said, " Your mother, my dear, has narrowly missed 
 being a woman of genius." Which doubtless was reported by-and- 
 by, in a quizzical manner, and received with pleasure. For the 
 rest, Mrs. W., as above said, was far too sensitive ; her beauty, too, 
 had brought flatteries, conceits perhaps ; she was very variable of 
 humor, flew off or on upon slight reasons, and, as already said, was 
 not easy to live with for one wiser than herself, though very easy 
 for one more foolish, if especially a touch of hypocrisy and perfect 
 admiration were superadded. The married life at Haddington, I 
 always understood, was loyal and happy, sunnier than most, but it 
 was so by the husband's softly and steadily taking the command, I 
 fancy, and knowing how to keep it in a silent and noble manner. 
 Old Penfillan (I have heard the three aunts say) reported once, on 
 returning from a visit at Haddington, "He had seen her one even- 
 ing in fifteen different humors" as the night wore on. This, prob- 
 ably, was in his own youngish years (as well as hers and his 
 son's), and might have a good deal of satirical exaggeration in it. 
 She was the most exemplary nurse to her husband's brother 
 William, and to other of the Penfillan sons who were brought 
 there for help or furtherance. William's stay lasted five years, 
 three of them involving two hours daily upon the spring deal (a 
 stout elastic plank of twenty or thirty feet long, on which the 
 weak patient gets himself shaken, and secures exercise), she her- 
 self, day after day, doing the part of trampler, which perhaps was 
 judged useful or as good as necessary for her own health. Wil- 
 liam was not in all points a patient one could not have quarrelled 
 with, and my mother-in-law's quiet obedience I cannot reckon 
 other than exemplary — even supposing it was partly for her own 
 health too. This I suppose was actually the case ; she had much 
 weak health, more and more towards the end of life. Her hus- 
 band had often signally helped her by his skill and zeal; once, 
 for six months long, he, and visibly he alone, had been the means 
 of keeping her alive. It was a bad inflammation or other disorder 
 of the liver ; liver disorder was cured, but power of digestion had 
 ceased. Doctors from Edinburgh, etc., unanimously gave her up ; 
 food of no kind would stay a moment on the stomach; what can 
 any mortal of us do ? Husband persisted ; found food that would 
 stay (arrowroot perfectly pure ; if by chance, your pure stock be- 
 ing out, you tried shop arrowroot, the least of starch in it declared 
 it futile), for six months kept her alive and gathering strength on 
 those terms, till she rose again to her feet. " He much loved her," 
 
230 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 said my Jeannie, "but none could less love what of follies she had." 
 Not a few, though none of them deep at all, the good and even no- 
 ble soul! How sadly I remember now, and often before now, the 
 time when she vanished from her kind Jane's sight and mine, nev- 
 er more to meet us in this world ! It must have been in autumn, 
 1841 ; she had attended Jane down from Templand* to Dumfries, 
 probably I was up from Scotsbrig (but don't remember) ; I was, at 
 any rate, to conduct my wife to Scotsbrig that night, and on the 
 morrow or so thence for London. Mrs. W. was unusually beautiful, 
 but strangely sad too, eyes bright, and as if with many tears be- 
 hind them. Her daughter too was sad, so was I at the sadness of 
 both, and at the evidently boundless feeling of affection which 
 knew not how to be kind enough. Into shops, etc., for last gifts 
 and later than last ; at length we had got all done, and withdrew 
 to sister Jean's to order the gig and go. She went with us still, 
 but feeling what would now be the kindest, heroically rose (still 
 not weeping), and said Adieu there. We watched her, sorrow- 
 ful both of us, from the end window, stepping, tall and graceful, 
 feather in bonnet, etc., down Lochmaben gate, casting no glance 
 back, then vanishing to rightward, into High Street (bonnet feath- 
 er, perhaps, the last thing), and she was gone forever. Jy de mi ! 
 Ay de mi ! What a thing is life, bounded thus by death ! I do 
 not think we ever spoke of this, but how could either of us ever 
 forget it at all ? 
 
 Old Walter Welsh, my wife's maternal grandfather, I had seen 
 twice or thrice at Templand before our marriage, and for the next 
 six or seven years, especially after our removal to Craigenputtoch, 
 he was naturally a principal figure in our small circle. He liked 
 his granddaughter cordiallj^ well ; she had been much about him on 
 visits and so forth from her early childhood, a bright merry little 
 grig, always pleasant in the troubled atmosphere of the old grand- 
 father. " Pen " (Penfillan Jeannie, for there was another) he used 
 to call her to the last ; mother's name in the family was " Grizzle " 
 (Grace). A perfect true affection ran through all branches, my poor 
 little "Pen" well included and returning it Avell. She was very 
 fond of old Walter (as he privately was of her), and got a great 
 deal of atlectiouate amusement out of hira. Me, too, he found much 
 to like in, though practically we discorded commonly on two points : 
 1°, that I did and would smoke tobacco; 2°, that I could not and 
 would not drink with any freedom whiskey punch, or other liquid 
 
 • Honse in Nithsdale, where Mrs. Welsh's father lived. 
 
JANE WELSH CAKLYLE. 231 
 
 stimulants, a thing breathing the utmost poltroonery in some 
 section of one's mind, thought Walter always. He for himself 
 cared nothing about drink, but had the rooted idea (common in his 
 old circles) that it belonged in some indissoluble way to good- 
 fellowship. We used to presently knit up the peace again, but tiffs 
 of reproach from him on this score would, always arise from time to 
 time, and had always to be laughed away by me, which was very 
 easy, for I really liked old Walter heartilj^, and he was a continual 
 genial study to me over and above ; microcosm of old Scottish life 
 as it had been, and man of much singularity and real worth of 
 character, and even of intellect too if you saw well. He abounded 
 in contrasts ; glaring oppositions, contradictions, you would have 
 said, in every element of him, yet all springing from a single centre 
 (you might observe), and honestly uniting themselves there. No 
 better-natured man (sympathy, sociality, honest loving-kindness 
 towards all innocent people), and yet of men I have hardly seen 
 one of hotter, more impatient temper. Sudden, vehement, break- 
 ing out into fierce flashes of lightning when you touched him the 
 wrong way. Yet they were flashes only, never bolts, and were 
 gone again in a moment, and the fine old face beaming quietly 
 on you as before. Face uncommonly fine, serious, yet laughing 
 eyes, as if inviting you in, bushy eyebrows, face which you might 
 have called picturesquely shaggy, under its plenty of gray hair, 
 beard itself imperfectly shaved here and there ; features mas- 
 sive yet soft (almost with a tendency to pendulous or flabby in 
 parts), and nothing but honesty, quick ingenuity, kindliness, and 
 frank manhood as the general expression. He was a most simple 
 man, of stunted utterance, burred with his r, and had a chewing 
 kind of way with his words, which, rapid and few, seemed to be 
 forcing their way through laziness or phlegm, and were not ex- 
 tremely distinct till you attended a little (and then, aided by the 
 face, etc., they were extremely and memorably brave, old Walter's 
 words, so true, too, as honest almost as my own father's, though in 
 a strain so different). Clever things Walter never said or attempt- 
 ed to say, not wise things either in any shape beyond that of sin- 
 cerely accepted commonplace ; but he very well knew when such 
 were said by others, and glanced with a bright look on them, a 
 bright dimpling chuckle sometimes (smudge of laughter, the Scotch 
 call it, one of the prettiest words and ditto things), and on the 
 whole hated no kind of talk but the unwise kind. He was seri- 
 ous, pensive, not more, or sad, in those old times. He had the 
 prettiest laugh (once, or at most twice, in my presence) that I can 
 
232 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 remember to have seen, not the loudest, my own father's still rarer 
 laugh was louder far, though perhaps not more complete, hut his 
 was all of artillery-thunder, /ejt de joie from all guns as the main 
 element, while in Walter's there was audible something as of in- 
 finite flutes and harps, as if the vanquished themselves were in- 
 vited or compelled to partake in the triumph. I remember one 
 such laugh (quite forget about what), and how the old face looked 
 suddenly so beautiful and young again. "Eadiant ever young 
 Apollo," etc., of Teufelsdrockh's laugh is a reminiscence of that. 
 Now when I think of it, Walter must have had an immense fund 
 of inarticulate gayety in his composition, a truly fine sense of the 
 ridiculous (excellent sense in a man, especially if he never culti- 
 vate it, or be conscious of it, as was Walter's case) ; and it must 
 have been from him that my Jane derived that beautiful light of 
 humor, never going into folly, yet full of tacit fun, which sponta- 
 neously illuminated all her best hours. Thanks to Walter, she was 
 of him in this respect ; my father's laugh, too, is mainly mine, a 
 grimmer and inferior kind ; of my mother's beautifully sportive 
 veiu, which was a third kind, also hereditary I am told, I seem to 
 have inherited less, though not nothing either, nay, perhaps at 
 bottom not even less, had my life chanced to be easier or joyfuUer. 
 ''Sense of the ridiculous" (worth calling such; i.e. "brotherly 
 sympathy with the downward side ") is withal very indispensable 
 to a man ; Hebrews have it not, hardly any Jew creature, not even 
 blackguard Heine, to any real length — hence various misqualities 
 of theirs, perhaps most of their qualities, too, which have become 
 historical. This is an old remark of mine, though not yet written 
 anywhere. 
 
 Walter had been a buck in his youth, a high-prancing horseman, 
 etc. ; I forget what image there was of him, in buckskms, pipe 
 hair-dressings, gra^d equipments, ridiug somewhither (with John 
 Welsh of Penfillan, I almost think ?), bright air image, from some 
 transient discourse I need not say of whom. He had married a 
 good and beautiful Miss Baillie (of whom already), and settled with 
 her at Capelgill, in the Mofi'at region, w here all his children were 
 born, and left with him young, the mother having died, still in the 
 flower of her age, ever tenderly remembered by Walter to his last 
 day (as was well understood, though mention was avoided). From 
 her my Jeannie was called " Jane Baillie Welsh" at the time of our 
 marriage, but after a good few years, when she took to signing 
 "Jane Welsh Carlyle," in which I never hindered her, she dropped 
 the " Baillie," I suppose as too long. I have heard her quiz about 
 
JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 233 
 
 tlie " unfortunate Miss Baillie " of the song at a still earlier time. 
 Whether Grace Welsh was married from Capelgill I do not know. 
 Walter had been altogether prosperous in Capelgill, and all of the 
 family that I knew (John, a merchant in Liverpool, the one remain- 
 ing of the sons, and Jeannie, the one other daughter, a beautiful 
 "Aunt Jeannie," of whom a word by-and-by) continued warmly 
 attached to it as their real home in this earth, but at the renewal 
 of leases (1801 or so) had lost it in a quite provoking way. By the 
 treachery of a so-called friend, namely : friend a neighboring farm- 
 er, perhaps, but with an inferior farm, came to advise with Walter 
 about rents, probably his own rent first, in this general time of 
 leasing. " I am thinking to offer so-and-so, what say you ? what 
 are you going to offer, by-the-bye f Walter, the very soul of fidel- 
 ity himself, made no scruple to answer, found by-and-by that this 
 precious individual had thereupon himself gone and offered for 
 Capelgill the requisite few pounds more, and that, according to 
 fixed customs of the estate, he and not Walter was declared tenant 
 of Capelgill henceforth. Disdain of such scandalous conduct, as- 
 tonishment and quasi-horror at it, could have been stronger in 
 few men than in Walter, a feeling shared in heartily and irrevoca- 
 bly by all the family, who, for the rest, seldom spoke of it, or hard- 
 ly ever, in my time, and did not seem to hate the man at all, but 
 to have cut him off as non-extant, and left him unmentioned. Per- 
 haps some Welsh he too, of a different stock ? There were Moffat 
 country Welshes, I observed, with whom they rather eagerly (John 
 of Liverpool eagerly) disclaimed all kinship, but it might be on 
 other grounds. This individual's name I never once heard, nor 
 was the story touched upon except by rare chance and in the 
 lightest wsbj. 
 
 After Capelgill, Walter had no more farming prosperity ; I be- 
 lieve he was unskilful in the arable kind of business, certainly he 
 was unlucky, shifted about to various places (all in Nithsdale, and 
 I think on a smaller and smaller scale, Castlehill in Durisdeer, 
 Strathmilligan in Tynron, ultimately Templand), and had gradual- 
 ly lost nearly all his capital, which at one time was of an opulent 
 extent (actual number of thousands quite unknown to me), and felt 
 himself becoming old and frail, and as it were thrown out of the 
 game. His family meanwhile had been scattered abroad, seeking 
 their various fortune ; son John to Liverpool (where he had one or 
 perhaps more uncles of mercantile distinction), son William to the 
 West Indies (?) and to early death, whom I often heard lamented 
 by my mother-in-law ; these and possibly others who were not 
 
234 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 known to me. John by this time had, recovering out of one bit 
 of very bad luck, got into a solid way of business, and was, he 
 alone of the brothers, capable of helping his father a little on the 
 pecuniary side. Right willing to do it, to the utmost of his power 
 or farther. A most munificent, affectionate, and nobly honorable 
 kind of man, much esteemed by both Jane and me, foreign as his 
 way of life was to us. 
 
 Besides these there was the youngest daughter, now a woman 
 of thirty or so, the excellent "Aunt Jeaunie," so lovable to both 
 of us, who was said to resemble her mother ("nearly as beautiful, 
 all but the golden hair" — Jeannie'swas fine flaxen, complexion of 
 the fairest), who had watched over and waited on her father 
 through all his vicissitudes, and everywhere kept a comfortable, 
 frugally effective, and even elegant house round him, and in fact 
 let no wind visit him too roughly. She was a beautifully, patient, 
 ingenious, and practically thoughtful creature, always cheerful of 
 face, suppressing herself and her sorrows, of which I understood 
 there had been enough, in order to screen her father, and make 
 life still soft to him. By aid of John, perhaps slightly of my mo- 
 ther-in-law, the little farm of Templand (Queensberry farm, with 
 a strong but gaunt and inconvenient old stone house on it) was 
 leased and equipped for the old man. House thoroughly repaired, 
 garden, etc., that he might still feel himself an active citizen, and 
 have a civilized habitation in his weak years. Nothing could be 
 neater, trimmer, in all essential particulars more complete than 
 house and environment, under Aunt Jeannie's fine managing, had 
 in a year or two grown to be. Fine sheltered, beautifully useful, 
 garden in front, with trellises, flower- work, and stripe of the clean- 
 est river shingle between porch and it. House all clean and com- 
 plete like a new coin, steadily kept dry (by industry), bedroom and 
 every part ; old furniture (of Capelgill) really interesting to the 
 eye, as well as perfect for its duties. Dairy, kitchen, etc., nothing 
 that was fairly needful or useful could you find to be wanting ; 
 the whole had the air, to a visitor like myself, as of a rustic idyl, 
 (the seamy side of it all strictly hidden by clever Aunt Jeannie ; I 
 think she must have been, what I often heard, one of the best house- 
 keepers in the world). Dear, good little beauty ; it appears, too^ 
 she had met with her tragedies in life ; one tragedy hardest of all 
 upon a woman, betrothed lover flying off' into infamous treason, 
 not against her specially, but against her brother and his own hon- 
 or and conscience (brother's partner he was, if I recollect rightly, 
 and fled with all the funds, leaving £12,000 of minus), which auni- 
 
JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 235 
 
 hilated him for her, and closed her poor heart against hopes of 
 that kind at an early period of her life. Much lying on her mind, 
 I always understood, while she was so cheery, diligent, and helpful 
 to everybody round her. I forget, or never knew, what time they 
 had come to Templand, but guess it may have been in 1822 or 
 shortly after ; dates of Castlehill and Strathmilligan I never knew, 
 even order of dates ; last summer I could so easily have known 
 (deaf-and-dumb "Mr. Turner," an old Strathmilligan acquaintance, 
 recognized by her in the Dumfries Railway Station, and made to 
 speak by paper and pencil, I writing for her because she could 
 not). Oh me ! oh me ! where is now that summer evening, so beau- 
 tiful, so infinitely sad and strange ! The train rolled off with her 
 to Thornhill [Holmhill], and that too, with its setting sun, is gone. 
 I almost think Durisdeer (Castlehill) must have been last before 
 Templand ; I remember passing that quaint old kirk (with village 
 hidden) on my left one April evening, on the top of a Dumfries 
 coach from Edinburgh, with reveries and pensive reflections which 
 must have belonged to 1822 or 1823. Once, long after, on one of 
 our London visits, I drove thither sitting by her, in an afternoon, 
 and saw the gypsy village for the first time, and looked in with 
 her at the fine Italian sculptures on the Queensberry tomb through 
 a gap in the old kirk wall. Again a pensive evening, now so beau- 
 tiful and sad. 
 
 From childhood upwards she seemed to have been much about 
 these homes of old Walter, summer visits almost yearly, and after 
 her father's death, like to be of longer continuance. They must 
 have been a quiet, welcome, and right wholesome element for her 
 young heart and vividly growing mind ; beautiful simplicity and 
 rural Scottish nature in its very finest form, frugal, elegant, true, 
 and kindly ; simplex munditiis nowhere more descriptive both for 
 men and things. To myself, summoning up what I experienced 
 of them, there was a real gain from them as well as pleasure. 
 Rough nature I knew well already, or perhaps too well, but here 
 it was reduced to cosmic, and had a victorious character which was 
 new and grateful to me, w^ell-nigh poetical. The old Norse kings, 
 the Homeric grazier sovereigns of men, I have felt in reading of 
 them as if their ways had a kinship with these (unsung) Nithsdale 
 ones. Poor "Aunt Jeannie " sickened visibly the summer after our 
 marriage (summer, 1827), while we were there on visit. My own 
 little Jeannie, whom nothing could escape that she had the inter- 
 est to fix her lynx-eyed scrutiny upon, discovered just before our 
 leaving that her dear aunt was dangerously ill, and indeed had 
 
236 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 loDg been, a cancer — tumor, now evidently cancerous — growing on 
 her breast for twelve years past, which, after effort, she at last 
 made the poor aunt confess to. We were all (I myself by sympa- 
 thy, had there been nothing more) thrown into consternation, made 
 the matter known at Liverpool, etc., to everybody but old Walter, 
 and had no need to insist on immediate steps being taken. My 
 mother-in-law was an inmate there, and probably in chief com- 
 mand (had moved thither, quitting Haddington for good, directly 
 on our marriage); she at once took measures, having, indeed, a 
 turn herself for medicining and some skill Avithal. That autumn 
 Aunt Jeannie and she came to Edinburgh, had a furnished house 
 close by us, in Comley Bank, and there the dismal operation was 
 performed, successfully the doctors all said ; but alas ! Dim sor- 
 row rests on those weeks to me. Aunt Jeannie showed her old 
 heroism, and my wife herself strove to hope, but it was painful, 
 oppressive, sad; twice or so I recollect being in the sick-room, and 
 the pale yet smiling face, more excitation in the eyes than usual ; 
 one of the times she was giving us the earnest counsel (my Jane 
 having been consulting) " to go to Loudon, clearly, if I could — if 
 they would give me the professorship there." (Some professorship 
 in Gower Street, perhaps of Literature, which I had hoped vague- 
 ly, not strongly at all, nor ever formally declaring myself, through 
 Jeffrey, from his friend Brougham and consorts, which they were 
 kind enough to dispose of otherwise.) My own poor little Jeannie ! 
 my poor pair of kind little Jeannies! Poor Templand Jeannie 
 went home again, striving to hope, but sickened in winter, worsened 
 when the spring came, and summer, 1838, was still some weeks off 
 wheu she had departed. It must have been in April or March of 
 1828. The funeral at Crawfurd I remember sadly well ; old Walter, 
 John, and two sous (Walter of Auchtertool, and Alick now suc- 
 cessor in Liverpool), with various old Moffat people, etc., etc., at 
 the inn at Crawfurd ; pass of Dalveen with Dr. Russell in the dark 
 (holding candles, both of us, inside the chaise), and old Walter's 
 silent sorrow and my own as we sat together in the vacant parlor 
 after getting home. " Hah, w'll no see her nae mair !" murmured 
 the old man, and that was all I heard from him, I think. 
 
 Old Walter now fell entirely to the care of daughter "Grizzle," 
 who was unweariedly attentive to him, a most affectionate daugh- 
 ter, an excellent housewife too, aud had money enough to support 
 herself and him in their quiet, neat, and frugal way. Templand 
 continued in all points as trim and beautiful as ever; the old man 
 made no kind of complaint, and in economics there was even an 
 
JANE WELSH CAKLYLE. 237 
 
 improvement. But the old cheery patience of daughter " Jeaunie," 
 magnanimously effacing herself, and returning all his little spirits 
 of smoke in the form of lambent kindly flame and radiant light 
 upon him, was no longer there ; and we did not doubt but he some- 
 times felt the change. Templand has a very fine situation ; old 
 Walter's walk, at the south end of the house, was one of the most 
 picturesque and pretty to be found in the world. Nith valley 
 (river half a mile off, winding through green holms, now in its bor- 
 ders of clean shingle, now lost in pleasant woods and rushes) lay 
 patent to the S., the country sinking perhaps 1 00 feet rather sud- 
 denly ; just beyond Templand, Kier, Penpont, Tynron, lying spread 
 across the river, all as in a mai», full of cheerful habitations, gen- 
 tlemen's mansions, well-cultivated farms and their cottages and 
 appendages, spreading up in irregular slopes and gorges against 
 the finest range of hills ; Barjarg with its trees and mansion atop; 
 to your left hand Tynron Down, a grand massive lowland mount- 
 ain (you might call it), with its white village at the base (behind 
 which in summer-time was the setting of the sun for you); one 
 big pass (Glen-shinnel, with the clearest river-water I ever saw 
 out of Cumberland) bisecting this expanse of heights, and leading 
 you by the Clove (" cloven ?") of Maxwelltou, into Glencairn val- 
 ley, and over the Black Craig of Dunscore (Dun-scoir= Black hill), 
 and to Craigenputtoch if you chose. Westward of Tynron rose 
 Drumlanrig Castle and woods, and the view, if you quite turned 
 your back to Dumfries, ended in the Lothers, Leadhills, and other 
 lofty mountains, water-shed and boundary of Lanarkshire and 
 Dumfriesshire, rugged, beautifully piled sierra, winding round into 
 the eastern heights (very pretty too), which part Anuandale from 
 Nithsdale. [Alas! what is the use of all this, here and now?] 
 Closeburn, mansion, woods, greeneries, backed by brown steep 
 masses, was on the southeastern side, house, etc., hiding it from 
 Walter's walk. Walk where you liked, the view you could reckon 
 unsurpassable, not the least needing to be " surpassed." Walter's 
 walk special (it never had any name of that kind; but from the 
 garden he glided mostly into it, in fine days, a small green seat at 
 each end of it, and a small ditto gate, easy to open and shut) was 
 not above 150 yards long ; but he sauntered and walked in it as 
 fancy bade him (not with an eye to " regimen," except so far as 
 "fancy" herself might unconsciously point that way); took his 
 newspapers (Liverpool, sent by John) to read there in the sunny 
 seasons ; or sat silent, but with a quietly alert look, contemplating 
 the glorious panorama of " sky-covered earth " in tli'dt part, and 
 
238 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 mildly reaping his poor bit of harvest from it without needing to 
 pay rent ! 
 
 We went over often from Craigeuputtoch : were always a most 
 welcome arrival, surprise oftenest, and our bits of visits, which could 
 never be prolonged, were uniformly pleasant on both sides. One 
 of our chief pleasures, I think almost our chief, during those moor- 
 land years. Oh, those pleasant gig-drives, in tine leafy twilight, or 
 deep in the night sometimes, ourselves two alone in the worUl, the 
 good "Larry" faring us (rather too light for the job, but always 
 soft and willing), how they rise on me now, benignantly luminous 
 from the bosom of the grim dead night ! Night ! what would I 
 give for one, the very worst of them, at this moment ! Once we 
 had gone to Dumfries, in a soft misty December day (for a portrait 
 which my darling wanted, not of herself!); a bridge was found 
 broken as we went down, brook unsafe by night ; we had to try 
 " Cluden (Lower Cairn) Water" road, as all was mist and pitch-dark- 
 ness, on our return, road unknown except in general, and drive like 
 no other in my memory. Cairn hoarsely roaring on the left (my 
 darling's side); "Larry," with but one lamp-candle (for we had put 
 out the other, lest both might fall done), bending always to be 
 straight in the light of that; I really anxious, though speaking 
 only hopefully; my darling so full.of trust in me, really happy and 
 opulently interested in these equipments ; in these poor and dan- 
 gerous circumstances how opulent is a nobly royal heart! She 
 had the worthless "portrait" (pencil sketch by a wandering Ger- 
 man, announced to us by poor and hospitable Mrs. Richardson, once 
 a " novelist " of mark, much of a gentlewoman, and well loved by 
 us both) safe in her reticule ; " better far than none," she cheerful- 
 ly said of it, and the price, I think, had been 5s., fruit of her thrift 
 too : — well, could California have made me and her so rich, had I 
 known it (sorry gloomy mortal) just as she did? To noble hearts 
 such wealth is there in poverty itself, and impossible without pov- 
 erty! I saw ahead, high in the mist, the minarets of Dunscore 
 Kirk, at last, glad sight ; at Mrs. Broatch's cozy rough inn we got 
 " Larry " fed, ourselves dried and refreshed (still seven miles to 
 do, but road all plain); and got home safe, after a pleasant day 
 in spite of all. Then the drive to Boreland once (George Welsh's, 
 " Uncle George," youngest of the Penfillans) ; heart of winter, 
 intense calm frost, and through Dumfries, at least 35 miles for 
 poor "Larry" and us; very beautiful that too, and very strange, 
 past the base of towering New Abbey, huge ruins, piercing grandly 
 into the silent frosty sunset, on this hand, despicable cow-house of 
 
JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 239 
 
 PresTbyteriau kirk on tbat hand (sad new contrast to Devorgilla's 
 old bounty), etc., etc. Of our drive home again I recollect only her 
 invincible contentmeut, and the poor old cotter woman offering to 
 Avarm us with a Hame of dry broom, " A'll licht a bruim couev, if 
 ye'll please to come in !" Another time we had gone to " Dumfries 
 Cattle Show" (first of its race, which are many since); a kind of 
 lark on our part, and really entertaining, though the day proved 
 shockiugly wet and muddy; saw various notabilities there. Sir 
 James Graham (baddish, proud man, we "both thought by physi- 
 ognomy, and did not afterwards alter our opinion much), Ramsay 
 MaccuUoch (in sky-blue coat, shiningly on visit from London), etc., 
 etc., with none of whom, or few, had we right (or wish) to speak, 
 abundantly occupied with seeing so many fine specimens, biped 
 and quadruped. In afternoon we suddenly determined to take 
 Templand for the night (nearer by some miles, and weather still so 
 wet and muddy) ; and did so, with the best success, a right glad 
 surprise there. Poor Huskisson had perished near Liverpool, in 
 first trial of the railway, I think, the very day before; at any rate 
 wx heard the news, or at least the full particulars there, the trage- 
 dy (spectacular mostly, but not quite, or inhumanly in any sense) 
 of our bright glad evening there. 
 
 The Liverpool children first, then " Uncle John " himself for a 
 fortnight or so, used to come every summer, and stir up Temj)laud's 
 quietude to us by-standers in a purely agreeable way. Of the chil- 
 dren I recollect nothing almost ; nothing that was not cheerful and 
 auroral matutinal. The two boys, Walter and Alick, came once on 
 visit to us, perhaps oftener ; but once I recollect their lying quiet 
 in their big bed till eleven a.m., with exemplary politeness, for fear 
 of awakening me who had been up for two hours, though every- 
 body had forgotten to announce it to them. We ran across to 
 Templand rather oftener than usual on these occasions, and I sup- 
 pose staid a shorter time. 
 
 My Jeannie had a great love and regard for her " Uncle John," 
 whose faults she knew well enough, but knew to be of the surface 
 all, while his worth of many fine kinds ran in the blood, and never 
 once failed to show in the conduct when called for. He had all 
 his father's veracity, integrity, abhorrence of dishonorable be- 
 havior ; was kind, munificent, frank, and had more than his father's 
 impetuosity, vehemence, and violence, or perhaps was only more 
 provoked (in his way of life), to exhibit these qualities now and 
 then. He was cheerful, musical, politely conversible ; truly a 
 genial, harmonious, loving nature; but there was a roar in him 
 
240 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 too like a lion's. He had had great misfortunes and provocations ; 
 his way of life in dusty, sooty, ever noisy Liverpool, with its din- 
 nerings, wine-drinkings, dull evening parties issuing in whist, was 
 not his element, few men's less, though he made not the least com- 
 plaint of it (even to himself, I think) : hut his heart, and all his 
 pleasant memories and thoughts, were in the hreezy hills of Moffat- 
 dale, with the rustic natives there, and their shej^herdings, hunt- 
 ings (brock and fox), and solitary fishings in the clear streams. It 
 was beautiful to see how he made some pilgriming into those or the 
 kindred localities ; never failed to search out all his father's old 
 herdsmen (with a sovereign or two for each, pui-.ctual as fate), and 
 had a few days' fishing as one item. He had got his schooling at 
 Closeburn; was, if not very learned, a very intelligent, inquiring 
 kind of man ; could talk to you instructively about all manner of 
 practical things, and loved to talk with the intelligent, though 
 nearly all his life was doomed to pass itself with the stupid or 
 commonplace sort, who were intent upon nothing but " getting on," 
 and giving dinners or getting them. Rarely did he burst out into 
 brief fiery recognition of all this ; yet, once at least, before my 
 time, I heard of his doing so in his own drawing-room, with brevi- 
 ty, but with memorable emphasis and fury. He was studiously 
 polite in general, always so to those who deserved it, not quite al- 
 ways to those who did not. 
 
 His demeanor in his bankruptcy, his and his wife's (who, for the 
 rest, though a worthy, well-intending, was little of an amiable 
 woman), when the villain of a partner eloped, and left him pos- 
 sessor of a minus £12,000, with other still painfuller items (sister 
 Jeaunie's incurable heart, for example), was admitted to be beau- 
 tiful. Creditors had been handsome and gentle, aware how the 
 case stood; household with all its properties and ornaments left 
 intact, etc. Wife rigorously locked all her plate away ; husband 
 laboriously looked out for a new course of business ; ingeniously 
 found or created one, prospered in it, saving every penny possible ; 
 thus, after perhaps seven or eight years, had a great dinner: all 
 the plate out again, all the creditors there, and under every man's 
 cover punctual sum due, payment complete to every creditor; 
 " Pocket your checks, gentlemen, with our poor warmest thanks, 
 and let us drink better luck for time coming !" He prospered al- 
 ways afterwards, but never saved much money; too hospitable, far 
 too open-handed, for that ; all his dinners, ever since I knew him, 
 were given (never dined out, he), and in more than one instance, to 
 our knowledge, ruined people were lifted up by him (one widow 
 
JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 241 
 
 cousin, one orphan, youngest daughter of an acquaintance, e. g.) as 
 if they had been his own ; sunk possibly enough mainly or alto- 
 gether into his hands, and were triumphantly (with patience and 
 in silence) brought through. No wonder my darling liked this 
 uncle, nor had I the least diificulty in liking him. 
 
 Once I remember mounting early, almost with the sun (a kind 
 hand expediting, perhaps sending me), to breakfast at Templand, 
 and spend the day with him there. I rode by the shoulder of the 
 Black Craig (Dunscore Hill), might see Dumfries with its cap of 
 early kitchen smoke, all shrunk to the size of one's hat, though 
 there were 11,000 souls in it, far away to the right ; descended 
 then by Cairn, by the Clove of Maxwelltbn (where at length came 
 roads), through fragrant grassy or bushy solitudes ; at the Bridge 
 of Shinnel, looked down into the pellucid glassy pool, rushing 
 through its rock chasms, and at a young peasant woman, pulling 
 potatoes by the brink, chubby infant at her knee — one of the finest 
 mornings, one of the pleasantest rides ; and arrived at Templand in 
 good time and trim for my hosts. The day I forget ; would be spent 
 wholesomely wandering about, in rational talk on indifferent mat- 
 ters. Another time, long after, new from London then, I had wan- 
 dered out with him, his two pretty daughters, and a poor good 
 cousin called Robert Macqueen attending. We gradually strolled 
 into Crichop Linn (a strange high-lying chasmy place, near Close- 
 burn) ; there pausing, well aloft, and shaded from the noon sun, the 
 two girls, with their father for octave accompaniment, sang us 
 " The Birks of Aberfeldy " so as I have seldom heard a song ; voices 
 excellent and true, especially his voice and native expression given ; 
 which stirred my poor London-fevered heart almost to tears. One 
 earlier visit from London, I had driven up, latish, from Dumfries, 
 to see ray own little woman, who was there among them all. No 
 wink could I sleep ; at length about three a.m., reflecting how mis- 
 erable I should be all day, and cause only misery to the others, I 
 (with leave had) rose, yoked my gig, and drove away the road I 
 had come. Morning cold and surly, all mortals still quiet, except 
 unhappy self; I remember seeing towards Auldgarth, within a few 
 yards of my road, a vigilant industrious heron, mid-leg deep in the 
 Nith stream, diligently fishing, dabbing its long bill and hungry 
 eyes down into the rushing water (tail up stream), and paying no 
 regard to my wheels or me. The only time I ever saw a hernshaw 
 (" herrin'shouw " the Annandalers call it) actually fishing. Ccetera 
 desunt; of Dumfries, of the day there, and its sequences, all trace 
 is gone. It must have been soon after French Revolution Book; 
 
 11 
 
242 EEMINISCENCES. 
 
 nerves all iuflamed and torn np, body and mind in a most hag-rid- 
 den condition (too much their normal one those many Loudon 
 years). 
 
 Of visits from Templand there were not so many ; but my dar- 
 ling (hampered and gyved as we were by the genius loci and its dif- 
 ficulties) always triumphantly made them do. She had the genius 
 of a field-marshal, not to be taken by surprise, or weight of odds, in 
 these cases! Oh, my beautiful little guardian spirit! Twice at 
 least there was visit from Uncle John in person and the Liverpool 
 strangers, escorted by mother; my mother, too, was there one of 
 the times. Warning I suppose had been given ; night-quarters, etc., 
 all arranged. Uncle John and boys went down to Orr Water, I at- 
 tending without rod, to fish. Tramping about on the mossy brink, 
 uncle and I awoke an adder; we had just passed its under-ground 
 hole ; alarm rose, looking round, we saw the vile, sooty-looking, fa- 
 tal, abominable wretch, towering up above a yard high (the only 
 time I ever saw an adder) ; one of the boys snatched a stray branch, 
 hurried up from behind, and with a good hearty switch or two 
 broke the creature's back. 
 
 Another of these dinner days, I was in the throes of a review 
 article (" Characteristics," was it ?), and could not attend the sport ; 
 but sauntered about, much on the strain, to small purpose ; dinner 
 all the time that I could afford. Smoking outside at the dining- 
 room window, " Is not every day the conflux of two eternities," 
 thought I, " for every man ?" Lines of influence from all the past 
 and stretching onwards into all the future, do intersect there. 
 That little thonghtkin stands in some of my books ; I recollect 
 being thankful (scraggily thankful) for the day of small things. 
 
 We must have gone to Craigenputtoch early in May, 1828. I 
 remember passing our furniture carts (my father's carts from Scots- 
 brig, conducted by my two farming brothers) somewhere about 
 Elvaufoot, as the coach brought us two along. I don't remember 
 our going up to Craigenputtoch, a day or two after, but do well 
 remember what a bewildering heap it all was for some time after. 
 
 Geraldine's Craigenputtoch stories are more mythical than any 
 of the rest. Each consists of two or three, in confused exagger- 
 ated state, rolled with new confusion into one, and given wholly 
 to her, when perhaps they were mainly some servant's in whom 
 she was concerned. That of the kitchen door, which could not be 
 closed again on the snowy morning, etc., that is a fact very visible 
 to me yet ; and how I, coming down for a light to my pipe, found 
 Grace Macdonald (cur Edinburgh servant, and a most clever and 
 
JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 243 
 
 complete one) in tears and despair, with a stupid farm-servant 
 endeavoring A^ainly by main force to pull the door to, vrhich, as it 
 had a frame round it, sill and all, for keeping out the wind, could 
 not be shut except by somebodj'^ from within (me, e. g.) who would 
 first clear out the snow at the sill, and then, with his best speed, 
 shut ; which I easily did. The washing of the kitchen floor, etc. 
 (of which I can remember nothing), must have been years distant, 
 under some quite other servant, and was probably as much of a 
 joyous half frolic as of anything else. I can remember very well 
 her coming in to me, late at night (eleven or so), with her first loaf, 
 looking mere triumph and quizzical gayety : " See !" The loaf was 
 excellent, only the crust a little burnt ; and she compared herself 
 to Cellini and his Perseus, of whom we had been reading. From 
 that hour w^e never wanted excellent bread. In fact, the saving 
 charm of her life at Craigenputtoch, which to another young lady 
 of her years might have been so gloomy and vacant, was that of 
 conquering the innumerable practical problems that had arisen 
 for her there ; all of which, I think all, she triumphantly mastered. 
 Dairy, poultry-yard, piggery ; I remember one exquisite pig, which 
 we called Fixie {" Quiutus Fixlein" of Jean Paul), and such a little 
 ham of it as could not be equalled. Her cow gave twenty-four 
 quarts of milk daily in the two or three best mouths of summer.; 
 and such cream, and such butter (though, oh ! she had such a prob- 
 lem with that ; owing to a bitter herb among the grass, not known 
 of till long after by my heroic darling, and she triumphed over 
 that too)! That of milking with her own little hand, I think, 
 could never have been necessary, even by accident (plenty of milk- 
 maids within call), and I conclude must have had a spice of frolic 
 or adventure in it, for which she had abundant spirit. Perfection 
 of hoiTsekeeping was her clear and speedy attainment in that new 
 scene. Strange how she made the desert blossom for herself and 
 me there ; what a fairy palace she had made of that wild moor-land 
 home of the poor man ! In my life I have seen no human intelli- 
 gence that so genuinely pervaded every fibre of the human exist- 
 ence it belonged to. From the baking of a loaf, or the darning of 
 a stocking, up to comporting herself in the highest scenes or most 
 intricate emergencies, all was insight, veracity, graceful success 
 (if you could judge it), fidelity to insight of the fact given. 
 
 We had trouble with servants, with many paltry elements and 
 objects, and were very poor; but I do not think our days there 
 were sad, and certainly not hers in especial, but mine rather. We 
 read together at night, one winter, through " Don Quixote" in the 
 
244 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 original ; Tasso in ditto had come before ; but that did not last 
 very long. I was diligently writing and reading there ; wrote most 
 of the "Miscellanies" there, for Foreign, Edinburgh, etc., Reviews 
 (obliged to keep several strings to my bow), and took serious 
 thought about every part of every one of them. After finishing 
 an article, we used to get on horseback, or mount into our soft old 
 gig, and drive away, either to her mother's (Templand, fourteen 
 miles off) or to my father and mother's (Scotsbrig, seven or six 
 and thirty miles) — the pleasantest journeys I ever made, and the 
 pleasantest visits. Stay perhaps three days ; hardly ev^er more 
 than four ; then back to work and silence. My father she partic- 
 ularly loved, and recognized all the grand rude worth and im- 
 mense originality that lay in him. Her demeanor at Scotsbrig, 
 throughout in fact, was like herself, unsurpassable ; and took cap- 
 tive all those true souls, from oldest to youngest, who by habit 
 and type might have been so utterly foreign to her. At Temp- 
 land or there, our presence always made a sunshiny time. To 
 Templand we sometimes rode on an evening, to return next day 
 early enough for something of work ; this was charming generally. 
 Once I remember we had come by Barjarg, not by Auldgarth 
 (Bridge), and were riding, the Nith then in flood, from Penfillan or 
 Penpont neighborhood ; she was fearlessly following or accompa- 
 nying me, and there remained only one little arm to cross, which 
 did look a thought uglier, but gave me no disturbance, when a 
 farmer figure was seen on the farther bank or fields, earnestly 
 waving and signalling (could not be heard for the floods); but for 
 whom we should surely have had some accident, who knows how 
 bad ! Never rode that water again, at least never in flood, I am 
 sure. 
 
 We were not unhappy at Craigenputtoch ; perhaps these were 
 our happiest days. Useful, continual labor, essentially successful ; 
 that makes even the moor green. I found I could do fully twice 
 as much work in a given time there as with my best effort was 
 possible in London, such the interruptions, etc. Once, in the 
 winter-time, I remember counting that for three months there had 
 not been any stranger, not even a beggar, called at Craigenput- 
 toch door. In summer we had sparsely visitors, now and then 
 her mother, or my own, once my father, who never before had been 
 so far from his birth-place as when here (and yet " knew the 
 world " as few of his time did, so Avell had he looked at what he 
 did see). At Auldgarth Brig, which he had assisted to build 
 when a lad of fifteen, and which was the beginning of all good to 
 
JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 245 
 
 him, and to all his brothers (and to me), his emotion, after fifty-five 
 years, was described to me as strong, conspicuous, and silent. He 
 delighted us, especially her, at Craigenputtoch, himself evidently 
 thinking of his latter end, in a most intense, awe-stricken, but also 
 quiet and altogether human way. Since my sister Margaret's 
 death he had been steadily sinking in strength, though we did not 
 then notice it. On August 12 (for the grouse's sake) Eobert Welsh, 
 her uncle, was pretty certain to be there, with a tag-raggery of 
 Dumfries Writers, dogs, etc., etc., whom, though we liked him very 
 well, even I, and much more she, who had to provide, find beds, 
 etc., felt to be a nuisance. I got at last into the way of riding off, 
 for some visit or the like, on August 12, and unless " Uncle Rob- 
 ert" came in person, she also would answer, " Not at home." 
 
 An interesting relation to Goethe had likewise begun in Comley 
 Bank first, and now went on increasing; "boxes from Weimar" 
 (and " to," at least once or twice) were from time to time a most 
 sunny event ; I remember her making for Ottilie a beautiful High- 
 land bonnet (bright blue velvet, with silvered thistle, etc.), which 
 gave plenty of pleasure on both hands. The sketch of Craigen- 
 puttoch* was taken by G. Moir, advocate (ultimately sheriff, pro- 
 fessor, etc., "little Geordie Moir," as we called him), who was once 
 and no more with us. The visit of Emerson from Concord, and our 
 quiet night of clear fine talk, was also very pretty to both of us. 
 The Jeffreys came twice, expressly, and once we went to Dumfries 
 by appointment to meet them in passing. Their correspondence 
 was there a steadily enlivening element. One of the visits (I for- 
 get whether first or last, but from Hazlitt, London, there came to 
 Jeffrey a death-bed letter one of the days, and instead of "£10," 
 £50 went by ireturn) ; Jeffrey, one of the nights, young laird of 
 Sfcroquhan present, was, what with mimicry of speakers, what 
 with other cleverness and sprightliness, the most brilliantly amus- 
 ing creature I have ever chanced to see. One time we went to 
 Craigcrook, and returned their visit, and, as I can now see, staid 
 at least a week too long. His health was beginning to break ; he 
 and I had, nightly, long arguments (far too frank and equal on my 
 side, I can now see with penitence) about moral matters, perhaps 
 till two or three a.m. He was a most gifted, prompt, ingenious 
 little man (essentially a dramatic genius, say a melodious Goldoni 
 or more, but made into a Scotch advocate and Whig); never a 
 
 * Sent to Goethe, and engraved under Goethe's direction for the German transla- 
 tion of Carlyle's " Life of Schiller." 
 
246 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 deeply serious man. He discovered here, I think,. that I could not 
 be "converted," and that I was of thoughtlessly nigged rustic 
 ways, and faultily irreverent of him (which, alas, I was). The cor- 
 respondence became mainly hers by degrees, hut was, for years 
 after, a cheerful, lively element, in spite of Reform Bills and oflfi- 
 cialities (ruinous to poor Jeffrey's health and comfort) which, before 
 long, supervened. We were at Haddington on that Craigcrook 
 occasion, staid with the Donaldsons at Sunnybank (liodie Tenter- 
 field), who were her oldest and dearest friends (hereditarily and 
 otherwise) in that region. I well remember the gloom of our ar- 
 rival back to Craigenputtoch, a miserable, wet, windy November 
 evening, with the yellow leaves all flying about, and the sound of 
 brother Alick's stithy (who sometimes amused himself with smith- 
 work, to small purpose), clink, clinking solitary through the blus- 
 tering element. I said nothing, far was she from ever, in the like 
 case, saying anything. Indeed, I think we at once re-adjusted our- 
 selves, and went on diligently with the old degree of industry and 
 satisfaction. 
 
 " Old Esther," whose death came one of our early winters, was a 
 bit of memorability in that altogether vacant scene. I forget the 
 old woman's surname (perhaps McGeorge ?), but well recall her 
 lumpish heavy figure (lame of a foot), and her honest, quiet, not 
 stupid countenance of mixed ugliness and stoicism. She lived 
 about a mile from us in a poor cottage of the next farm (Corson% 
 of Nether Craigenputtoch; very stupid young brother, now minis- 
 ter in Ayrshire, used to come and bore me at rare intervals) ; Es- 
 ther had been a laird's daughter riding her palfrey at one time, but 
 had gone to wreck, father and self — a special " misfortune " (so 
 they delicately name it), being of Esther's own producing. "Mis- 
 fortune " in the shape ultimately of a solid tall ditcher, A^ery good 
 to his old mother Esther, had, just before our coming, perished 
 miserably one night on the shoulder of Dunscore Hill (found dead 
 there next morning), which had driven his poor old mother up to 
 this thriftier hut, and silent mode of living, in our moor-land part 
 of the parish. She did not beg, nor had my Jeannie much to have 
 given her of help (perhaps on occasion milk, old warm clothes, etc.), 
 though always very sorry for her last sad bereavement of the stal- 
 wart affectionate son. I remember one frosty kind of forenoon, 
 while walking meditative to the top of our hill (now a mass of 
 bare or moor-land whinstone crag, once a woody wilderness, with 
 woody mountain in the middle of it, " Craigenputtick, or the stone 
 mountain," "Craig" of the "Puttick," puttick being a sort of 
 
JANE WELSH CAKLYLE. 247 
 
 hawk, both, in Galloway siaeech and in Shakspeare's old English ; 
 " Hill forest of the Putticks," now a very bare place), the universal 
 silence was complete, all but one click-clack, heard regularly like 
 a far-off spondee or iambus rather, " click-'claclc," at regular inter- 
 vals, a great way to my right. No other sound in nature ; on look- 
 ing sharply I discovered it to be old Esther on the highway, crip- 
 pling along towards our house most probably. Poor old soul, 
 thought I, what a desolation ! but you will meet a kind face too, 
 perhaps ! heaven is over all. 
 
 Not long afterwards, poor old Esther sank to bed ; death-bed, as 
 my Jane (who had a quick and sure eye in these things) well judged 
 it would be. Sickness did not last above a ten days ; my poor wife 
 zealously assiduous, and with a minimum of fuss or noise. I re- 
 member those few poor days ; as full of human interest to her (and 
 through her to me), and of a human pity, not painful, but sweet 
 and genuine. She went walking every morning, especially every 
 night, to arrange the poor bed, etc. (nothing but rudish hands, 
 rude though kind enough, being about), the poor old woman evi- 
 dently gratified by it, and heart-thankful, and almost to the very 
 end giving clear sign of that. Something pathetic in poor old Es- 
 ther and her exit — nay, if I rightly bethink me, that " click-clack" 
 pilgrimage had in fact been a last visit to Craigenputtoch with 
 some poor bit of crockery (small gray-lettered butter plate, which 
 I used to see) " as a wee memorandum o' me, mem, when I ain 
 gane !'' " Memorandum" was her word ; and I remember the poor 
 little platter for years after. Poor old Esther had awoke, that 
 frosty morning, with a feeling that she would soon die, that " the 
 bonny leddy" had been "unco' guid" to her, and that there was 
 still that "wee bit memorandum." Nay, I think she had, or had 
 once had, the remains or complete ghost of a "fine old riding- 
 habit," once her own, which the curious had seen : but she liad 
 judged it more polite to leave to the jiarish. Ah me ! 
 
 The gallop to Dumfries and back on "Larry," an excellent, well- 
 paced, well-broken, loyal little horse of hers (thirteen hands or so, 
 an exceeding favorite, and her last), thirty good miles of swift 
 canter at the least, is a fact which I well remember, though from 
 home at the moment. Word had come (to her virtually, or prop- 
 erly perhaps) that the Jeffreys, three and a servant, were to be 
 there day after to-morrow, perhaps to-morrow itself; I was at 
 Scotsbrig, nothing ready at all (and such narrow means to get 
 ready anything, my darling heroine !). She directly mounted "Lar- 
 ry," who " seemed to know that he must gallop, and faithfully did 
 
248 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 it ;" laid her plans while galloping ; ordered everything at Dum- 
 fries ; gent word to me express ; and galloped home, and stood vic- 
 toriously prepared at all points to receive the Jeffreys, who, I think, 
 were all there on my arrival. The nighfc of her express is to me 
 very memorable for its own sake. I had been to Burnswark (visit 
 to good old Grahame, and walk of three miles to and three from) ; 
 it was ten p.m. of a most still and fine night when I arrived at my 
 father's door, heard him making worship, and stood meditative, 
 gratefully, lovingly, till he had ended; thinking to myself how 
 good and innocently beautiful and peaceful on the earth is all this, 
 and it was the last time I was ever to hear it. I must have been 
 there twice or oftener in my father's time, but the sound of his 
 pious Coleshill (that was always his tune), pious psalm and prayer, 
 I never heard again. With a noble politeness, very noble when I 
 consider they kept all that in a fine kind of remoteness from us, 
 knowing (and somehow forgiving us completely) that we did not 
 think of it quite as they. My Jane's express would come next 
 morning ; and of course I made "Larry " ply his hoofs. 
 
 The second ride, in Geraldine, is nearly altogether mythical, be- 
 ing in reality a ride from Dumfries to Scotsbrig (two and a half 
 miles beyond " Ecclefechan," where none of us ever passed), with 
 some loss of road within the last five miles (wrong turn at Hodden 
 Brig, I guessed), darkness (night-time in May), money, etc., and 
 " terror" enough for a commonplace young lady, but little or noth- 
 ing of real danger, and terror not an element at all, I fancy, in her 
 courageous mind. " Larry," I think, cannot have been her horse 
 (half-blind two years before in an epidemic, through which she 
 nursed him fondly, he once "kissing her cheek" in gratitude, she 
 always thought), or "Larry" would have known the road, for we 
 had often ridden and driven it. I was at that time gone to Lon- 
 don in quest of houses. 
 
 My last considerable bit of writing at Craigenputtoch was "Sar- 
 tor Resartus ;" done, I think, between January and August, 1830 ; 
 my sister Margaret had died while it was going on. I well remem- 
 ber when and how (at Templand one morning) the germ of it rose 
 above ground. " Nine months," I used to say, it had cost me in 
 writing. Had the perpetual fluctuation, the uncertainty and un- 
 intelligible whimsicality, of Review Editors not proved so intoler- 
 able, Ave might have lingered longer at Craigenputtoch, "perfectly 
 left alone, and able to do more work, beyond doubt, than elsewhere." 
 But a book did seem to promise some respite from that, and per- 
 haps further advantages. Teufelsdrockh was ready; and (first 
 
JANE WELSH CAELYLE. 24^ 
 
 days of August) I decided to make for London. Night before go- 
 ing, how I still remember it ! I was lying on my back on the sofa 
 in the drawing-room, she sitting by the table (late at night, pack- 
 ing all done, I sup^jose) : her words had a guise of sport, but were 
 profoundly plaintive in meaning. " About to depart, who knows 
 for how long, and what may have come in the interim !" this was 
 her thought, and she was evidently much out of spirits. " Courage, 
 dearie, only for a month !" I would say to her in some form or other. 
 I went, next morning early, Alick driving : embarked at Glencaple 
 Quay ; voyage as far as Liverpool still vivid to me ; the rest, till 
 arrival in London, gone mostly extinct : let it ! The beggarly his- 
 tory of poor " Sartor " among the blockheadisms is not worth re- 
 cording or remembering — least of all here ! In short, finding that 
 whereas I had got £100 (if memory serve) for " Schiller" six or seven 
 years before, and for "Sartor" at least thrice as good, I could not 
 only not " get £200 " but even get no " Murray " or the like to pub- 
 lish it on "half profits" (Murray a most stupendous object to me; 
 tumbling about, eyeless, with the evidently strong wish to say 
 "yes and no;" ray first signal experience of that sad human pre- 
 dicament); I said, "We will make it no, then ; wrap up our MS.; 
 w^ait till this Reform Bill uproar abate ; and see, and give our brave 
 little Jeannie a sight of this big Babel, which is so altered since I 
 saw it last (in 1824-25)." She came right willingly, and had, in 
 spite of her ill-health, which did not abate, but the contrary, an 
 interesting, cheery, and, in spite of our poor arrangements, really 
 j)leasant winter here. We lodged in Ampton Street, Gray's Inn 
 Lane, clean and decent pair of rooms, and quiet, decent people (the 
 daughter is she whom Geraldine speaks of as having, I might say, 
 fallen in love with her, wanted to be our servant at Craigenputtoch, 
 etc.), reduced from wealth to keeping lodgings, and prettily resign- 
 ed to it; really good people. Visitors, etc., she had in plenty; 
 John Mill one of the most interesting, so modest, ardent, ingenuous, 
 ingenious, and so very fond of me at that time ! Mrs. Basil Monta- 
 gue (already a correspondent of hers), now accurately seen, was an- 
 other of the distinguished. Jeffrey, Lord Advocate, often came on an 
 afternoon ; never could learn his road to and from the end of Picca- 
 dilly, though I showed it him again and again. In the evening, mis- 
 cellany of hers and mine, often dullish had it not been for her, and 
 the light she had shed on everything. I wrote "Johnson" here, 
 just before going. News of my father's death came here : oh, how 
 good and tender she was, and consolatory by every kind of art, in 
 those black days ! I remember our walk along Holborn forward 
 
 11* 
 
250 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 into the City, and the bleeding mood I was in, she wrapping m© 
 like the softest of bandages: — in the City somewhere, two boys 
 fighting, with a ring of grinning blackguards round them; I rush- 
 ed passionately through, tore the fighters asunder, with some pas- 
 sionate rebuke (" in this world full of death"), she on my arm, and 
 everybody silently complied. Nothing was wanting in her sym- 
 pathy, or in the manner of it, as even from sincere people there 
 often is. How poor we were, and yet how rich! I remember 
 once taking her to Drury Lane Theatre (ticket from Playwright 
 Kenny belike) along sloppy streets, in a November night (this was 
 before my father's sudden death) ; and how paltry the equipment 
 looked to me, how perfectly unobjectionable to her, who was far 
 above equipments and outer garnitures! Of the theatricality it- 
 self that night I can remember absolutely nothing. Badams, my 
 old Birmingham friend and physician, a most inventive, light- 
 hearted, and genially gallant kind of man, sadly eclipsed within 
 the last five years, ill married, plunged amid grand mining specu- 
 lations (which were and showed themselves sound, but not till 
 they had driven him to drink brandy instead of water, and next 
 year to die miserably overwhelmed). Badams with his wife was 
 living out at Enfield, in a big old rambling sherd of a house 
 among waste gardens ; thither I twice or thrice went, much liking 
 the man, but never now getting any good of him ; she once for 
 three or four days went with me ; sorry enough days, had not we, 
 and especially she, illumined them a little. Charles Lamb and his 
 sister came daily once or oftener; a very sorry pair of phenomena. 
 Insuperable proclivity to gin in poor old Lamb. His talk con- 
 temptibly small, indicating wondrous ignorance and shallowness, 
 even when it was serious and good-mannered, which it seldom 
 was, usually ill-mannered (to a degree), screwed into frosty artifi- 
 cialities, ghastly make-believe of wit ; in fact, more like " diluted 
 insanity" (as I defined it) than anything of real jocosity, humor, 
 or geniality. A most slender fibre of actual worth in that j)oor 
 Charles, abundantly recognizable to me as to others, in his better 
 times and moods; but he was cockney to the marrow; and cock- 
 neydom, shouting, "glorious, marvellous, unparalleled in nature!" 
 all his days had quite bewildered his poor head, and churned 
 nearly all the sense out of the poor man. He was the leanest of 
 mankind, tiny black breeches buttoned to the knee-cap, and no 
 further, surmounting spindle-legs, also in black, face and head fine-* 
 ish, black, bony, lean, and of a Jew type rather; in the eyes a kind 
 of smoky brightness or confused sharpness ; spoke with a stutter ; 
 
CHARLES LAMB. 
 
JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 251 
 
 in walkiug tottered and shuffled ; emblem of imlbecility bodily and 
 spiritual (something of real insanity I have understood), and yet 
 something too of human, ingenuous, pathetic, sportfully much en- 
 during. Poor Lamb ! he was infinitely astonished at my wife, and 
 her quiet encounter of his too ghastly London wit by a cheer- 
 ful native ditto. Adieu, poor Lamb ! He soon after died, as did 
 Badams, much more to the sorrow of us both. Badams at our 
 last parting (in Ampton Street, four or more months after this) 
 burst into tears. " Pressed down like putty under feet," we heard 
 him murmuring, " and no strength more in me to rise !" We in- 
 vited him to Craigenputtoch with our best temptations next sum- 
 mer, but it was too late ; he answered, almost as with tears, " No, 
 alas !" and shortly died. 
 
 We had come home, last days of previous March : wild journey 
 by heavy coach, I outside, to Liverpool; to Birmingham it was 
 good, and inn there good, but next day (a Sunday, I think) we 
 were quite overloaded ; and had our adventures, especially on the 
 street in Liverpool, rescuing our luggage after dark. But at Un- 
 cle John's again, in Maryland Street, all became so bright. At 
 mid-day, somewhere, we dined pleasantly tete-a-tete, in the belly of 
 the coach, from my dear one's stores (to save expense doubtless, 
 but the rest of the day had been unpleasantly chaotic) even to me, 
 though from her, as usual, there was nothing but patient goodness. 
 Our dinners at Maryland Street I still remember, our daj^s gener- 
 ally as pleasant, our departure in the Annan steamer, one bright 
 sunshiny forenoon, uncle, etc., zealously helping and escorting; 
 sick, sick my poor woman must have been ; but she retired out of 
 sight, and would suffer with her best grace in silence : — ah me, I 
 recollect now a tight, clean brandy barrel she had bought ; to 
 " hold such quantities of luggage, and be u water barrel for the 
 rain at Craigenputtoch!" how touching to me at this moment! 
 And an excellent water barrel it proved; the purest tea I ever 
 tasted made from the rain it stored for us. At Whinniery, I re- 
 member, brother Alick and others of them were waiting to re- 
 ceive us ; there were tears among us (my father gone, when we re- 
 turned) ; she wept bitterly, I recollect, her sympathetic heart gir- 
 dled in much sickness and dispiritment of her own withal ; but 
 my mother was very kind and cordially good and respectful to her 
 always. We returned in some days to Craigenputtoch, and were 
 again at peace there. Alick, I think, had by this time left, and a 
 new tenant was there (a peaceable but dull stupid fellow) ; and 
 our summers and winters for the future (1832-34) were lonelier 
 
252 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 than ever. Good servants, too, were hardly procurable ; difficult 
 anywhere, still more so at Craigeni^uttoch, where the choice was 
 so limited. However, we i^ushed along ; writing still brisk ; " Sar- 
 tor " getting published in Frazer, etc., etc. We had not at first any 
 thought of leaviug. And, indeed, would the Review Editors but 
 have stood steady (instead of forever changeful), and domestic 
 service gone on comfortably, perhaps we might have continued 
 still a good while. We went one winter (1833 ? or '32 ?) to Edin- 
 burgh ; the Jeffreys absent in official regions. A most dreary, con- 
 temptible kind of element we found Edinburgh to be (partly by 
 accident, or baddish behavior of two individuals. Dr. Irviug one of 
 them, in reference to his poor kinswoman's furnished house ) ; a 
 locality and life-element never to be spoken of in comparison with 
 Loudon, and the frank friends there. To London, accordingly, in 
 the course of next winter, and its new paltry experieuces of house- 
 service, etc., wc determined to go. Edinburgh must have been in 
 1833-32 after all ? Our home-coming I remember ; missed the coach 
 in Princes Street, waited perdue till following morning ; bright 
 weather, but my poor Jeannie so ill by the ride that she could not 
 drive from Thoruhill to Templand (half a mile), but had to go or 
 stagger hanging on my arm, and instantly took to bed with one 
 of her terrible headaches. Such headaches I never witnessed in 
 my life ; agony of retching (never anything but phlegm) and of 
 spasmodic writhing, that would last from twenty-four to sixty 
 hours, never the smallest heli^ affordable. Oh, what of pain, pain, 
 my poor Jeannie had to bear in this thorny pilgrimage of life ; the 
 unwitnessed heroine, or witnessed only by me, who never till now 
 see it wholly ! 
 
 She was very hearty for London, when I spoke of it, though till 
 then her voice on the subject had never been heard. " Burn our 
 ships!" she gayly said, one day — i. e., dismantle our house ; carry 
 all our furniture with us. And accordingly here it still is (mostly 
 all of it her father's furniture : whose character of solidly noble is 
 visibly written on it: "respect what is truly made to its purpose; 
 detest what is falsely, and have no concern with it!"). My own 
 heart could not have been more emphatic on that subject; honor 
 to him for its worth to me, not as furniture alone. My writing- 
 table, solid mahogany well devised, always handy, yet steady as 
 the rocks, is the best I ever saw ; " no book could be too good for 
 being written here," it has often mutely told me. His watch, 
 commissioned by him in Clerkeuwell, has measured my time for 
 forty years, and would still guide you to the longitude, could any- 
 
JANE WELSH CAKLYLE. 253 
 
 body now take the trouble of completely regulating it (old White- 
 law in Edinburgh, perhaps thirty-five years ago, was the last that 
 did). Eepeatedly have upholsterers asked, " Who made these chairs, 
 ma'am?" In cockney dom, nobody in our day ; " unexampled pros- 
 perity" makes another kind. Abhorrence, quite equal to my own, 
 of cheap and nasty, I have nowhere seen, certainly nowhere else 
 seen completely accomplished, as poor mine could never manage 
 almost in the least degree to be. My pride, fierce and sore as it 
 might be, was never hurt by that furniture of his in the house 
 called mine ; on the contrary, my piety was touched, and ever and 
 anoQ have this table, etc., been a silent, solemn sermon to me. Oh, 
 shall not victory at last be to the handful of brave, in spite of the 
 rotten multitudinous canaille, who seem to inherit all the world 
 and its forces and steel weapons and culinary and stage proper- 
 ties ? Courage ; and be true to one another ! 
 
 I remember well my departure (middle of May, 1834), she stay- 
 ing to superintend packing and settling; in gig, I, for the last 
 time ; with many thoughts (forgotten there) ; brother Alick vol- 
 untarily waiting at Shillahill Bridge with a fresh horse for me ; 
 night at Scotsbrig, ride to Annan (through a kind of May series of 
 slight showers), pretty breakfast waiting us in poor good Mary's 
 (ah me! how strange is all that now! "Mother, you shall see me 
 once yearly, and regularly hear from me while we live," etc., etc.) ; 
 embarkation at Aunau foot ; Ben Nelson and James Stuart ; our 
 
 lifting * and steaming off, my two dear brothers (Alick and 
 
 Jamie) standing silent, apart, feeling I well knew what — self-res- 
 olute enough, and striving (not quite honestly) to feel more so. 
 Eide to London all night and all day (I think). Trades-Union peo- 
 ple out processioning (" Help us ; what is your Reform Bill else ?" 
 thought they, and I gravely saluting one body of them, I remem- 
 ber, and getting grave response from the leader of them). At 
 sight of London I remember humming to myself a ballad stanza of 
 "Johnnie o' Braidislea" which my dear old mother used to sing. 
 
 " For there's seven foresters in yon forest ; 
 And them I want to see, see, 
 And them I want to see (and shoot down) !" 
 
 Lodged at Ampton Street again ; immense stretches of walking 
 in search of houses. Camden Town once ; Primrose Hill and its 
 
 bright t population in the distance ; Chelsea ; Leigh Hunt's 
 
 huggermugger, etc., etc. — what is the use of recollecting all that ? 
 
 * Word omitted in MS. t Word omitted in MS. 
 
254 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 Her arrival I best of all remember : ah me ! She was clear for 
 this poor house (which she gradually, as poverty a little withdrew 
 after loug years' pushing, has made so beautiful and comfortable) 
 in preference to all my other samples : and here we spent our two- 
 and-thirty years of hard battle against fate ; hard but not quite 
 unvictorious, when she left me, as in her car of heaven's fire. My 
 noble one ! I say deliberately her part in the stern battle, and ex- 
 cept myself none knows how stern, was brighter and braver than 
 my own. Thanks, darling, for your shining words and acts, wliich 
 were continual in my eyes, and in no other mortal's. Worthless I 
 was your divinity, wrapt in your perpetual love of me and pride in 
 me, in defiance of all men and things. Oh, was it not beautiful, 
 all this that I have lost forever! And I was Thomas the Doubter, 
 the unhoping ; till now the only half-believing, in myself and my 
 priceless opulences ! At my return from Annandale, after " French 
 Revolution," she so cheerily recounted to me all the good " items ;" 
 item after item. ''Oh, it has had a great success, dear!" — to no 
 purpose ; and at length beautifully lost patience with me for my 
 incredulous humor. My life has not Avanted at any time what I 
 used to call "desperate hope " to all lengths ; but of common " hop- 
 ing hope" it has had but little ; and has been shrouded since youth- 
 hood (almost since boyhood, for my school-years, at Annan, were 
 verj-^ miserable, harsh, barren, and worse) in continual gloom and 
 grimness, as of a man set too nakedly versus the devil and all men. 
 Could I be easy to live with ? She flickered round me like perpet- 
 ual radiance, and in spite of my glooms and my misdoings would 
 at no moment cease to love me and help me. What of bounty, too, 
 is in heaven ! 
 
 We proceeded all through Belgrave Square hither, with our serv- 
 ant, our looser luggage, ourselves, and a little canary-bird (" Chico," 
 which she had brought with her from Craigeuputtoch); one hack- 
 ney-coach rumbling on with us all. Chico, in Belgrave Square, 
 burst into singing, which we took as a good omen. We were all 
 of us striving to be cheerful (she needed no efi'ort of striving); but 
 we " had burnt our ships," and at bottom the case was grave. I 
 do not remember our arriving at this door, but I do the cheerful 
 gypsy life we had here among the litter and carpenters for three 
 incipient days. Leigh Hnnt was in the next street, sending kind 
 impractical messages; in the evenings, I think, personally coming 
 in ; Ave had made acquaintance with him (properly he with us), just 
 before leaving in spring 1832. Huggermugger was the type of his 
 economics, in all respects, financial and other; but he was himself 
 
JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 255 
 
 a pretty man, in clean cotton night-gown, and with the airiest kind- 
 ly style of sparkling talk, wanting only wisdom of a sound kind, 
 and true insight into fact. A great want ! 
 
 I remember going with my dear one (and Eliza Miles, the " daugh- 
 ter " of Ampton Street, as escort) to some dim iron-monger's shop, 
 to buy kettles and pans on the thriftiest of fair terms. How noble 
 and more than royal is the look of that to me now, and of my roy- 
 al one then ! California is dross and dirt to the experiences I have 
 had. A tinder-box with steel and flint Avas part of our outfit (in- 
 credible as it may seem at this date) ; I could myself burn rags into 
 tinder, and I have groped my way to the kitchen, in sleepless nights, 
 to strike a light for my pipe in that manner. Chico got a wife by- 
 and-by (oh, the wit there was about that and its sequels), produced 
 two bright yellow young ones, who, as soon as they were fledged, 
 got out into the trees of the garden, and vanished towards swaft de- 
 struction ; upon which, villain Chico finding his poor wife fallen so 
 tattery and uglj, took to pecking a hole in her head, pecked it and 
 killed her, by-and-by ending his own disreputable life. I had be- 
 gun "The French Eevolution" (trees at that time before our win- 
 dow — a tale by these too on her part) : infinitesimal little matters 
 of that kind hovered round me like bright fire-flies, irradiated by 
 her light! Breakfast early, was in the back part of this ground- 
 floor room, details of gradual intentions, etc., as to " French Revo- 
 lution," advices, approval, or criticism, always beautifully wise, and 
 so soft and loving, had they even been foolish ! 
 
 We were not at all unhappy during those three years of "French 
 Revolution;" at least she was not; her health perhaps being bet- 
 ter than mine, which latter was in a strangely painful, and as if 
 conflagrated condition towards the end. She had made the house 
 '' a little Eden round her " (so neat and graceful in its simplicity and 
 thrifty poverty) ; " little Paradise round you," those were Edward 
 Irving's words to her, on his visit to us ; short, afi"ectionate visit, 
 the first and the last (October, 1834) ; on horseback, just about sot- 
 ting off for Glasgow, where he died December following. I watch- 
 ed him till at the corner of Cook's Grounds he vanished, and we 
 never saw him more. Much consulting about him we had always 
 had ; a letter to Henry Drummond (about delivering him from the 
 fools and fanatics that were agitating him to death, as I clearly 
 saw) lay on the mantel-piece here for some days in doubt, and was 
 then burnt. Brother, father, rational friend, I could not think of, 
 except Henry ; and him I had seen only once, not without clear 
 view of his unsoundness too. Practically we had long ago had to 
 
256 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 take leave of poor Irving, but we botli knew him well, and all Lis 
 brotherhoods to us first and last, and mourned him in our hearts as 
 a lost hero. Nobler man I have seen few if any, till the foul gulfs 
 of London pulpit-popularity sucked him in, and tragically swallow- 
 ed him. 
 
 We were beginning to find a friend or two here; that is, an 
 eligible acquaintance, none as yet very dear to us, though several 
 brought a certain pleasure. Leigh Hunt was here almost nightly, 
 three or four times a week, I should reckon ; he came always neat- 
 ly dressed, was thoroughly courteous, friendly of spirit, and talked 
 like a singing-bird. Good insight, plenty of a kind of humor too; 
 I remember little warbles in the tones of his fine voice which were 
 full of fun and charm. We gave him Scotch porridge to supper 
 ("nothing in nature so interesting and delightful"); she ijlayed 
 him Scotch tunes ; a man he to understand and feel them well. 
 His talk was often enough (perhaps at first oftenest), literary, bio- 
 graphical, autobiographical, wandering into criticism, reform of 
 society, progress, etc., etc., on which latter points he gradually 
 found me very shocking (I believe — so fatal to his rose-colored vi- 
 sions on the subject). An innocent-hearted, but misguided, in fact 
 rather foolish, unpractical, and often much-suffering man. John 
 Mill was another steady visitor (had by this time introduced his 
 Mrs. Taylor too, a very will-o'-wispish " iridescence " of a creature ; 
 meaning nothing bad either). She at first considered my Jane to 
 be a rustic spirit fit for rather tutoring and twirling about when 
 the humor took her, but got taught better (to her lasting memory) 
 before long. Mill was very useful about "French Revolution;" 
 lent me all his books, which were quite a collection on that sub- 
 ject ; gave me, frankly, clearly, and with zeal, all his better knowl- 
 edge than my own (which was pretty frequently of use in this or 
 the other detail), being full of eagerness for such an advocate in 
 that cause as he felt I should be. His evenings here were sensi- 
 bly agreeable for most part. Talk rather wintry (" sawdustish," 
 as old Sterling once called it), but always well-informed and sin- 
 cere. The Mrs. Taylor business was becoming more and more of 
 questionable benefit to him (we could see), but on that subject we 
 were strictly silent, and he was pretty still. For several years he 
 came hither, and walked with me every Sunday. Dialogues fallen 
 all dim, except that they were never in. the least genial to me, and 
 that I took them as one would wine where no nectar is to be had, 
 or even thin ale where no wine. Her view of him was very kind- 
 ly, though precisely to the same effect. How well do I still re- 
 
JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 257 
 
 member tliat night when lie came to tell us, pale as Hector's ghost, 
 that my unfortunate first volume was burnt. It was like half 
 sentence of death to us both, and we had to pretend to take it 
 lightly, so dismal and ghastly was his horror at it, and try to talk 
 of other matters. He staid three mortal hours or so ; his departure 
 quite a relief to us. Oh, the burst of symi)athy my poor darliug 
 then gave me, flinging her arms round my neck, and openly lament- 
 ing, condoling, and encouraging like a nobler second self! Under 
 heaven is nothing beautifuller. We sat talking till late ; " shall 
 be written again," my fixed word and resolution to her. Which 
 proved to be such a task as I never tried before or since. I wrote 
 out " Feast of Pikes " (vol. ii.), and then went at it. Found it fair- 
 ly impossible for about a fortnight ; passed three weeks (reading 
 Marryat's novels), tried, cautious-cautiously, as on ice paper-thin, 
 once more; and in short had a job more like breaking my heart 
 than any other in my experience. Jeannie,. alone of beings, burnt 
 like a steady lamp beside me. I forget how much of money we 
 still had. I think there was at first something like £300, perhaps 
 £280, to front London with. Nor can I in the least remember 
 where we had gathered such a sum, except that it was our own, no 
 part of it borrowed or given us by anybody. " Fit to last till 
 'French Revolution' is ready!" and she had no misgivings at all. 
 Mill was penitently liberal ; sent me £200 (in a day or two), of 
 which I kept £100 (actual cost of house while I had written burnt 
 volume); upon which he bought me "Biographic Universelle," 
 which I got bound, and still have. Wish I could find a way of 
 getting the now much macerated, changed, and fanaticized " John 
 Stuart Mill" to take that £100 back ; but I fear there is no way. 
 
 How my incomparable one contrived to beat out these exiguous 
 resources into covering the appointed space I cannot now see, nor 
 did I then know ; but in the like of that, as in her other tasks, she 
 was silently successful always, and never, that I saw, had a mis- 
 giving about success. There would be some trifling increments 
 from "Fraser's Magazine," perhaps ("Diamond Necklace," etc., were 
 probably of those years) ; but the guess stated above is the nearest 
 I can now come to, and I don't think is in defect of the actuality. 
 I was very diligent, very desperate (" desperate hope ") ; wrote my 
 two (folio) pages (perhaps four or five of print) day by day ; then 
 about two P.M. walked out ; always heavy laden, grim of mood, 
 sometimes with a feeling (not rebellious or impious against God 
 Most High), but otherwise too similar to Satan's stepping the burn- 
 ing marie. Some conviction I had that the book was worth some- 
 
268 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 thing, and pretty constant persuasion that it was not I that could 
 make it better. Once or twice among the flood of equipages at 
 Hyde Park Corner I recollect sternly thinking, '-'Yes ; and perhaps 
 none of you could do what I am at!" But generally my feeling 
 w^as, "I shall finish this book, throw it at your feet, buy a rifle and 
 spade, and withdraw to the Transatlantic Wilderness, far from hu- 
 man beggaries and basenesses !" This had a kind of comfort to 
 me ; yet I always knew, too, in the background, that this would 
 not practically do. In short, my nervous system had got dread- 
 fully irritated and inflamed before I quite ended, and my desire 
 was intense, beyond words, to have done with it. The last para- 
 graph I well remember writing up stairs in the drawing-room that 
 now is, which was then my writing-room ; beside her there and in 
 a gray evening (summer, I suppose), soon after tea (perhaps) there- 
 upon, with her dear blessing on me, going out to walk. I had said 
 before going out, "What they will do with this book, none knows, 
 my Jeannie, lass ; but they have not had, for a two hundred years, 
 any book that came more truly from a man's very heart, and so 
 let them trample it under foot and hoof as they see best !" "Pooh, 
 pooh! they cannot trample that!" she would cheerily answer; for 
 her own approval (I think she had read always regularly behind 
 me), especially in vol. iii., was strong and decided. 
 
 We knew the Sterlings by this time, John, and all of them ; old 
 Sterling very often here. Knew Henry Taylor, etc., the Wilsons 
 of Eccleston Street, Rev. Mr. Dunn, etc., etc. ; and the waste wil- 
 derness of London was becoming a peopled garden to us, in some 
 measure, especially to her, who had a frank welcome to every sort 
 of worth and even kindly singularity in her fellow-creatures, such 
 as I could at no time rival. 
 
 Sprinklings of foreigners, " political refugees," had already be- 
 gun to come about us ; to me seldom of any interest, except for the 
 foreign instruction to be gathered from them (if any), and the cu- 
 riosity attached to their foreign ways. Only two of them had the 
 least charm to me as men : Mazzini, whom I remember, Mr. Taylor, 
 Mrs. Taylor's (ultimately Mrs. Mill's) then husband, an innocent 
 dull good man, brought in to me one evening ; and Godefroi Cavai- 
 gnac, whom my Jane had met somewhere, and thought worth invit- 
 ing. Mazzini I once or twice talked with ; recognizably a most 
 valiant, faithful, considerably gifted and noble soul, but hopelessly 
 given up to his republicanisms, his "Progress," and other Rousseau 
 fanaticism, for which I had at no time the least credence, or any 
 considerable respect amid my pity. We soon tired of one another, 
 
JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 259 
 
 Mazzini and I, and he fell mainly to her share ; off and on, for a 
 good many years, yielding lier the charm of a sincere mutual es- 
 teem, and withal a good deal of occasional amusement from Maz- 
 zini's curious bits of exile London and foreign life, and his singular 
 Italian-English modes of locution now and then. For example, 
 Petrucci, having quenched his own fiery chimney one day, and es- 
 caped the fine (as he hoped), " there came to pass a sweep " with 
 finer nose in the solitary street, who involved him again. Or, 
 "lf«, mio caro, non v^e ci un morto P' which, I see, she has copied into 
 her poor little hook of notahilia.* Her reports of these things to 
 me, as we sate at breakfast or otherwise, had a tinkle of the finest 
 mirth in them, and in short a beauty and felicity I have never seen 
 surpassed. Ah me! ah me! whither fled? 
 
 Cavaignac was considerably more interesting to both of us. A 
 fine Bayard soul (with figure to correspond), a man fuM of serious- 
 ness and of genial gayety withal; of really fine faculties, and of a 
 politeness (especially toward women) which was curiously elabo- 
 rated into punctiliousness, yet sprang everywhere from frank nat- 
 ure. A man very pleasant to converse with, walk with, or see 
 drop in on an evening, and lead you or follow you far and wide on 
 the world of intellect and humauly recorded fact. A Republican 
 to the bone, but a ^'Bayard" in that vesture (if only Bayard 
 had wit and fancy at command). We had many dialogues while 
 " French Revolution " struggled through its last two volumes ; 
 Cavaignac freely discussing with me, accepting kindly my innu- 
 merable dissents from him, and on the whole elucidating many 
 little points to me. Punctually on the jour de Van came some 
 little gift to her, frugal yet elegant; and I have heard him say, 
 with mantling joyous humor overspreading that sternly sad French 
 face, " Vous inJetes pas J^cossatse, Madame ; desormais vous serez Fran- 
 ^aise!" I think he must have left us in 1843; he and I rode, one 
 summer forenoon, to Richmond and back (some old Bonapartist 
 colonel married out there, dull, ignorant, loud fellow, to my feeling) : 
 country was beautiful, air balmy, ride altogether ditto, ditto. I 
 don't remember speaking with him again; "going to Paris this 
 week" or so, he (on unconditional amnesty, not on conditional like 
 all the others). He returned once, or indeed twice, during the 
 
 * Explained in this book. An undertaker came one dark winter morning by 
 mistake to Mazzini's house to inquire for the corpse, Mazzini, who answered the 
 bell himself, said, " But, my dear " (an Italian would say " my dear " to a hangman), 
 " there is not here a dead." 
 
260 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 three years he still lived; hut I was from home the last time, both 
 of us the first (at Newby Cottage, Aunan, oh dear !), and I saw him 
 no more. The younger brother {" President " in 1849, etc.) I had 
 often heard of from him, and learned to esteem on evidence given, 
 but never saw. I take him to have been a second Godefroi prob- 
 ably, with less gift of social utterance, but with a soldier's breed- 
 ing in return. 
 
 One autumn, and perhaps another, I recollect her making a tour 
 with the elder Sterling (Thunderer) and wife, which, in spite of the 
 hardships to one so delicate, she rather enjoyed. Thunderer she 
 had at her apron-string, and brought many a comical pirouette 
 out of him from time to time. Good Mrs. S. really loved her, and 
 vice versa ; a luminous household circle that to us : as may be seen 
 in "Life of Sterling," more at large. 
 
 Of money from " French Revolution " I had here as yet got abso- 
 lutely nothing; Emerson in America, by an edition of his there, 
 sent me £150 ("pathetic !" was her fine word about it, "but never 
 mind, dear"); after some three years grateful England (through 
 poor scrubby but correctly arithmetical Eraser) £100; and I don't 
 remember when, some similar munificence; but I now (and indeed 
 not till recent years do I) see it had been, as she called it, " a great 
 success," and greatish of its kind. Money I did get somewhere 
 honestly, articles in "Eraser," in poor Mill's (considerably hide- 
 bound) "London Review;" "Edinburgh" I think was out for me 
 before this time. " London Review " was at last due to the charita- 
 ble faith of young Sir William Molesworth, a poorish narrow creat- 
 ure, but an ardent believer in Mill Pere (James) and Mill Fils. 
 " How much will your Review take to launch it, then ?" asked he 
 (all other Radical believers being so close of fist). "Say £4000," 
 answered Mill. "Here, then," writing a check for that amount, 
 rejoined the other. My private (altogether private) feeling, I re- 
 member, was, that they could, with profit, have employed me much 
 more extensively in it; perhaps even (though of this I was candid 
 enough to doubt) made me editor of it ; let me try it for a couple 
 of years; worse I could not have succeeded than poor Mill himself 
 did as editor (sawdust to the mast-head, and a croakery of crawling 
 things, instead of a speaking by men) ; but I whispered to none 
 but her the least hint of all this ; and oh, how glad am I now, and 
 for long years back, that apparently nothing of it ever came to the 
 thoughts or the dreams of Mill and Co. ! For I should surely have 
 accepted of it, had the terms been at all tolerable. I had plenty 
 of Radicalism, and have, and to all appearance shall have ; but the 
 
JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 261 
 
 opposite hemisphere (which never was wanting either, nor will he, 
 as it miserably is in Mill and Co.) had not yet found itself sum- 
 moned by the trumpet of time and his events (1848 ; study of 
 Oliver, etc.) into practical emergence and emphasis and promi- 
 nence as now. " Ill-luck," take it quietly ; you never are sure hut 
 it may he good and the best. 
 
 Our main revenue three or four (?) years now was lectures ; in 
 Edward Street, Portman Square, the only free room there was ; 
 earnestly forwarded by Miss and Thomas Wilson, of Eccleston 
 Street (who still live and are good), by Miss Martineau, by Henry 
 Taylor, Frederick Elliot, etc., etc. Brought iu, on the average, 
 perhaps £200, for a mouth's labor; first of them must have been in 
 1838, 1 think ; Willis's rooms, this. " Detestable mixture of proph- 
 ecy and play-actorism," as I sorrowfully defined it; nothing could 
 well be hatefuller to me ; but I was obliged. And she, oh, she was 
 my angel, and unwearied helper and comforter in all that; how we 
 drove together, we poor two, to our place of execution : she with a 
 little drop of brandy to give me at the very last, and shone round 
 me like a bright aureola, when all else was black and chaos ! God 
 reward thee, dear one ! now when I cannot even own my debt. 
 Oh, why do we delay so much, till death makes it impossible ? 
 And dou't I continue it still with others ? Fools, fools ! we forget 
 that it has to end; so this has ended, and it is such an astonish- 
 ment to me ; so sternly undeniable, yet as it were incredible! 
 
 It must have been in this 1838 that her mother first came to see 
 us here. I remember giving each of them a sovereign, from a 
 pocketful of odd which I had brought home, — greatly to satisfac- 
 tion especially of Mrs. Welsh, who I doubt not bought something 
 pretty and symbolic with it. She came perhaps three times ; ou 
 one of the later times was that of the " one soiree," with the wax 
 candles on mother's part — and subsequent remorse on daughter's ! 
 "Burn these last two on the night when I lie dead!" Like a 
 stroke of lightning this has gone through my heart, cutting and 
 yet healing. Sacred be the name of it ; its praise silent. Did I 
 elsewhere meet in the world a soul so direct from the Empyrean? 
 My dear old mother was perhaps equally pious, in the Eoman sense ; 
 in the British she was much more so; but starry flashes of this 
 kind she had not — from her education, etc., could not. 
 
 By this time we were getting noticed by select individuals of 
 the Aristocracy; and were what is called " rather rising in socie- 
 ty." Ambition that way my Jane never "had; but she took it al- 
 ways as a something of honor done to me, and had her various 
 
262 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 bits of satisfaction in it. The Spring-Rices (Lords Monteagle 
 afterwards) were probably the fiirst of their class that ever asked 
 me out as a distiuguished thing. I remember their flunkey ar- 
 riving here with an express while we were at dinner; I remem- 
 ber, too, their soiree itself in Downing Street, and the KaXoi and 
 KoXai (as I called them) with their state and their effulgences, as 
 something new and entertaining to me. The Stanleys (of Alder- 
 ley), through the Bullers, we had long since known, and still 
 know ; but that I suppose was still mostly theoretic, — or per- 
 haps I had dined there, aud seen the Hollands (Lord and Lady), 
 the etc. (as I certainly did ultimately), but not been judged eligi- 
 ble, or both catchable and eligible ? To me I can recollect (except 
 what of snob ambition there might be in me, which I hope was not 
 very much, though for certain it was not quite wanting either) 
 there was nothing of charm in any of them ; old Lady Holland I 
 viewed even with aversion, as a kind of hungry "ornamented 
 w itch," looking over at me with merely carnivorous views (and al- 
 ways questioniug her Dr. Allen when I said anything); nor was it 
 till years after (husband, Allen, etc., all dead) that I discovered 
 remains of beauty in her, a pathetic situation, and distinguished 
 qualities. My Jane I think knew still less of her; in her house 
 neither my Jane nor I ever was. At Marshall's (millionaire of 
 Leeds, and an excellent man, who much esteemed me, aud once 
 gave me a hcrse for health's sake) we had ample assemblages, 
 shining enough in their kind ; but she, I somehow think, probably 
 for saving the cost of " fly " (oh my queen, mine and a true one !), 
 was not so often there as I. On the whole, that too was a thing 
 to be gone through in our career ; and it had its bits of benefits, 
 bits of instructions, etc., etc. ; but also its temptations, intricacies, 
 tendencies to vanity, etc., to waste of time aud faculty ; and in a 
 better sphere of arrangement would have been a "game not worth 
 the candle." Certain of the Aristocracy, however, did seem to me 
 still very noble ; and, with due limitation of the grossly worthless 
 (none of whom had we to do with), I should vote at present that, 
 of classes known to me in England, the Aristocracy (with its per- 
 fection of human politeness, its continual grace of bearing and of 
 acting, steadfast " honor," light address, and cheery stoicism), if 
 you see well iuto it, is actually yet the best of English classes. 
 Deep in it we never were, promenaders on the shore rather ; but 
 I have known it too, and formed deliberate judgment as above. 
 My dear one in theory did not go so ftir (I think) in that direction 
 — in fact, was not at the pains to form much " theory ;" but no 
 
JANE WELSH CAELYLE. 263 
 
 eye in the world was quicker tlian hers for individual specimens ; 
 and to the last she had a great pleasure in consorting more or less 
 with the select of these — Lady William Eussell, Dowager Lady 
 Sandwich, Lady etc., etc. (and not in over-quantity). I remember 
 at first sight of the first Lady Ashburton (who was far from regu- 
 larly beautiful, but was probably the chief of all these great la- 
 dies), she said of her to me, " Something in her like a heathen god- 
 dess !" which was a true reading, and in a case not plain at all, but 
 oftener mistaken than rightly taken. 
 
 Our first visit to Addiscombe together, a bright summer Sunday, 
 we walked (thrift, I dare say, ah me ! from the near railway sta- 
 tion ; and my poor Jeannie grew very tired and disheartened, 
 though nothing ill carao) ; I had been there several times, and she 
 had seen the lady here (and called her "heathen goddess" to me). 
 This time I had at once joined the company under the shady trees, 
 on their beautiful lawn ; and my little woman, in few minutes, 
 her dress all adjusted, came stepping out, round the corner of the 
 house, with such a look of lovely innocency, modesty, ingenuous- 
 ness, gracefully suppressed timidity, and radiancy of native clever- 
 ness, intelligence, and dignity, towards the great ladies and great 
 gentlemen ; it seems to me at this moment, I have never seen a 
 more beautiful expression of a human face. Oh, my dearest ! my 
 dearest, that cannot now know how dear ! There are glimpses of 
 heaven, too, given us on this earth, though sorely drowned in ter- 
 restrial vulgarities, and sorely "flamed-on from the hell beneath," 
 too. This must have been about 1843 or so ? 
 
 A year or two before, going to see her mother, she had landed in 
 total wreck of seasickness (miserable always at sea, but had taken 
 it as cheapest doubtless), and been brought up almost speechless, 
 and set down at the Queeusberry Arms Inn, Annan. Having no 
 maid, no sign but of trouble and (unprofitable) ladyhood, they took 
 her to a remote bedroom, and left her to her solitary shifts there. 
 Very painful to me, yet beautiful and with a noble pathos in it, to 
 look back upon (from her narrative of it) here and now ! How 
 Mary, my poor but ever faithful " Sister Mary," came to her (on 
 notice), her resources few, but her heart overflowing ; could hard- 
 ly get admittance to the flunkey house of entertainment at all ; got 
 it, however, had a " pint of sherry " with her, had this and that, 
 and perhaps on the third day, got her released from the base place ; 
 of which that is my main recollection now, when I chance to pass 
 it, in its now dim enough condition. Perhaps this was about 1840 ; 
 Mary's husband (now farmer at the Gill, not a clever man, but a 
 
264 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 diligent and good-natured) was then a carter with two horses in 
 Annan, gradually becoming unable to live in that poor capacity 
 there. They had both been Craigenputtoch figures; and might 
 have been most sordid to my bright darling, but never were at all ; 
 gradually far from it, Mary at least. She loved Mary for her kind- 
 heartedness ; admired and respected her skill and industry in do- 
 mestic management of all kinds; and often contrasted to me her 
 perfect talent in that way, compared to sister Jean's, who intellect- 
 ually was far the superior (and had once been her own pupil and 
 prot^g^e, about the time we left Comley Bank ; always very kind 
 and grateful to her since, too, but never such a I'.i vorite as the oth- 
 er). Mary's cottage was well known to me too, as I came home by 
 the steamer, on my visits, and was often riding down to bathe, etc. 
 These visits, " once a year to my mother," were pretty faithfully 
 paid ; and did my heart always some good; but for the rest were un- 
 pleasantly chaotic (especially when my poor old mother, worthiest 
 and dearest of simple hearts, became incapable of management by 
 her own strength, and of almost all enjoyment even from me). I 
 persisted in them to the last, as did my woman ; but I think they 
 comprised for both of us (such skinless creatures), in respect of out- 
 ward physical hardship, an amount larger than all the other items 
 of our then life put together. 
 
 How well I remember the dismal evening, when we had got word 
 of her mother's dangerous crisis of illness (a stroke, in fact, which 
 ended it) ; and her wildly impressive look, laden as if with resolu- 
 tion, affection, and prophetic woe, while she sate in the railway 
 carriage and rolled away from me into the dark. " Poor, poor Jeau' 
 nie!" thought I; and yet my sympathy how paltry and imperfect 
 was it to what hers would have been for me ! Stony-hearted ; 
 shame on me ! She was stopped at Liverpool by news of the worst ; 
 I found her sharply wretched, on my following, and had a strange 
 two or three months, slowly settling everything at Templand; the 
 "last country spring," and my first for many long years. Bright, 
 sad, solitary (letters from Lockhart, etc.), nocturnal mountain 
 heather burning, by day the courses of the hail-storms from the 
 mountains, how they came pouring down their respective valleys, 
 deluge-like, and blotted out the sunshine, etc., spring of 1843 or '42 ? 
 
 I find it was in 1842 (February 20) that my poor mother-in-law 
 died. Wild night for me from Liverpool, through Dumfries (sister 
 Jean out with tea, etc.), arrival at waste Templand (only John 
 Welsh, etc., there ; funeral quite over) ; all this and the lonesome, 
 sad, but not unblessed three months almost which I spent there, is 
 
JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 265 
 
 still vividly in my mind. I was for trying to keep Templaud once, 
 as a summer refuge for us, one of the most picturesque of loca- 
 tions ; but lier filial heart repelled the notion ; and I have never 
 seen more than the chimney-tops of Templaud since. Her grief, 
 at my return and for mouths afterwards, was still poignant, con- 
 stant ; and oh, how inferior my sympathy with her to what hers 
 would have been with me ; woe on my dull hard ways in compari- 
 son ! To her mother she had been the kindest of daughters ; life- 
 rent of Craigeuputtoch settled frankly on her, and such effort to 
 make it practically good to the letter when needful. I recollect 
 one gallop of hers, which Geraldine has not mentioned, gallop 
 from Craigenputtoch to Dumfries Bank, and thence to Templaud 
 at a stretch, with the half-year's rent, which our procrastinating 
 brother Alick seldom could or would be punctual with (ah me ! 
 gallop which pierces my heart at this moment, and clothes my dar- 
 ling with a sad radiancy to me) ; but she had many remorses, and 
 indeed had been obliged to have manifold little collisions with her 
 fine, high-minded, but often fanciful and fitful mother, who was al- 
 ways a beauty, too, and had whims and thin-skinned ways, distaste- 
 ful enough to such a daughter. All which, in cruel aggravation 
 (for all were really small, and had been ridiculous rather than deep 
 or important), now came remorsefully to mind, and many of them, 
 I doubt not, stayed. 
 
 Craigenputtoch lapsed to her in 1842, therefore ; to me she had 
 left the fee-simple of it by will (in 1824, two years before our mar- 
 riage), as I remember she once told me thereabouts, and never but 
 once. Will found, the other day, after some difficulty, since her 
 own departure, and the death of any Welsh to whom she could 
 have wished me to bequeath it. To my kindred it has no relation, 
 nor shall it go to them ; it is much a problem with me how I shall 
 leave it settled (" Bursaries for Edinburgh College," or what were 
 best?) after my poor interest in it is over. Considerably a prob- 
 lem ; and what her wish in it would have actually been ? " Bur- 
 saries " had come into my own head when we heard that poor final 
 young Welsh was in consumption, but to her I never mentioned it 
 (" wait till the young man's decease do suggest it ?") ; and now I 
 have only hypothesis and guess. She never liked to speak of the 
 thing, even on question, which hardly once or twice ever rose ; and 
 except on question, a stone was not more silent. Beautiful queen- 
 like woman, I did admire her complete perfection on this head of 
 the actual " dowry " she had now brought, £200 yearly or so, which 
 to us was a highly considerable sum, and how she absolutely ig- 
 
 12 
 
266 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 nored it, and as it were had not done it at all. Once or so I can 
 dimly remember telling her as much (thank God I did so), to which 
 she answered scarcely hy a look, and certainly without word, except 
 perhaps " Tut !" 
 
 Thus from this date onward we were a little richer, easier in cir- 
 cumstances ; and the pinch of povertj', which had been relaxing 
 latterly, changed itself into a gentle pressure, or into a limit, and 
 little more. We did not change our habits in any point, but the 
 grim collar round my neck was sensibly slackened. Slackened, not 
 removed at all, for almost twenty years yet. My books were not 
 nor ever wiil be " pojoular," productive of money to any but a con- 
 temptible degree. I had lost by the death of Bookseller Fraser, 
 and change to Chapman and Hall; in short, to judge by the run- 
 ning after me by owls of Minerva in those times, and then to hear 
 what day's wages my books brought me, would have astonished 
 the owl mind. I do not think my literary income was above £200 
 a year in those decades, in spite of my continual diligence day by 
 day. "Cromwell" I must have written, I think, in 1844, but for 
 four years prior it had been a continual toil and misery to me. I 
 forget what was the price of " Cromwell," greater considerably 
 than in any previous case, but the annual income was still some- 
 what as above. I had always £200 or £300 in bank, and continu- 
 ally forgot all about money. My darling rolled it all over upon 
 me, and not one straw about it ; only asked for assurance or prom- 
 issory engagement from me. " How little, then ?" and never failed 
 to make it liberally and handsomely do. Honor to her (beyond 
 the ownership of California, I say now), and thanks to poverty that 
 showed me how noble, worshipful, and dear she was. 
 
 In 1849, after an interval of deep gloom and bottomless dubita- 
 tiou, came " Latter-Day Pamphlets," which unpleasantly astonished 
 everybody, set the world upon the strangest suppositions (" Car- 
 lyle got deep into whiskey !" said some), ruined my " reputation " 
 (according to the friendliest voices, and, in effect, divided me alto- 
 gether from the mob of " Progress-of-the-species" and other vulgar), 
 but were a great relief to my own conscience as a faithful citizen, 
 and have been ever since. My darliug gayly approved, and we left 
 the thiug to take its own sweet will, with great inditferency and 
 loyalty on our part. This did not help our incomings; in fact, I 
 suppose it eifectually hindered, and has done so till quite recently, 
 any " progress " of ours in that desirable direction, though I did 
 not find that the small steady sale of my books was sensibly 
 altered from year to year, but quietly stood where it used to 
 
JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 267 
 
 he. Chapman (liard-fisted cautious bibliographer) would not, 
 for about ten years farther, go into any edition of my " Col- 
 lected Works." I did once transiently propose it, once only, and 
 remember being sometimes privately a good deal sulky towards 
 the poor man for his judgment on that matter, though decided 
 to leave him strictly to his own light in regard to it, and indeed 
 to avoid him altogether when I had not clear business with him. 
 The " recent return of popularity greater than ever " which I hear 
 of seems due alone to that late Edinburgh affair, especially to the 
 Edinburgh " address," and affords new proof of the singularly dark 
 and feeble condition of "public judgment" at this time. No idea, 
 or shadow of an idea, is in that address but what had been set 
 forth by me tens of times before, and the poor gaping sea of Pruri- 
 ent Blockheadism receives it as a kind of inspired revelation, and 
 runs to buy my books (it is said) now when I have got quite done 
 with their buying or refusing to buy. If they would give me 
 £10,000 a year and bray unanimously their hosannas heaven-high 
 for the rest of my life, who now would there be to get the smallest 
 joy or profit from it ? To me I feel as if it would be a silent sor- 
 row rather, and would bring me painful retrospections, nothing 
 else. On the whole, I feel often as if poor England had really done 
 its very kindest to me, after all. Friends not a few I do at last be- 
 gin to see that I have had all along, and these have all, or all but 
 two or three, been decorously silent ; enemies I cannot strictly find 
 that I have had any (only blind blockheads rimuing athwart me 
 on their own errand) ; and as for the speaking and criticising mul- 
 titude, who regulate the paying ditto, I perceive that their labors 
 on me have had a twofold result : 1°. that, after so much nonsense 
 said in all dialects, so very little sense or real understanding of 
 the matter, I have arrived at a point of indifferency towards all 
 that, which is really very desirable to a human soul that will do 
 well; and 2°. that, in regard to money, and payment, etc., in the 
 money kind, it is essentially the same, to a degree which, under 
 both heads (if it were safe for me to estimate it), I should say was 
 really a far nearer than common approach to completeness. And 
 which, under both heads, so far as it is complete, means victory, 
 and the very highest kind of " success." Thanks to poor anarchic, 
 crippled, and bewildered England, then; hasn't it done "its very 
 best" for me, under disguised forms, and seeming occasionally to 
 do its worst ? Enough of all that ; I had to say only that my dear 
 little helpmate, in regard to these things also, has been throughout 
 as one sent from heaven to me. Never for a moment did she take 
 
268 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 to blaming England or the world on my behalf; rather to quizzing 
 my despondencies (if any on that head), and the grotesque stupidi- 
 ties of England and the world. She cared little about criticisms 
 of me, good or bad, but I have known her read, when such came 
 to hand, the unfriendliest specimens with real amusement, if their 
 stupidity was of the readable or amusing kind to by-standers. Her 
 opinion of me was curiously unalterable from the first. In Edin- 
 burgh, for example, in 1826 still, Bookseller Tait (a foolish goosey, 
 innocent but very vulgar kind of mortal), "Oh, Mrs. Carlyle, fine 
 criticism in the 'Scotsman;' you will find it at — I think you will 
 find it at — " " But Avhat good will it do me ?" answered Mrs. Car- 
 lyle, with great good-humor, to the miraculous collapse of Tait, 
 who stood (I dare say) with eyes staring. 
 
 In 1845, late autumn, I was first at the Grange for a few days (do- 
 ing D'Ewes's "Election to the Long Parliament," I recollect) ; she 
 with me the next year, I think; and there, or at Addiscombe, Al- 
 verstoke, Bath House, saw on frequent enough occasions, for twelve 
 years coming, or indeed for nineteen (till the second Lord Ashbur- 
 ton's death), the choicest specimens of English aristocracy ; and 
 had no difficulty in living with them on free and altogether 
 human terms, and learning from them by degrees whatever they 
 had to teach us. Something actually, though perhaps not very 
 much, and surely not the best. To me, I should saj', more than to 
 her, came what lessons there were. Human friendships we also 
 had, and she too was a favorite with the better kind. Lord Lans- 
 downe, for example, had at last discovered what she was; not 
 without some amazement in his old retrospective mind, I dare say! 
 But to her the charm of such circles was at all times insignificant; 
 human was what she looked at, and what she was, in all circles. 
 Ay de mif it is a mingled yarn, all that of our "Aristocratic" his- 
 tory, and I need not enter on it here. One evening, at Bath House, 
 I saw her in a grand soirde, softly step up, and (unnoticed as she 
 thought, by anybody) kiss the old Duke of Wellington's shoulder! 
 That perhaps was one of the prettiest things I ever saw there. 
 Duke was then very old, and hitched languidly about, speaking 
 only when spoken to, some " wow-wow," which perhaps had little 
 meaning in it; he had on his Garter order, his gold-buckle stock, 
 and was very^ clean and trim ; but except making appearance in 
 certain evening parties, half an hour in each, perhaps hardly knew 
 what he was doing. From Bath House we saw his funeral proces- 
 sion, a while after; and, to our disgust, in one of the mourning 
 coaches, some official or dignitary reading a newspaper. The 
 
JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 269 
 
 hearse (seventeen tons of bronze), the arrangements generally, 
 were vulgar and disgusting ; but the fact itself impressed every- 
 body; the street rows all silently doifed hat as the body passed; 
 and London, altogether, seemed to be holding its breath. A dim, 
 almost wet kind of day; adieu! adieu! With Wellington I don't 
 think either of us had ever spoken, though we both esteemed him 
 heartily. I had known his face for nearly thirty years ; he also, I 
 think, had grown to know mine, as that of somebody who wished 
 him well ; not otherwise, I dare say, or the proprietor's name at all ; 
 but I have seen him gaze at me a little as we passed on the streets. 
 To speak to him, with my notions of his ways of thinking, and of his 
 articulate endowments, was not among my longings. I Avent once 
 to the House of Lords, expressly to hear the sound of his voice, and so 
 complete my little private physiognomical portrait of him ; a fine 
 aquilin^ voice, I found it, quite like the face of him ; and got a great 
 instruction and lesson, which has staid with me, out of liis little 
 speech itself (Lord Ellenborough's "Gates of Somnauth" the sub- 
 ject, about which I cared nothing); speech of the most haggly, 
 hawky, pinched, and meagre kind, so far as utterance and " elo- 
 quence " went ; but potent for conviction beyond any other ; nay, I 
 may say, quite exclusively of all the others that night, which were 
 mere " melodious wind " to me (Brougham's, Derby's, etc., etc.), while 
 this hitching, stunted, haggling discourse of ten or thirteen min- 
 utes had made the Duke's opinion completely mine too. I thought 
 of O. Cromwell withal, and have often since, oftener than ever be- 
 fore, said to myself, "Is not this (to make your opinion mine) the 
 aim of all ^eloquence,' rhetoric, and Demosthenic artillery prac- 
 tice ?" And what is it good for ? Fools ! get a true insight and 
 belief of your own as to the matter; that is the way to get your 
 belief into me, and it is the only way ! 
 
 One of the days while I was first at the Grange (in 1845) was 
 John Sterling's death-day. I had well marked it, with a sad, al- 
 most remorseful contrast ; we were at St. Cross and Winchester 
 Cathedral that day. I think my wife's latest favorites, and in a 
 sense friends and intimates, among the aristocracy, v/ere the old 
 Dowager Lady Sandwich (died about four years ago, or three), 
 young Lady Lothian (recent acquaintance), and the (Dowager) 
 Lady William Russell, Avhom I think she had something of real 
 love to, and in a growing condition for the last two or three years. 
 This is a clever, high-mannered, massive-minded old lady, now 
 seventy-two ; admirable to me, this good while, as a finished piece 
 of social art, but hardly otherwise much. My poor little wife ! 
 
270 KEMINISCENCES. 
 
 what a capacity of liking, of sympathy, of giving and getting plea- 
 sure, was in her heart, to the very last, compared with my gaunt 
 mournful darkness in that respect. This Lady William wrote 
 many notes, etc., in these past seven weeks ; I was really sorry for 
 her withal ; and, with an effort, near a month ago, went and saw 
 her. Alas ! she had nothing to speak to me of but of letters re- 
 ceived (such "sympathy" from Rome, from Vienna, by persons I 
 knew not, or knew to be fools ; as if this could have been of com- 
 fort to me!) — and I could perceive the real "affection" (to what- 
 ever extent) had been mostly on my poor darling's side, the alone 
 opulent in that kind! " Pleasant at our little bits of artistic din- 
 ners" (the lady seemed to feel); "a sweet orange, which has 
 dropped from one's hand into the dust !" I came away, not angry 
 (oh no), but full of miserable sorrowful feelings of the poverty of 
 life ; and have not since been back. ^ 
 
 She liked London constantly, and stood in defense of it against 
 me and my atrabilious censures of it, never had for herself the 
 least wish to quit it again, though I was often talking of that, and 
 her practice would have been loyal compliance for my behoof. I 
 well remember my first walking her up to Hyde Park Corner in 
 the summer evening, and her fine interest in everything. At the 
 coruer of the Green Park I found something for her to sit ou ; 
 " Hah, there is John Mill coming !" I said, and her joyful, ingenuous 
 blush is still very beautiful to me. The good child ! It did not 
 prove to be Mill (whom she knew since 1831, and liked for my 
 sake); but probably I showed her the Duke of Wellington, whom 
 one often used to see there, striding deliberately along, as if home 
 from his work, about that hour; him (I almost rather think, that 
 same evening), and at any rate, other figures of distinction or no- 
 toriety. And we said to one another, "How strange to be in big 
 London here; isn't it?" Our purchase of household kettles and 
 saucepans, etc., in the mean iron-mougery, so noble in its poverty 
 and loyalty on her part, is sad and infinitely lovely to me at this 
 moment. 
 
 We had plenty of "company" from the very first; John Mill, 
 down from Kensington once a week or oftener; the "Mrs. Austin" 
 of those days, so popular and almost famous, on such exiguous 
 basis (translations from the German, rather poorly some, and of 
 original nothing that rose far above the rank of twaddle) ; "fenime 
 alors celehre,^' as we used to term the phenomenon, parodying som3 
 phrase I had found in Thiers. Mrs. A. affected much sisterhood 
 with us (afiected mainly, though in kind wise), and was a cheery, 
 
JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 271 
 
 sanguine, and generally acceptable member of society — already up 
 to the Marquis of Lansdowne (in a slight sense), much more to all 
 the Radical officials and notables ; Charles BuUer, Sir W. Moles- 
 worth, etc., etc., of "alors." She still lives, this Mrs. A., in quiet 
 though eclipsed condition ; spring last she was in town for a cou- 
 ple of weeks ; and my dear one went twice to see her, though I 
 couldn't manage quite. Erasmus Darwin, a most diverse kind of 
 mortal, came to seek us out very soon (" had heard of Carlyle in 
 Germany," etc.), and continues ever since to be a quiet house- 
 friend, honestly attached ; though his visits latterly have been 
 rarer and rarer, health so poor, I so occupiec% etc., etc. He had 
 something of original and sarcastically ingenious in him, one of the 
 sincerest, naturally truest, and most modest of men ; elder brother 
 of Charles Darwin (the famed Darwin on Species of these days), to 
 whom I rather prefer him for intellect, had not his health quite 
 doomed him to silence and patient idleness — grandsons, both, of 
 the first famed Erasmus (" Botanic Garden," etc.), who also seems 
 to have gone upon " species" questions, " omnia ex conchis" (all from 
 oysters) being a dictum of his (even a stamp he sealed with still 
 extant), as the present Erasmus once told me, many long years be- 
 fore this of Darwin on Species came up among us ! Wonderful to 
 me, as indicating the capricious stupidity of mankind ; never could 
 read a page of it, or waste the least thought upon it. E. Darwin 
 it was who named the late Whewell, seeing him sit, all ear (not all 
 assent) at some of my lectures, " the Harmonious Blacksmith" — a 
 really descriptive title. My dear one had a great favor for this 
 honest Darwin always ; many a road, to shops and the like, he 
 drove her in his cab ("Darwingium Cabbum," comparable to 
 Georgium Sidus), in those early days when even the charge of 
 omnibuses was a consideration, and his sparse utterances, sar- 
 donic often, were a great amusement to her. "A perfect gen- 
 tleman," she at once discerned him to be, and of sound worth 
 and kindliness, in the most unaffected form. "Take me now 
 to Oxygen Street, a dyer's shop there!" Darwin, without a 
 wrinkle or remark, made for Oxenden Street, and drew up at 
 the required door. Amusingly admirable to us both when she 
 came home. 
 
 Our commonest evening sitter, for a good while, was Leigh 
 Hunt, who lived close by, and delighted to sit talking with, us 
 (free, cheery, idly melodious as bird on bough), or listening, with 
 real feeling, to her old Scotch tunes on the piano, and wind- 
 ing up with a frugal morsel of Scotch porridge (endlessly admi- 
 
2V2 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 rable to Huut). I tliiuk I spoke of this above ? Hunt was al- 
 ways accurately dressed these evenings, and had a fine, chivalrous, 
 gentlemanly carriage, polite, affectionate, respectful (especially 
 to her), and yet so free and natural. Her brilliancy and facul- 
 ty he at once recognized, none better, but there rose gradually 
 in it, to his astonished eye, something of positive, of practically 
 steadfast, which scared him off a good deal; the like in my own 
 case too, still more, which he would call " Scotch," " Presbyterian," 
 who knows what; and which gradually repelled him, in sorrow, 
 not in anger, quite away from us, with rare exceptions, which, in 
 his last years, was almost pathetic to us both. Long before this 
 he had gone to live in Kensington, and we scarcely saw him ex- 
 cept by accident. His household, while in " 4 Upper Cheyne Row," 
 within few steps of us here, almost at once disclosed itself to bo 
 huggermugger, unthrift, and sordid collapsed, once for all, and had 
 to be associated with on cautious terras, while he himself emerged 
 out of it in the chivalrous figure 1 describe. Dark complexion (a 
 trace of the African, I believe), copious, clean, strong black hair, 
 beautifully shaped head, fine beaming serious hazel eyes ; serious- 
 ness and intellect the main expression of the face (to our surprise 
 at first) ; he would lean on his elbow against the mantel-piece (iine, 
 clean, elastic figure, too, he had, five feet ten or more), and look 
 round him nearly in silence, before taking leave for the night, " as 
 if I were a Lar," said he once, " or permanent household god here" 
 (such his polite, aerial-like way). Another time, rising from this 
 Lar attitude, he repeated (voice very fine) as if in sport of parody, 
 yet with something of very sad perceptible, "While I to sulphur- 
 ous and penal fire" .... as the last thing before vanishing. Poor 
 Hunt ! no more of him. She, I remember, was almost in tears dur- 
 ing some last visit of his, and kind and pitying as a daughter to 
 the now weak and time-worn old man. 
 
 Allan Cunningham, living in Pimlico, was well within walking 
 distance, and failed not to come down now and then, always 
 friendly, smooth, and fond of pleasing; "a solid Dumfries stone- 
 mason at any rate !" she would define him. He had very smooth 
 manners, much practical shrewdness, some real tone of melody 
 lodged in him, item a twinkle of bright mockery where he judged 
 it safe, culture only superficial (of the surface, truly); reading, in- 
 formation, ways of thinking, all mainly ditto, ditto. Had a good 
 will to us evidently; not an unwelcome face, when he entered, at 
 rare intervals ; always rather rarer, as they proved to be ; he got 
 at once into Nithsdale, recalled old rustic comicalities (seemed ha- 
 
LEIGH HUNT. 
 
JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 273 
 
 bitually to dwell there), and had not much of instruction either to 
 give or receive. His resort seemed to be much among Scotch City 
 people, who presented him with punch-bowls, etc. ; and in his own 
 house there were chiefly unprofitable peox)le to be met. We ad- 
 mired always his sense for managing himself in strange London ; 
 his stalwart healthy figure and ways (bright hazel eyes, bald open 
 brow, sonorous hearty tone of voice, a tall, perpendicular, quietly 
 manful-looking figure), and were sorry sincerely to lose him, as we 
 suddenly did. His widow too is now gone ; some of the sons (es- 
 pecially Colonel Frank, the youngest, and a daughter, who lives 
 with Frank) have still a friendly though far-off relation to this 
 house. 
 
 Harriet Martineau had for some years a much more lively inter- 
 course here, introduced by Darwin possibly, or I forget by whom, 
 on her return from America ; her book upon Avhich was now in 
 progress. Harriet had started into lionhood since our first visit 
 to London, and was still run much after, by a rather feeble set of 
 persons chiefly. She was not unpleasant to talk with for a little, 
 though through an ear-trumpet, without which she was totally 
 deaf. To admire her literary genius, or even her sofidity of com- 
 mon-sense, was never possible for either of us ; but she had a sharp 
 eye, an imperturbable self- possession, and in all things a swift- 
 ness of positive decision Avhich, joined to her evident loyalty of in- 
 tention, and her frank, guileless, easy ways, we both liked. Her 
 adorers, principally, not exclusively, "poor whinnering old mon- 
 eyed women in their well-hung broughams, otherwise idle," did 
 her a great deal of mischief; and indeed as it proved were grad- 
 ually turning her fine clear head (so to speak), and leading to sad 
 issues for her. Her talent, which in that sense was very conside^-- 
 able, I used to think, would have made her a quite shining matron 
 of some big female establishment, mistress of some immense dress 
 shop, for instance (if she had a dressing faculty, which perhaps she 
 hadn't); but was totally inadequate to grapple with deep spiritual 
 and social questions, into which she launched at all turns, nothing 
 doubting. However, she was very fond of us, me chiefly, at first, 
 though gradually of both, and I was considerably the first that 
 tired of her. She was much in the world, we little or hardly at 
 all; and her frank friendly countenance, eager for practical help 
 had it been possible, was obliging and agreeable in the circum- 
 stances, and gratefully acknowledged by us. For the rest, she v\^as 
 full of Nigger fanaticisms ; admirations for (e. g.) her brother James 
 (a Socinian preacher of due quality). The " exchange of ideas " 
 
 12* 
 
274 KEMINISCENCES. 
 
 with her was seldom of behoof in our poor sphere. But she was 
 practically very good. I remember her comiug down, on the 
 sudden when it struck her, to demand dinner from us ; and dining 
 pleasantly, with praise of the frugal terms. Her soirees were fre- 
 quent and crowded (small house in Fludyer Street full to the door) ; 
 and we, for sake of the notabilities or notorieties wandering about 
 there, were willing to attend ; gradually learning how insignificant 
 such notabilities nearly all were. Ah me, the thing which it is 
 now touching to reflect on, was the thrift we had to exercise, my 
 little heroine and I! My darling was always dressed to modest 
 perfection (talent conspicuous in that way, I have always under- 
 stood and heard confirmed), but the expense of 10s. 6d. for a "neat 
 fly" was never to be thought of; omnibus, with clogs and the best 
 of care, that was always our resource. Painful at this moment is 
 the recollection I have of one time, muddy night, between Eegent 
 Street and our goal in Fludyer Street, when one of her clogs came 
 loose ; I had to clasp it, with what impatience compared to her 
 fine tolerance, stings me with remorse just now. Surely, even I 
 might have taken a cab from Regent Street ; Is., Is. 6d. ; and there 
 could have been no " quarrel about fare " (which was always my 
 horror in such cases) ; she, beautiful high soul, never whispered or 
 dreamt of such a thing, j)ossibly may have expressly forbidden it, 
 though I cannot recollect that it was proposed in this case. Shame 
 on me ! However, I cleaned perfectly my dirty fingers again (prob- 
 ably in some handy little rain-pool in the Park, with diligent wip- 
 ing); she entered faultless into the illumination (I need not doubt), 
 and all still went well enough. 
 
 In a couple of years or so our poor Harriet, nerves all torn by 
 this racket, of " fame " so called, fell seriously ill ; threatening of 
 tumor, or I know not what ; removed from London (never has re- 
 sided there since, except for temporary periods) ; took shelter at 
 Tyuemouth, " to be near her brother-in-law, an expert surgeon in 
 Newcastle, and have solitude, and the pure sea air." Solitude she 
 only sometimes had; and, in perfection, never; for it soon became 
 evident she was constantly in spectacle there, to herself and to the 
 sympathetic adorers (who refreshed themselves with frequent per- 
 sonal visits and continual correspondings) ; and had, in sad efibct, 
 so far as could be managed, the whole world, along with self and 
 company, for a theatre to gaze ujion her. Life in the sick-room, 
 with " Christus Consolator " (a paltry print then much canted of), 
 etc., etc. ; this, and other sad books, and actions full of ostentation, 
 done there, gave painful evidence, followed always by painfuller, 
 
JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 275 
 
 till the atheism, etc., etc., which I heard described (by the first 
 Lady Ashburton ouce) as " a stripping of yourself naked, not to the 
 skin only, but to the bone, and walking about in that guise !" 
 (clever of its kind). 
 
 Once in the earliest stage of all this, we made her a visit, my 
 Jane and I; returning out of Scotland by that route. We were 
 very sorry for her; not censorious in any measure, though the 
 aspects were already questionable, to both of us (as I surmise). 
 We had our lodging in the principal street (rather noisy by night), 
 and staid about a week, not with much profit, I think, either to 
 her or ourselves ; I at least with none. 
 
 There had been, before this, some small note or two of corre- 
 spondence ; with little hope on my part, and now I saw it to be 
 hopeless. My hopefuller and kindlier little darling continued it 
 yet awhile, and I remember scrubbyish (lively enough, but "saw- 
 dustish") Socinian didactic little notes from Tynemouth for a year 
 or two hence ; but the vapidly didactic, etc., vein continuing more 
 and more, even she, I could perceive, was getting tired of it, and at 
 length, our poor good Harriet, taking the sublime terror " that her 
 letters might be laid hold of by improper parties in future genera- 
 tions," and demanding them all back that she herself might burn 
 them, produced, after perhaps some retiring pass or two, a complete 
 cessation. We never quarrelled in the least, we saw the honest 
 ever self-sufficient Harriet, in the company of common friends, still 
 once or twice, with pleasure rather than otherwise ,• but never had 
 more to do with her or say to her. A soul clean as river sand ; but 
 which would evidently grow no flowers of our planting ! I remem- 
 ber our return home from that week at Tynemouth ; the yelling 
 flight through some detestable smoky chaos, and midnight witch- 
 dance of base-looking nameless dirty towns (or was this s5me other 
 time, and Lancashire the scene ?) I remember she was with me, 
 and her bright laugh (long after, perhaps towards Rugby now) in 
 the face of some innocent young gentleman opposite, who had in- 
 geniously made a night-cap for himself of his pocket-handkerchief, 
 and looked really strange (an improvised "Camus crowned with 
 sedge "), but was very good-humored too. During the week I also 
 recollect reading one play (never any since or before) of Knight's 
 edition of " Shakspeare," and making my reflections on that fatal 
 brood of people, and the nature of " fame," etc. Sweet friends, for 
 Jesus' sake, forbear ! 
 
 In those first years, probably from about 1839, we had got ac- 
 quainted with the Leeds Marshall family ; especially with old Mr. 
 
276 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 (John) Marshall, the head and founder of it, and the most or really 
 almost only interesting item of it. He had made immense moneys 
 ("wealth now no object to him," Darwin told us in the name of 
 everybody), by skilful, faithful, and altogether human conduct in 
 his flax and linen manufactory at Leeds, and was now settled in 
 opulently shining circumstances in London, endeavoring to enjoy 
 the victory gained. Certain of his sons were carrying on the Leeds 
 "business" in high, quasi-" patriotic" and "morally exemplary," 
 though still prudent and successful style ; the eldest was in Parlia- 
 ment, " a landed gentleman," etc., etc. ; wife and daughters were 
 the old man's London household, with sons often incidentally pres- 
 ent there. None of them was entertaining to speak with, though 
 all were honest, wholesome people. The old man himself, a pale, 
 sorrow-stricken, modest, yet dignified-looking person, full of re- 
 spect for intellect, wisdom, and worth (as he understood the terms); 
 low-voiced, aLnost timidly inarticulate (you would have said), yet 
 with a definite and mildly precise imperativeness to his subalterns, 
 as I have noticed once or twice, was an amicable, humane, and thor- 
 oughly respectable phenomenon to me. The house (Grosvenor 
 Street, western division), was resplendent, not gaudy, or offensive 
 with wealth and its fruits and furnishings ; the dinners large, and 
 splendidly served ; guests of distinction (especially on the Whig or 
 Radical side) were to be met with there, and a good sprinkling of 
 promising younger people of the same or a superior type. Soirees 
 extensive, and sumptuously illuminated in all senses, but general- 
 ly not entertaining. My astonishment at the "Reform" M.P.'s 
 whom I met there, and the notions they seemed "reforming" (and 
 radicalling and quarrelling with their superiors) upon ! We went 
 pretty often (I think I myself far the oftener, as in such cases, my 
 loyal little darling taking no manner of offence not to participate 
 in my lionings, but behaving like the royal soul she was, I, dullard 
 egoist, taking no special recognition of such nobleness till the bar 
 was quite passed, or even not fully then !). Alas, I see it now (per- 
 haps better than I ever did!), but we seldom had much real profit, 
 or even real enjoyment for the hour. We never made out together 
 that often-urged " visit to Halsteads " (grand mansion and establish- 
 ment, near Greystoke, head of Ullswater in Cumberland). I myself, 
 partly by accident, and under convoy of James Spedding, was there 
 once, long after, for one night, and felt very dull and wretched, 
 though the old man and his good old wife, etc., were so good. Old 
 Mr. Marshall was a man worth having known ; evidently a great deal 
 of human worth and wisdom lying funded in him. And the Avorld's 
 
JANE WELSH CAKLYLE. 27V 
 
 resources, even when lie had victory over it to the full, were so exig- 
 uous, and i^erhaps to himself almost contemptible ! I remember well 
 always he gave me the first horse I ever had in London, and with 
 what noble simplicity of unaffected politeness he did it ! " Son 
 William" (the gentleman son, out near Watford) "will be glad to 
 take it off your hands through winter ; and in summer it will help 
 your health, you know !" And in this way it continued two sum- 
 mers (most part of two), till in the second winter William brought 
 it down ; and it had to be sold for a trifle, £17 if I recollect, which 
 William would not give to the Anti-Corn-Law Fund (then strug- 
 gling in the shallows) as I urged, but insisted on handing over to 
 me. And so it ended. I was at Headingely (by Leeds) with James 
 Marshall, j ust wedded to Spring-Rice's daughter, a languishing 
 patroness of mine; staid till third day; and never happened to 
 return. And this was about the sum of mj^ share in the Marshall 
 adventure. It is well known the Marshall daughters were all 
 married off (each of them had £50,000), and what intricate inter- 
 marrying with the Spring-Rices there was, "Dowager Lady Mont- 
 eagle," that now is, being qnasi-mother-in-law of James Marshall, 
 her own brother, wife, etc., etc. ! "Family so used up!" as old 
 Rogers used to snuffle and say. My Jeanuie quarrelled with noth- 
 ing in Marshalldom ; quite the contrary ; formed a kind of friend- 
 ship (conquest I believe it Avas, on her side generously converted 
 into something of friendship) with Cordelia Marshall, a prim, affec- 
 tionate, but rather puling, weak, and sentimental elderly young 
 lady, who became, shortly after, wife, first wife, of the late big 
 Whewell, and aided his position and advancement toward Master- 
 ship of Trinity, etc. I recollect seeing them both here, and Cor- 
 delia's adoration of her " Harmonious Blacksmith," with friendly 
 enough assent, and some amusement, from us two ; and I don't 
 think I ever saw Cordelia again. She soon ceased to write hither; 
 we transiently heard, after certain years, that she was dead, and 
 Whewell had married again. 
 
 I am weary, writing down all this ; so little has my lost one to 
 do with it, which alone could be its interest for me! I believe I 
 should stop short. The London years are not definite, or fertile in 
 disengaged remembrances, like the Scotch ones : dusty, dim, un- 
 beautiful they still seem to me in comparison; and my poor Jean- 
 nie's " problem" (which I believe was sorer, perhaps far sorer, than 
 ever of old, but in which she again proved not to be vanquishable, 
 and at length to be triumphant !) is so mixed with confusing intri- 
 cacies to me that I. cannot sort it out into clear articulation at all, 
 
278 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 or give the features of it, as before. The general type of it is shin- 
 ingly clear to me. A noble jfight at my side ; a valiant strangling 
 of serpents day after day done gayly by her (for most part), as I 
 had to do it angrily and gloomily ; thus we went on together. Ay 
 de mi ! Ay de mi ! 
 
 [June 28. Note from Dods yesterday that the tablet* was not 
 come, nor indeed had been expected ; note to-day that it did come 
 yesterday ; at this hour probably the mason is hewing out a bed 
 for it ; in the silence of the Abbey Kirk yonder, as completion of 
 her father's tomb. The eternities looking down on him, and on us 
 poor Sons of Time ! Peace, peace !] 
 
 By much the tenderest and beautifullest reminiscence to me 
 out of those years is that of the Lecture times. The vilest welter 
 of odious confusions, horrors, and repugnancies; to which, mean- 
 while, there was compulsion absolute, and to which she was the 
 one irradiation ; noble loving soul, not to be quenched in any chaos 
 that might come. Oh, her love to me ; her cheering, unaffected, 
 useful practicality of help : was not I rich, after all ? She had a 
 steady hope in me, too, while I myself had habitually none (except 
 of the desperate kind) ; nay, a steady contentment with me, and 
 with our lot together, let hope be as it might. " Never mind him, 
 my dear," whispered Miss Wilson to her one day, as I stood wrig- 
 gling in my agony of incipiency ; " people like it ; the more of that, 
 the better does the Lecture prove." Which was a truth, though 
 the poor sympathizer might, at the moment, feel it harsh. This 
 Miss Wilson and her brother still live (2 Eccleston Street) ; opulent, 
 fine. Church of England people (scrupulously orthodox to the sec- 
 ularities not less than the spiritualities of that creed), and Miss 
 Wilson very clever, too (i. e., full of strong just insight in her way), 
 who had from the first taken to us, and had us much about them 
 (Spedding, Maurice, etc., attending) then and for some years after- 
 ward; very desirous to help us, if that could have much done it 
 (for indeed, to me, it was always mainly an indigestion purchased 
 by a loyal kind of weariness). I have seen Sir James Stephen 
 there, but did not then understand him, or that he could be a 
 " clever man," as reported by Henry Taylor and other good judges. 
 " He shuts his eyes on you," said the elder Spring-Rice (Lord Mont- 
 eagle), " and talks as if he were dictating a Colonial Despatch " 
 (most true ; " teaching you how not to do it," as Dickens defined 
 
 • For the church at Haddington, where Mrs. Carlyle was bnried. 
 
JANE WELSH CAELYLE. 279 
 
 afterwards) ; one of the pattest things I ever heard from Spriug- 
 Kice, who had rather a turn for such. Stephen ultimately, when 
 on half-pay and a Cambridge Professor, used to come down hither 
 pretty often on an evening, and we heard a great deal of talk from 
 him, recognizably serious and able, though always in that Colonial 
 Office style, more or less. Colonial Office being an Impotency (as 
 Stephen inarticulately, though he never said or whispered it, well 
 knew), what could an earnest and honest kind of man do but try 
 and teach you how not to do it ? Stephen seemed to me a master 
 in that art. 
 
 The lecture time fell in the earlier part of the Sterling period, 
 which latter must have lasted in all, counting till John's death, 
 about ten years (autumn, 1845, when John died). To my Jeannie, 
 I think, this was clearly the sunniest and wholesomest element in 
 her then outer life. All the household loved her, and she had virt- 
 ually, by her sense, by her felt loyalty, expressed oftenest in a gay 
 mildly quizzing manner, a real influence, a kind of light command 
 one might almost call it, willingly yielded her among them. De- 
 tails of this are in print (as I said above). In the same years Mrs. 
 Buller (Charles's mother) was a A'^ery cheerful item to her. Mrs. 
 B. (a whilom Indian beauty, wit, and finest fine lady), who had 
 at all times a very recognizing eye for talent, and real reverence 
 for it, very soon made out something of ray little woman, and took 
 more and more to her, all the time she lived after. Mrs. B.'s circle 
 was gay and populous at this time (Radical chiefly ; Radical lions 
 of every complexion), and we had as much of it as we would con- 
 sent to. I remember being at Leatherhead too, and after that a 
 pleasant rustic week at Troston Parsonage (in Suffolk, where Mrs. 
 B.'s youngest son " served," and serves), which Mrs. B. contrived 
 very well to make the best of, sending me to ride for three days in 
 Oliver Cromwell's country, that she might have the wife more to 
 herself. My Jane must have been there altogether, I dare say, 
 near a month (had gone before me, returned after me), and I re- 
 gretted never to have seen the place again. This must have been 
 in September or October, 1842 ; Mrs. Welsh's death in early spring 
 past. I remember well my feelings in Ely Cathedral, in the close 
 of sunset or dusk; the place was open, free to me without witnesses; 
 people seemed to be tuning the organ, which went in solemn gusts 
 far aloft. The thought of Oliver, and his " Leave off your fooling, 
 sir, and come down !" was almost as if audible to me. Sleepless 
 night, owing to cathedral bells, and strange ride next day to St. 
 Ives to Hinchinbrook, etc., and thence to Cambridge, with thun- 
 
280 KEMINISCENCES. 
 
 der-cloud and liglitniug doggiug me to rear aud bursting into tor- 
 rents few minutes after I got into the Hoop Inn. 
 
 My poor darling had, for constant accompaniment to all her bits 
 of satisfactions, an altogether weak state of health, continually 
 breaking down, into violent fits of headache in her best times, and 
 in winter season into cough, etc., in lingering forms of a quite sad 
 and exhaustiug sort. Wonderful to me how she, so sensitive a 
 creature, maintained her hoping cheerful humor to such a degree, 
 amidst all that ; and, except the pain of inevitable sympathy, and 
 vague fluttering fears, gave me no pain. Careful always to screen 
 me from pain, as I by no means always reciprocally was ; alas, no, 
 miserable egoist in comparison. At this time I must have been in 
 the thick of " Cromwell;" four years of abstruse toil, obscure spec- 
 ulations, futile wrestling, and miserj'^, I used to count it had cost 
 me, before I took to editing the " Letters and Speeches " (" to have 
 them out of my way "), which rapidly drained off the sour swamj) 
 water bodily, and left me, beyond all first expectation, quite free 
 of the matter. Often I have thought how miserable my books 
 must have been to her, aud how, though thej^ were none of her 
 choosing, and had coine upon her like ill weather or ill-health, she 
 at no instant, never once I do believe, made the least complaint of 
 me or my behavior (often bad, or at least thoughtless aud weak) 
 under them. Always some quizzing little lesson, the purport and 
 effect of which was to encourage me ; never once anything worse. 
 Oil, it was noble, and I see it so well now, when it is gone from me, 
 and no return possible. 
 
 "Cromwell" was by much the worst book time, till this of "Fried- 
 rich," which, indeed, was infinitely worse ; in the dregs of our 
 strength too ; and lasted for about thirteen years. She was gen- 
 erally in quite weak health too, and was often, for long weeks or 
 months, miserably ill. 
 
 It was strange how she contrived to sift out of such a troublous 
 forlorn day as hers in each case was, all available little items, as 
 she was sure to do, and used to have them ready for me in the 
 evening when my work was done, in the prettiest little narrative 
 anybody could have given of such things. Never again shall I 
 have such melodious, humanly beautiful half-hours ; they were the 
 rainbow of my poor dripping day, and reminded me that there oth- 
 erwise was a sun. At this time, and all along, she "did all the 
 society;" was all brightness to the one or two (oftenest rather 
 dull and prosaic fellows, for the better sort respected my seclusion, 
 especially during that last "Friedrich" time) whom I needed to 
 
JANE WELSH CARLYLK 281 
 
 see on my affairs in hand, or who, with more of brass than others, 
 managed to intrude upon me. For these she did, in their several 
 kinds, her very Lest. Her own people whom I might he apt to 
 feel wearisome (dislike any of them I never did, or his or her dis- 
 charge from service would have swiftly followed) she kept beauti- 
 fully out of my way, saving my "politeness" withal; a very per- 
 fect skill she had in all this ; and took my dark toiling periods, 
 however long, sullen, and severe they might be, with a loyalty and 
 heart acquiescence that never failed, the heroic little soul ! 
 
 " Latter-Day Pamphlet " time, and especially the time that pre- 
 ceded it (1848, etc.), must have been very sore and heavy. My 
 heart was long overloaded with the meanings at length uttered 
 there, and no way of getting them set forth would answer. I for- 
 get what ways I tried, or thought of. " Times " newspaper was 
 one (alert, airy, rather vacant editorial gentleman I remember go- 
 ing to once, in Printing House Square ; but this, of course, proved 
 hypothetical merely, as all others did, till we, as last shift, gave 
 the rough MSS. to Chapman (in Forster's company one winter Sun- 
 day). About half of those ultimately printed might be in Chap- 
 man's hands, but there was much manipulation as well as addition 
 needed. Forster soon fell away, I could perceive, into terror and 
 surprise, as indeed everybody did. "A lost man!" thought every- 
 body. Not she at any moment; much amused by the outside 
 pother she, and glad to see me getting delivered of my black elec- 
 tricities and consuming fires in that way." Strange letters came to 
 us during those nine months of pamphleteering, strange visitors 
 (of moon-struck unprofitable type for most part), who had, for one 
 reason or another, been each of them wearing himself half mad on 
 some one of the public scandals I was recognizing and denouncing. 
 I still remember some of their faces and the look their paper bun- 
 dles had. She got a considerable entertainment out of all that, 
 went along with me in everything (probably counselling a little 
 here and there, a censorship well worth my regarding, and gener- 
 ally adoptable, here as everywhere), and minded no whit any re- 
 sults that might follow this evident speaking of the truth. Some- 
 body, writing from India, I think, and clearly meaning kindness, 
 "did hope" (some time afterwards) "the tide would turn, and this 
 lamentable hostility of the press die away into friendship again ;" 
 at which I remember our innocent laughter, ignorant till then 
 what "The Press's" feelings were, and leaving "The Press" very 
 welcome to them then. Neuberg helped me zealously, as volun- 
 teer amanuensis, etc, through all this business, but I know not 
 
282 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 that even lie approved it all, or any of it to the bottom. In the 
 whole world I had one complete approver ; in that, as in other 
 cases, one, and it was worth all. 
 
 On the back of " Latter-Day Pamphlets" followed "Life of Ster- 
 ling ;" a very quiet thing, but considerably disapproved of too, as 
 I learned, and utterly revolting to the religious people in particu- 
 lar (to my surprise rather than otherwise). "Doesn't believe in 
 us, then, either V Not he, for certain ; can't, if you will know ! 
 Others urged disdainfully, " What has Sterling done that he should 
 have a Life ?" " Induced Carlyle somehow to write him one"!" an- 
 swered she once (to the Ferguses, I think) in an arch airy way 
 which I can well fancy, and which shut up that question there. 
 The book was afterward greatly praised, again on rather weak 
 terms I doubt. What now will please me best in it, and alone will, 
 was then an accidental quality, the authentic light, under the due 
 conditions, that is thrown by it on her. Oh, my dear one, sad is 
 my soul for the loss of thee, and will to the end be, as I compute ! 
 Lonelier creature there is not henceforth in this world; neither 
 person, work, nor thing going on in it that is of any value, in com- 
 parison, or even at all. Death I feel almost daily in express fact, 
 death is the one haven ; and have occasionally a kind of kingship, 
 sorrowful, but sublime, almost godlike, in the feeling that that is 
 nigh. Sometimes the image of her, gone in her car of victory (in 
 that beautiful death), and as if nodding to me with a smile, " I am 
 gone, loved one; work a' little longer, if thou still carest; if not, 
 follow. There is no baseness, and no misery here. Courage, cour- 
 age to the last !" that, sometimes, as in this moment, is inexpressi- 
 bly beautiful to me, and comes nearer to bringing tears than it 
 once did. 
 
 In 1852 had come the new modelling of our house, attended with 
 infinite dusty confusion (head-carpenter, stupid though honest, fell 
 ill, etc., etc.) ; confusion falling upon her more than me, and at 
 length upon her altogether. She was the architect, guiding and 
 directing and contriving genius, in all that enterprise, seemingly 
 so foreign to her. But indeed she was ardent in it, and she had a 
 talent that way which was altogether unique in my experience. 
 An " eye " first of all ; equal in correctness to a joiner's square, this, 
 up almost from her childhood, as I understood. Then a sense of 
 order, sense of beauty, of wise and thrifty convenience ; sense of 
 wisdom altogether in fact, for that was it ; a human intellect shin- 
 ing luminous in every direction, the highest and the lowest (as I 
 remarked above). In childhood she used to be sent to seek when 
 
JANE WE'LSH CAKLYLE. 283 
 
 things fell lost ; "the besf seeker of us all/' her father would say, 
 or look (as she thought) ; for me also she sought everything, with 
 such success as I never saw elsewhere. It was she who widened 
 our drawing-room (as if by a stroke of genius) and made it zealous- 
 ly (at the partial expense of three feet from her own bedroom) into 
 what it is, one of the prettiest little drawing-rooms I ever saw, and 
 made the whole house into what it now is. How frugal, too, and 
 how modest about it! House was hardly finished, when there 
 arose that of the "demon fowls," as she appropriately named them ; 
 macaws, Cochin Chinas, endless concert of crowing, cackling, shriek- 
 ing roosters (from a bad or misled neighbor, next door) which cut 
 us off from sleep or peace, at times altogether, and were like to 
 drive me mad, and her through me, through sympathy with me. 
 From which also she was my deliverer, had delivered and contrived 
 to deliver me from hundreds of such things (oh, my beautiful little 
 Alcides, in the new days of anarchy and the mud-gods, threatening 
 to crush down a poor man, and kill him with his work still on 
 hand !). I remember well her setting off, one winter morning, from 
 the Grange on this enterprise, probably having thought of it most 
 of the night (sleep denied). She said to me next morning the first 
 thing: "Dear, we must extinguish those demon fowls, or they will 
 extinguish us ! Eent the house (No. 6, proprietor mad, etc., etc.) 
 ourselves! it is but some £40 a year; pack away those vile people, 
 and let it stand empty. I will go this very day upon it, if you 
 assent;" and she went accordingly, and slew altogether this Lerna 
 hydra, at far less expense than taking the house, nay almost at no 
 expense at all, except by her fine intellect, tact, just discernment, 
 swiftness of decision, and general nobleness of mind (in short). 
 Oh, my bonny little woman, mine only in memory now ! 
 
 I -left the Grange two days after her, on this occasion, hastening 
 through London, gloomy of mind, to see my dear old mother yet 
 once (if I might) before she died. She had, for many months be- 
 fore, been evidently and painfully sinking away, under no disease, 
 but the ever-increasing infirmities of eighty-three years of time. 
 She had expressed no desire to see me, but her love from my birth 
 upwards, under all scenes and circumstances, I knew to be emphat- 
 ically a mother's. I walked from the Kirtlebridge Station that dim 
 winter morning ; my one thought " Shall I see her yet alive ?" She 
 was still there ; weary, very weary, and wishing to be at rest. I 
 think she only at times knew me ; so bewildering were her contin- 
 ual distresses ; once she entirely forgot me ; then, in a minute or 
 two, asked my pardon. Ah me ! ah me ! It was my mother and not 
 
284 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 my mother ; the last pale rim or sickle of the moou, which had once 
 been full, now sinking in the dark seas. This lasted only three 
 days. Saturday night she had her full faculties, but was in nearly 
 unendurable misery, not breath sufiticient, etc., etc. John tried va- 
 rious reliefs, had at last to give a few drops of laudanum, which 
 eased the misery, and in an hour or two brought sleep. All next 
 day she lay asleep, breathing equally but heavily, her face grand 
 and solemn, almost severe, like a marble statue ; about four p.m. the 
 breathing suddenly halted, recommenced for half an instant, then 
 fluttered, ceased. " All the days of my appointed time," she had 
 often said, " will I wait till my change come." The most beauti- 
 fully religious soul I ever knew. Proud enough she was, too, though 
 piously humble, and full of native intellect, humor, etc., though all 
 undeveloped. On the religious side, looking into the very heart of 
 the matter, I always reckon her rather superior to my Jane, who in 
 other shapes, and with far different exemplars and conditions, had 
 a great deal of noble religion too. Her death filled me with a kind 
 of dim amazement and crush of confused sorrows, which were very 
 painful, but not so sharply x>athetic as I might have expected. It 
 was the earliest terror of my childhood " that I might lose my 
 mother;" and it had gone with me all my days. But, and that is 
 probably the whole account of it, I was then sunk in the miseries 
 of " Friedrich," etc., etc., in many miseries ; and was then fifty-eight 
 years of age. It is strange to me, in these very days, how peaceable, 
 though still sacred and tender, the memory of my mother now lies 
 in me. (This very morning, I got into dreaming confused night- 
 mare stuff about some funeral and her ; not hers, nor obviously my 
 Jaue's, seemingly my father's rather, and she sending me on it — 
 the saddest bewildered stuff. What a dismal debasing and con- 
 fusing element is that of a sick body on the human soul or think- 
 ing part !) 
 
 it was in 1852 (September-October, for about a month) that I 
 had first seen Germany, gone on my first errand as to " Friedrich :" 
 there was a second, five years afterwards ; this time it was to in- 
 quire (of Preuss and Co.) ; to look about me, search for books, por- 
 traits, etc., etc. • I went from Scotsbrig (my dear old mother pain- 
 fully weak, though I had no thought it would be the last time I 
 should see her afoot) ; from Scotsbrig for Leith by Rotterdam, 
 Koln, Bonn (Neuberg's); and on the whole never had nearly so 
 (outwardly) unpleasant a journey in my life ; till the second and 
 last I made thither. But the Chelsea establishment was under 
 carpenters, painters ; till those disappeared, uo work possible, 
 
JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 285 
 
 scarcely any living possible (though my brave woman did make it 
 possible without complaint). " Stay so many weeks, all painting 
 at least shall then be off!" I returned, near broken down utterly, 
 at the set time ; and alas ! was met by a'foul dabblement of paint 
 oozing down stairs ; the painters had proved treacherous to her ; 
 time could not be kept ! It was the one instance of such a thing 
 here : and, except the first sick surprise, I now recollect no more 
 of it. 
 
 " Mamma, wine makes cosy !" said the bright little one, perhaps 
 between two and three years old, her mother, after some walk with 
 sprinkling of wet or the like, having given her a dram-glass of 
 wine on their getting home: "mamma, wine makes cosy!" said 
 the small silver voice, gayly sipping, getting its new bits of insight 
 into natural philosophy! What "i)ictures" has my beautiful one 
 left me; what joys can surround every well-ordered human heart! 
 I said, long since, I never saw so beautiful a childhood. Her little 
 bit of a first chair, its wee, wee arms, etc., visible to me in the 
 closet at this moment, is still here, and always was. I have looked 
 at it hundreds of times ; from of old, with many thoughts. No 
 daughter or son of hers was to sit there ; so it had been appointed 
 us, my darling. I have no book a thousandth part so beautiful as 
 thou; but these were our only "children" — and, in a true sense, 
 these were verily ours; and will perhaps live some time in the 
 world after we are both gone ; and be of no damage to the poor 
 brute chaos of a world, let us hope ! The Will of the Supreme 
 shall be accomplished. Amen. But to proceed. 
 
 Shortly after my return from Germany (next summer, I think, 
 while the Cochin Chinas were at work, and we could not quit the 
 house, having spent so much on it, and got a long lease), there be- 
 gan a new still worse hurlyburly of the building kind, that of the 
 new top story — whole area of the house to be thrown into one sub- 
 lime garret room, lighted from above, thirty feet by thirty say, and 
 at least eleven feet high, double-doored, double-windowed, imper- 
 vious to sound, to — in short, to everything but self and work. I 
 had my grave doubts about all this ; but John Chorley, in his 
 friendly zeal, warmly urged it on, pushed, superintended — and was 
 a good deal disgusted with my dismal experience of the result. 
 Something really good might have come of it in a scene where good 
 and faithful work was to be had on the part of all, from architect 
 downwards.; but here, from all (except one good young man of the 
 carpenter trade, whom I at length noticed thankfully in small 
 matters), the " work," of planning to begin with, and then of exe- 
 
286 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 cuting, iu all its details, was mere work of Belial, i. e., of the Fa- 
 ther of lies ; such " work " as I had. not couceived the possibility of 
 among the sons of Adam till then. By degrees I perceived it to 
 be the ordinary English " work" of this epoch ; and, with manifold 
 reflections, deep as Tophet, on the outlooks this offered for us all, 
 endeavored to be silent as to my own little failure. My new illus- 
 trious "study" was definable as the least inhabitable, and most 
 entirely detestable and despicable, bit of human workmanship in 
 that kind, sad and odious to me very. But, by many and long- 
 continued efforts, with endless botherations which lasted for two 
 or three years after (one winter starved by "Arnott's improved 
 grate," I recollect), I did get it patched together into something of 
 supportability ; and continued, though under protest, to inhabit 
 it during all working hours, as I had indeed from the first done. 
 The whole of the now printed " Friedrich" was written there (or in 
 summer iu the back court and garden, when driven down by bak- 
 ing heat). Much rawer matter, I think, was tentatively on paper, 
 before this sublime new " study." " Friedrich " once done, I quitted 
 the place forever, and it is now a bedroom for the servants. The 
 "architect" for this beautiful bit of masonry and carpentry was 
 one " Parsons," really a clever creature, I could see, but swimming 
 as for dear life iu a mere " mother of dead dogs " (ultimately did 
 become bankrupt). His men of all types, Irish hodmen and up- 
 wards, for real mendacity of hand, for drunkenness, greediness, mu- 
 tinous nomadism, and anarchic malfeasance throughout, excelled 
 all experience or conception. Shut the lid on their "unexampled 
 prosperity " and them forevermore. 
 
 The sufferings of my poor little woman, throughout all this, must 
 have been great, though she whispered nothing of them — the rath- 
 er as this was my euterjirise (both the " Friedrich" and it) ; — indeed, 
 it was by her address and invention that I got my sooterkin of a 
 " study " improved out of its worst blotches ; it was she, for exam- 
 ple, that went silently to Bramah's smith people, and got me a fire- 
 place, of merely human sort, which actually warmed the room, and 
 sent Arnott's miracle about its business. But undoubtedly that 
 " Friedrich" affair, with its many bad adjuncts, was much the worst 
 we ever had, and sorely tried us both. It lasted thirteen years or 
 more. To me a desperate dead-lift pull all that time ; my whole 
 strength devoted to it ; alone, withdrawn from all the world (ex- 
 cept some bores who would take no hint, almost nobody came 
 to see me, nor did I wish almost anybody then left living for me), 
 all the world withdrawing from me; I, desperate of ever getting 
 
JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 287 
 
 through (not to speak of " succeeding "), left solitary " with the 
 nightmares" (as I sometimes expressed it), "hugging unclean creat- 
 ures" (Prussian Blockheadism) "to my bosom, trying to caress and 
 flatter their secret out of them !" "Why do I speak of all this ? It 
 is now become KOTrpog to me, insignificant as the dung of a thousand 
 centuries ago. I did get through, thank God; let it now wander 
 into the belly of oblivion forever. But what I do still, and shall 
 more and more, remember with loving admiration is her behavior 
 in it. She was habitually in the feeblest health ; often, for long 
 whiles, grievously ill. Yet by an alchemy all her own, she had ex- 
 tracted grains as of gold out of every day, and seldom or never fail- 
 ed to have something bright and pleasant to tell me, when I reach- 
 ed home after my eveniug ride, the most fordone of men. In all, 
 I rode, during that book, some 30,000 miles, much of it (all the win- 
 ter part of it) under cloud of night, sun just setting when I mount- 
 ed. All the rest of the day I sat silent aloft, insisting upon work, 
 and such work, mvitissimd Minerva for that matter. Home between 
 five and six, with mud mackintoshes off, and, the nightmares locked 
 up for a while, I tried for an hour's sleep before my (solitary, die- 
 tetic, altogether simple) bit of dinner ; but first always came up for 
 half an hour to the drawing-room and her ; where a bright kindly 
 fire was sure to be burning (candles hardly lit, all in trustful chi- 
 ar-oscuro), and a spoonful of brandy in water, with a pipe of tobac- 
 co (which I had learned to take sitting on the rug, with my back to 
 the jamb, and door never so little open, so that all the smoke, if I 
 was careful, went up the chimney), this was the one bright portion 
 of my black day. 
 
 Oh, those evening half-hours, how beautiful and blessed they 
 were, not awaiting me now on my home-coming, for the last ten 
 w^eeks! She was oftenest reclining on the sofa; wearied enough, 
 she too, with her day's doings and endurings. But her history, 
 even of what was bad, had such grace and truth, and spontaneous 
 tinkling melody of a naturally cheerful and loving heart, that I 
 never anywhere enjoyed the like. Her courage, patience, silent 
 heroism, meanwhile, must often have been immense. Within the 
 last two years or so she has told me about my talk to her of the 
 Battle of Mollwitz on these occasions, while that was on the anvil. 
 She was lying on the sofa, weak, but I knew little how weak, and 
 patient, kind, quiet, and good as ever. After tugging and wrig- 
 gling through what inextricable labyrinth and slough of despond 
 I still remember, it appears I had at last conquered Mollwitz, saw it 
 all clear ahead and round me, and took to telling her about it, in 
 
288 KEMINISCENCES. 
 
 my poor bit of joy, night after night. I recollect she answered lit- 
 tle, though kindly always. Privately, she at that time felt con- 
 vinced she was dying — dark winter, and such the weight of misery 
 and utter decay of strength, and, night after night, my theme to 
 her, Mollwitz ! This she owned to me, within the last year or two, 
 which how could I listen to without shame and abasement ? Nev- 
 er in my pretended superior kind of life, have I done, for love of 
 any creature, so supreme a kind of thing. It touches me at this 
 moment with penitence and humiliation, yet with a kind of soft 
 religious blessedness too. She read the first two volumes of " Fried- 
 rich," much of it in printer's sheets (while on xhA t to the aged Miss- 
 es Donaldson at Haddington); her blame was unerringly straight 
 upon the blot, her applause (should not I collect her fine notekins 
 and reposit them here ?) was beautiful and as sunlight to me, for 
 I knew it was sincere withal, however exaggerated by her great 
 love of me. The other volumes (hardly even the third, I think) 
 she never read — I knew too well why; and submitted without 
 murmur, save once or twice perhaps a little quiz on the subject, 
 which did not afflict her, either. Too weak, too weak by far for a 
 dismal enterprise of that kind, as I knew too well! But those 
 Haddington visits were very beautiful to her (and to me through 
 her letters and her), and by that time we were over the hill, and 
 "the worst of our days were passed" (as poor Irving used to give 
 for toast, long ago), worst of them past, though we did not yet 
 quite know it. 
 
 [July 3.] Vols. 1 and 2 of "Friedrich" were published, I find, in 
 1858. Probably about two years before that was the nadir of my 
 wife's sufferings — internal sufferings and dispiritments; for out- 
 ward fortune, etc.^ had now, for about ten years, been on a quite 
 tolerable footing, and indeed evidently fast on the improving hand : 
 nor had this, at any worse time, ever disheartened her, or darkened 
 her feelings. But in 1856, owing to many circumstances, my en- 
 grossment otherwise (sunk in " Friedrich," in, etc., etc. ; far less ex- 
 clusively, very far less, than she supposed, poor soul!) — and owing 
 chiefly, one may fancy, to the deeper downbreak of her own poor 
 health, which from this time, as I now see better, continued its ad- 
 vance upon the citadel, or nervous system, and intrinsically grew 
 worse and worse : — in 1*856, too evidently, to whatever owing, my 
 poor little darling was extremely miserable ! Of that year there is 
 a bit of private diary, by chance left unburnt ; found by me since 
 her death, and not to be destroyed, however tragical and sternly 
 sad are parts of it. She had written, I sometimes knew (though 
 
JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 289 
 
 she would never show to me or to mortal any word of them), at 
 diifereut times, various hits of diary ; and was even, at one time, 
 
 upon a kind of autobiography (had not C — = — , the poor C 
 
 now just gone, stept into it with swine's foot, most intrusively, 
 though without ill intention — finding it unlocked one day — and 
 produced thereby an instantaneous burning of it ; and of all like it 
 which existed at that time). Certain enough, she wrote various 
 bits of diary and private record, unknown to me : but never any- 
 thing so sore, down-hearted, harshly distressed and sad as certain 
 pages (right sure am I!) which alone remain as specimen! The 
 rest are all burnt ; no trace of them, seek where I may. 
 
 # * * « # *f * 
 
 A very sad record ! We went to Scotland soon after ; she to 
 Auchtertool (cousin Walter's), I to the Gill (sister Mary's). 
 
 In July, 1856, soon after, may have been about middle of month, 
 we went to Edinburgh ; a blazing day, full of dust and tumult, 
 which I still very well remember. Lady Ashburton had got for 
 herself a grand " Queen's saloon," or neplus ultra of railway car- 
 riages (made for the Queen some time before), costing no end of 
 money. Lady sat, or lay, in the saloon. A common six-seat car- 
 riage, immediately contiguous, was accessible from it. In this the 
 lady had insisted we should ride, with her doctor and her maid ; a 
 mere partition, with a door, dividing us from her. The lady was 
 very good, cheerful though much unwell ; bore all her difficulties 
 and disappointments with an admirable equanimity and magna- 
 nimity ; but it was physically almost the uncomfortablest journey 
 I ever made. At Peterborough the ne plus ultra was found to have 
 its axle-tree on fire ; at every station afterwards buckets were copi- 
 ously dashed and poured (the magnanimous lady saying never a 
 syllable to it) ; and at Newcastle-on-Tyne they flung the humbug 
 neplus away altogether, and our whole party into common carriages. 
 Apart from the burning axle, we had suffered much from dust and 
 even from foul air, so that at last I got the door opened, and sat 
 with my head stretched out backward into the wind. This had 
 alarmed my poor wife, lest I should tumble out altogether ; and 
 she angrily forbade it, dear loving woman, and I complied, not at 
 first knowing why she was angry. This and Lady A.'s opening 
 her door to tell us, " Here is Hinchinbrook !" (a long time before, and 
 with something of pathos traceable in her cheery voice) are nearly 
 all that I now remember of the base and dirty hurly-burly. Lord 
 A. had preceded by some days, and was waiting for our train at 
 Edinburgh, 9.30 p.m. ; hurly-burly greater and dirtier than ever. 
 
 13 
 
290 KEMINISCENCES. 
 
 They went for Barry's Hotel at once, servants and all ; no time to 
 inform us (officially) that we too were their guests. But that, 
 too, passed well. We ordered apartments, refreshments of our 
 own there (first of all baths ; inside of my shirt collar was as 
 hlack as ink !), and before the refreshments were ready we had 
 a gay and cordial inyitation, etc., etc.; found the "old bear" 
 (Ellis) in their rooms, I remember, and Lord A. and he with a great 
 deal to say about Edinburgh and its people and phenomena. Next 
 morning the Ashburtons went for Kinloch-Luichart (fine hunting 
 seat in Koss-shire) ; and my dear little woman to her cousins' at 
 Auchtertool, where I remember she was much soothed by their 
 kindness, and improved considerably^ in health for the time. The 
 day after seeing her settled there, I made for Annandale, and my 
 sister Mary's at the Gill. (Maggie Welsh, now here with me, has 
 helped in adjusting into clearness the recollection of all this.) I 
 remember working on final corrections of books ii. and iii. of 
 " Friedrich," and reading in " Plato " (translation, and not my first 
 trial of him) while there. My darling's letters I remember, too 
 (am on search for them just now), also visits from sister Jean and 
 to Dumfries and her, silent nocturnal rides from that town, etc., 
 and gene»ally much riding on the (Priestside) Solway Sands, and 
 plenty of sombre occupation to my thoughts. 
 
 Late on in autumn I met my Jeannie at Kirkcaldy again; un- 
 comfortably lodged, both of us, and did not loiter (though the peo- 
 ple very kind) ; I was bound for Eoss-shire and the Ashburtons 
 (miserable journey thither, sombre, miserable stay there, wet weath- 
 er, sickly, solitary mostly, etc., etc.); my wife had gone to her 
 aunts' in Edinburgh for a night or two ; to the Haddington Miss 
 Donaldsons ;* and in both places, the latter especially, had much 
 to please her, and came away with the resolution to go again. 
 
 Next year, 1857, she went accordingly, staid with the Donald- 
 sous (eldest of these old ladies, now well above eighty, and gone 
 stone-blind, was her " godmother," had been at Craigeuputtoch to 
 see us, the dearest of old friends my wife now had). She was at 
 Auchtertool too, at Edinburgh with her aunts, once and again; 
 but the chief element was " Sunny Bank, Haddington," which she 
 began with and ended with ; a stay of some leugth each time. 
 Happy to her, and heart-interesting to a high degree, though sor- 
 rowfully involved in almost constant bodily pain. It was a tour 
 for health, urged- on her by me for that end ; and the poor little 
 darling seemed inwardly to grudge all along the expense on her- 
 self (generous soul!) as if she were not worth money spent, though 
 
JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 291 
 
 money was in no scarcity with us now! I was x^rinting ''Fried- 
 ricb," voll. i. and ii., here ; totally solitary, and recollect her letters 
 of that tour as altogether genial and delightful, sad and miserable 
 as the view is which they now give me of her endless bodily dis- 
 tresses and even torments, now when I read them again after nine 
 years, and what has befallen me eleven weeks ago ! 
 
 Sunday, July 8. Began writing again at the second Hue of tbis 
 page ; the intermediate time has been spent in a strenuous search 
 for, and collection of all her letters now discoverable (by Maggie 
 Welsh and me), which is now completed, or nearly so, 1843-2 the 
 earliest found (though surely there ought to be others, of 1837, etc. ?), 
 and some of almost every year onward to the last. They are ex- 
 ceedingly difficult to arrange, not having in general any date, so 
 that place often enough, and day and even year throughout, are 
 mainly to be got by the Post-office stamp, supported by inference 
 and inquiry such as is still possible, at least to me. 
 
 The whole of yesterday I spent in reading and arranging the 
 letters of 1857 ; such a day's readiug as I perhaps never had in my 
 life before. What a piercing radiancy of meaning to me in those 
 dear records, bastily thrown off, full of misery, yet of bright eternal 
 love; all as if on wings of lightning, tingling through'one's very 
 heart of hearts! Ob, I was blind not to see how brittle was tbat 
 thread of noble celestial (almost more than terrestrial) life ; how 
 much it was all in all to me, and how impossible it should long be 
 left with me. Her sufferings seem little short of those in a hospi- 
 tal fever-ward, as she painfully drags herself about ; and yet con- 
 stantly there is such an electric shower of all-illuminating brill- 
 iancy, penetration, recognition, wise discernment, just enthusiasm, 
 humor, grace, patience, courage, love, and in fine of spontaneous 
 nobleness of mind and intellect, as I know not where to parallel ! 
 I have asked myself, Ought all this to be lost, or kept for myself, 
 and the brief time that now belongs to me ? Can nothing of it be 
 saved, then, for the worthy that still remain among these roaring 
 myriads of profane unworthy ? I really must consider it farther ; 
 and already I feel it to have become uncertain to me whether at 
 least this poor note-book ought to be burnt ere my decease, or left 
 to its chances among my survivors ? As to " talent," epistolary 
 and other, these letters, I perceive, equal and surpass whatever of 
 best I know to exist in that kind ; for " talent," " genius," or what- 
 ■ ever we may call it, what an evidence, if my little woman needed 
 that to me ! Not all the Sands and Eliots and babbling cohue of 
 "celebrated scribbling women" that have strutted over the world, 
 
292 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 iu my time, could, it seems to me, if all boiled down and distilled to 
 essence, make one such woman. But it is difficult to make these 
 letters fairly legible ; except myself there is nobody at all that can 
 completely read them as they now are. They abound in allusions, 
 very full of meaning iu this circle, but perfectly dark and void iu 
 all others. Coterie- sprache, as the Germans call it, "family circle 
 dialect," occurs every line or two ; nobody ever so rich in that kind 
 as she ; ready to pick up every diamond-spark out of the common 
 floor-dust, and keep it brightly available ; so that hardly, I think, 
 in any house, was there more of coterie-spraclie, shining innocently, 
 with a perpetual expressiveness and twinkle generally of quiz and 
 real humor about it, than in ours. She mainly was the creatress of 
 all this ; unmatchable for quickness (and trueness) iu regard to it, 
 and in her letters it is continually recurring; shedding such a 
 lambency of "own fireside" over everything, if you are in the se- 
 cret. Ah me, ah me ! At least, I have tied up that bundle (the 
 two letters touching on " Friedrich " have a paper round them ; the 
 first written in Edinburgh, it appears now !) 
 
 July 9. Day again all spent in searching and sorting a box of 
 hers, full of strange and sad memorials of her mother, with a few of 
 father aud'infant self (put up in 1842), full of poignant meanings to 
 her then and to me now. Her own christening cap is there, e. g. ; 
 the lancet they took her father's blood with (and so killed him, as 
 she always thought); father's door-plate; "commission in Perth 
 Fencibles," etc. ; two or three Christmas notes of mine, which I 
 could not read without almost sheer weeping. 
 
 It must have been near the end of October, 1863, when I returned 
 home from my ride, weather soft and muddy, humor dreary and op- 
 pressed as usual (nightmare " Friedrich " still pressing heavily as 
 ever), but as usual also, a bright little hope in me that now I was 
 across the muddy element, and the lucid twenty minutes of my day 
 "were again at hand. To my disappointment my Jeannie was not 
 here; "had gone to see her cousin in the city" — a Mrs. Godby, 
 widow of an important post-official, once in Edinburgh, where he 
 had wedded this cousin, and died leaving children ; and in virtue 
 of whom she and they had been brought to London a year or two 
 ago, to a fine situation as " matron of the Post-office establishment" 
 ("forty maids under her, etc., etc., and well managed by her") in 
 St. Martin's-le-Grand. She was a good enough creature, this Mrs. 
 Godby (Binuie had been her Scotch name; she is now Mrs. Some- 
 thing-else, and very prosperous). My Jeannie, in those early times, 
 was anxious to be kind to her in the new scene, and had her often 
 
JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 293 
 
 here (as often as, for my convenience, seemed to the loyal heart per- 
 missible), and was herself, on calls and little tea-visits, perhaps still 
 oftener there. A perfectly harmless Scotch cousin, polite and pru- 
 dent ; almost prettyish (in spite of her projecting upper teetli) ; 
 with good wise instincts, but no developed intelligence in the artic- 
 ulate kind. Her mother, I think, was my mother-in-law's cousin or 
 connection ; and the young widow and her London friend were al- 
 ways well together. This was, I believe, the last visit my poor 
 wife ever made her ; and the last but two she ever received from 
 her, so miserably unexpected were the issues on this side of tlie 
 matter ! 
 
 We had been at the Grange for perhaps four or five weeks that 
 autumn ; utterly quiet, nobody there besides ourselves ; Lord Ash- 
 burton being in the weakest state, health and life visibly decaying. 
 I was permitted to \)e perdue till three o'clock daily, and sat writing 
 about Poland,! remember ; mournful, but composed and dignifiedly 
 placid the time was to us all. My Jeannie did not complain of 
 health beyond wont, except on one point, that her right arm was 
 strangely lame, getting lamer and lamer, so that at last she could 
 not " do her hair herself," but had to call in a maid to fasten the 
 hind part for her. I remember her sadly dispirited looks, when I 
 came in to her in the morning with my inquiries ; " No sleep," too 
 often the response ,* and this lameness, though little was said of it, 
 a most discouraging thing. Oh, what discouragements, continual 
 distresses, pains and miseries my poor little darling had to bear; 
 remedy for tbem nowhere, speech about them useless, best to be 
 avoided — as, except on pressure from myself, it nobly was ! This 
 part of her life-history was always sad to me ; but it is tenfold 
 more now, as I read in her old letters, and gradually realize, as 
 never before, the continual grinding wretchedness of it, and how, 
 like a winged Psyche, she so soared above it, and refused to be 
 chained or degraded by it. " Neuralgic rheumatism," the doctors 
 called this thing : " neuralgia" by itself, as if confessing that they 
 knew not what to do with it. Some kind of hot half-corrosive 
 ointment was the thing prescribed ; which did, for a little while 
 each time remove the pain mostly, the lameness not ; and I remem- 
 ber to have once seen her beautiful arm (still so beautiful) all 
 stained with spots of burning, so zealous had she been in trying, 
 though with small faith in the prescription. This lasted all the 
 time we were at the Grange ; it had begun before, and things rather 
 seemed to be worsening after we returned. Alas, I suppose it was 
 the siege of the citadel that was now going on ; disease and pain 
 
294 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 had for tliirty or more years been trampling down the outworks, 
 were now got to the nerves, to the citadel, and were bent on storm- 
 ing that. 
 
 I was disappointed, but not sorry at the miss of my "twenty 
 minutes ;" that my little woman, in her weak languid state, had got 
 out for exercise, was gladness ; and I considered that the " twenty 
 minutes" was only postponed, not lost, but would be repaid me 
 presently with interest. After sleep and dinner (all forgotten now), 
 I remember still to have been patient, cheerfully hopeful ; " she is 
 coming, for certain, and will have something nice to tell me of news, 
 etc., as she always has !" In that mood I lay on the sofa, not sleep- 
 ing, quietly waiting, jjerhaps for an hour-and-half more. She had 
 gone in an omnibus, and was to return in one. At this time she 
 had no carriage. With great difficulty I had got her iuduced, per- 
 suaded, and commanded to take two drives weekly in a hired 
 brougham ("more difficulty in persuading you to go into expense, 
 than other men have to persuade their wives to keep out of it!"). 
 On these terras she had agreed to the two drives weekly, and found 
 a great benefit in them ; but on no terms could I get her to consent 
 to go, herself, into the adventure of purchasing a brougham, etc., 
 though she knew it to be a fixed purpose, and only delayed by ab- 
 solute want of time on my part. She could have done it, too, em- 
 ployed the right people to do it, right well, and knew how beneficial 
 to her health it would likely be ; but no, there was a refined delica- 
 cy which would have perpetually prevented her ; and my " time," 
 literally, was Zero. I believe, for the last seven years of that night- 
 mare " Friedrich," I did not write the smallest message to friends, 
 or undertake the least business, except upon plain compulsion of 
 necessity. How lucky that, next autumn, I did actually, in spite of 
 " Friedrich," undertake this of the brougham ; it is a mercy of Heav- 
 en to me for the rest of my life ! and oh ! why was it not under- 
 taken, in spite of all "Friedrichs" and nightmares, years before! 
 That had been still luckier, perhaps endlessly so ? but that was 
 not to be. 
 
 The visit to Mrs. Godby had been pleasant, and gone all well ; 
 but now, dusk falling, it had to end — again by omnibus as ill luck 
 would have it. Mrs. G. sent one of her maids as escort. At the 
 corner of Cheapside the omnibus was waited for (some excavations 
 going on near by, as for many years past they seldom cease to do) ; 
 Chelsea omnibus came ; my darling was in the act of stepping in 
 (maid stupid and of no assistance), when a cab came rapidly from 
 behind, and, forced by the near excavation, seemed as if it would 
 
JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 295 
 
 drive over lier, sucTi her frailty and want of speed. She desper- 
 ately determined to get on the flag pavement again ; desperately 
 leaped, and did get upon the cnrbstone ; bnt found she was falling 
 over upon the flags, and that she would alight on her right or neu- 
 ralgic arm, which would be ruin ; spasmodically struggled against 
 this for an instant or two (maid nor nobody assisting), and had to 
 fall on the neuralgic arm — ruined otherwise far worse, for, as after- 
 wards appeared, the muscles of the thigh-bone, or sinews attach- 
 ing them, had been torn in that spasmodic instant or two ; and for 
 three days coming the torment was excessive, while in the right 
 arm there was no neuralgia perceptible during that time, nor any 
 very manifest new injury afterwards either. The calamity had 
 happened, however, and in that condition my poor darling, "put 
 into a cab " by the humane people, as her one request to them, ar- 
 rived at this door— "later" than I expected; and after such "a 
 drive from Cheapside " as may be imagined ! 
 
 I remember well my joy at the sound of her wheels ending in a 
 knock ; then my surprise at the delay in her coming up : at the 
 singular silence of the maids when questioned as to that. There- 
 upon my rushing down, finding her in the hands of Larkin and 
 them, in the greatest agony of pain and helplessness I had ever 
 seen her in. The noble little soul, she had determined I was not 
 to be shocked by it ; Larkin then lived next door, assiduous to 
 serve us in all things (did maps, indexes, even joinerings, etc., etc.) ; 
 him she had resolved to -charge with it ; alas, alas, as if you could 
 have saved me, noble heroine and martyr? Poor Larkin was 
 standing helpless ; he and I carried her up stairs in an arm-chair 
 to the side of her bed, into which she crept by aid of her hands. 
 In few minutes, Barnes (her wise old doctor) was here, assured me 
 there were no bones broken, no joint out, applied his bandagings 
 and remedies, and seemed to think the matter was slighter than it 
 proved to be— the spasmodic tearing of sinews being still a secret 
 to him. 
 
 For fifty hours the pain was excruciating; after that it rapidly 
 abated, and soon altogether ceased, except when the wounded limb 
 was meddled with never so little. The poor patient was heroic, and 
 had throughout been. Within a week, she had begun contriving 
 rope machineries, leverages, and could not only pull her bell, but 
 lift and shift herself about, by means of her arms, into any coveted 
 posture, and was, as it were, mistress of the mischance. She had 
 her poor little room arranged, under her eye, to a perfection of beau- 
 ty and convenience. Nothing that was possible to her had been 
 
296 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 omitted (I remember one little thing the apothecary had famish- 
 ed ; an artificial champagne cask ; turn a screw and your champagne 
 spurted up, and when you had a spoonful, could be instantly closed 
 down ; with what a bright face she would show me this in action!) 
 In fact her sick-room looked pleasanter than mauy a drawing-room 
 (all the weakness and suffering of it nobly veiled away) ; the select 
 of her lady-friends were admitted for short whiles and liked it well ; 
 to me, whenever I entered, all spoke of cheerfully patient hope, the 
 bright side of the cloud always assiduously turned out for me, in my 
 dreary labors ! I might have known, too, better than I did, that it 
 had a dark side withal ; sleeplessness, sickliness, utter weakness ; 
 and that " the silver lining " was due to my darling's self mainly, 
 and to the inextinguishable loyalty and hope that dwelt in her. 
 But I merely thought, " How lucky beyond all my calculations !" 
 
 I still right well remember the night when her bedroom door 
 (double -door) suddenly opened upon me into the drawing-room, 
 and she came limping and stooping on her staff, so gracefully and 
 with such a child-like joy and triumph, to irradiate my solitude. 
 Never again will any such bright vision of gladdening surprise 
 illuminate the darkness for me in that room or any other ? She 
 was in her Indian dressing-gown, absolutely beautiful, leaning on 
 her nibby staff (a fine hazel, cut and polished from the Drumlanrig 
 woods, by some friend for my service) ; and with such a kindly 
 brilliancy and loving innocence of expression, like that of a little 
 child, unconquerable by weakness and years! A hot-temi>ered 
 creature, too, few hotter, on momentary provocation ; but what a 
 fund of soft affection, hope, and melodious innocence and goodness, 
 to temper all that lightning ! I doubt, candidlj^, if I ever saw a 
 nobler human soul than this which (alas, alas, never rightly valued 
 till now!) accompanied all my steps for forty years. Blind and 
 deaf that we are : oh, think, if thou yet love anybody living, wait 
 not till death sweep down the paltry little dust -clouds aud idle 
 dissonances of the moment, and all be at last so mournfully clear 
 aud beautiful, wh^i it is too late! 
 
 We thought all was now come or fast coming right again, and 
 that, in spite of that fearful mischance, we should have a good win- 
 ter, and get our dismal " misery of a book " done, or almost done. 
 My own hope and prayer was, and had long been, continually that; 
 hers, too, I could not doubt, though hint never came from her to 
 that effect — no hint or look, much less the smallest word, at any 
 time, by any accident^. But I felt well enough how it was crushing 
 down her existence, as it was crushing down my own; and the 
 
JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 297 
 
 thought that she had not been at the choosing of it, and yet must 
 suffer so for it, was occasionally bitter to me. But the practical 
 conclusiou always was, " Get done with it, get done with it ! For 
 the saving of us both, that is the one outlook." And, sure enough, 
 I did stand by that dismal task with all my time and all my means ; 
 day and night wrestliug with it, as with the ugliest dragon, whicb 
 blotted out the daylight and the rest of the world to me, till I 
 should get it slain. There was perhaps some merit in this ; but 
 also, I fear, a demerit. Well, well, I could do no better; sitting 
 smoking up-stairs, on nights when sleep was impossible, I had 
 thoughts enough ; not permitted to rustle amid my rugs and wrap- 
 pages lest I awoke her, and startled all chance of sleep away from 
 her. Weak little darling, thy sleep is now unbroken ; still and 
 serene in the eternities (as the Most High God has ordered for us), 
 and nobody more in this world will wake for my wakefulness. 
 
 My poor woman was what we called " getting well " for several 
 weeks still; she could walk very little, indeed, she nevermore 
 walked much in this world ; but it seems she was out driving, and 
 again out, hopefully for some time. 
 
 Towards the end of November (perhaps it was in December), she 
 caught some whiif of cold, which, for a day or two, we hoped would 
 pass, as many such had done ; but, on the contrary, it began to get 
 worse, soon rapidly worse, and developed itself into that frightful 
 universal " neuralgia," under which it seemed as if no force of hu- 
 man vitality would be able long to stand. " Disease of the nerves " 
 (poisoning of the very channels of sensation) ; such, was the name 
 the doctors gave it, and, for the rest, could do nothing farther with 
 it ; well had they only attempted nothing ! I used to compute that 
 they, poor souls, had at least reinforced the disease to twice its 
 natural amount; such the pernicious effect of .ill their "remedies" 
 and appliances, opiates, etc., etc. ; which every one of them (and there 
 came many) applied anew, and always with the like result. Oh, 
 what a sea of agony my darling was immersed in, mouth after 
 month ! Sleep had fled. A hideous pain, of which she used to say 
 that " common honest pain, were it cutting off one's flesh or sawing 
 of one's bones, would be a luxury in comparison," seemed to have 
 begirdled her, at all moments and on every side. Her intellect was 
 clear as starlight, and continued so ; the clearest intellect among us 
 all ; but she dreaded that this too must give way. " Dear," said 
 she to me on two occasions, with such a look and tone as I shall 
 never forget, " promise me that you will not put me into a raadr 
 house, however this go. Do you promise me, now ?" I solemnly 
 
 13* 
 
298 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 did. " Not if I do quite lose my wits ?" " Never, my darling ; oh, 
 compose thy poor terrified heart !" Another time she punctually 
 directed me about her burial ; how her poor bits of possessions were 
 to be distributed — this to one friend, that to another (in help of 
 their necessities, for it was the poor sort she had chosen, old indi- 
 gent Haddington figures). What emjiloyment in the solitary night- 
 watches, on her bed of pain ! Ah me ! ah me ! 
 
 The house, by day especially, was full of confusion ; Maggie 
 Welsh had come at ray solicitation, and took a great deal of patient 
 trouble (herself of an almost obstinate placidity), doing her best 
 among the crowd of doctors, sick-nurses, visitors. I mostly sat 
 aloft, sunk, or endeavoring to be sunk, in work ; and, till evening, 
 only visited the sick-room at intervals, first thing in the morning, 
 perhaps about noon again, and always (if permissible) at three p.m., 
 when riding -time came, etc., etc. If permissible, for sometimes 
 she was reported as "asleep" when I passed, though it oftenest 
 proved to have been quiescence of exhaustion, not real sleep. To 
 this hour it is inconceivable to me how I could continue " work- 
 ing," as I nevertheless certainly for much the most part did. About 
 three times or so, on a morning, it struck me, with a cold shudder 
 as of conviction, that here did lie death ; that my world must go to 
 shivers, down to the abyss ; and that " victory " never so complete, 
 up in my garret, would not save her, nor indeed be possible without 
 her. I remember my morning walks, three of them or so, crushed 
 under that ghastly spell. But again I said to myself, "No man, 
 doctor or other, knows anything about it. There is still what ap- 
 petite there was ; that I can myself understand ;" and generally, 
 before the day was done, I had decided to hope again, to keep hop- 
 ing and working. The aftercast of the doctors' futile opiates were 
 generally the worst phenomena: I remember her once coming out 
 to the drawing-room sofa, perhaps about midnight, decided for try- 
 ing that. Ah me ! in vain, palpably in vain ; and what a look in 
 those bonny eyes, vividly present to me yet ; unaidable, and like to 
 break one's heart ! 
 
 One scene with a Catholic sick-nurse I also remember well. 
 
 A year or two before this time, she had gone with some acquaint- 
 ance who was in quest of sick-nurses to an establishment under 
 Catholic auspices, in Bromptou somewhere (the acquaintance, a 
 Protestant herself, expressing her " certain knowledge " that this 
 Catholic was the one good kind) ; where, accordingly, the aspect 
 of matters, and especially the manner of the old French lady who 
 was matron and manager, produced such a favorable impression 
 
JANE WELSH CAKLYLE. 299 
 
 that I recollect my little woman saying, "If I need a sick-nurse, 
 that is the place I will apply at." Appliance now was made ; a 
 nun duly sent in consequence : this was in the early weeks of the 
 illness; household sick-nursing (Maggie's and that of the maids 
 alternately) having sufftced till now. The nurse was a good-nat- 
 nred young Irish nun, with a good deal of brogue, a tolerable 
 share of blarney too, all varnished to the due extent ; and, for 
 three nights or so, she answered very well. On the fourth night, 
 to our surprise, though we found afterwards it was the common 
 usage, there appeared a new nun, new and very different — an el- 
 derly French " young lady," with broken English enough for her 
 occasions, and a look of rigid earnestness, in fact with the air of 
 a life broken down into settled despondency and abandonment 
 of all hope that was not ultra-secular. An unfavorable change ; 
 though the poor lady seemed intelligent, well-intentioned ; and her 
 heart-broken aspect inspired pity and good wishes, if no attrac- 
 tion. She commenced by rather ostentatious performance of her 
 nocturnal prayers, "Beata Maria," or I know not what other Latin 
 stuff; which her poor patient regarded with great vigilance, though 
 still with what charity and tolerance were possible. " You won't 
 understand what I am saying or doing," said the nun ; " don't 
 mind me." " Perhaps I understand it better than yourself," said 
 the other, who had Latin from of old, and did "mind" more than 
 was expected. The dreary hours, no sleep, as usual, went on ; and 
 we heard nothing, till about three a.m. I Avas awakened (I, what 
 never happened before or after, though my door was always left 
 slightly ajar, and I was right above, usually a deep sleeper) — 
 awakened by a vehement continuous ringing of my poor darling's 
 bell. I flung on my dressing-gown, awoke Maggie by a word, and 
 hurried down. "Put away that woman !" cried my poor Jeannie, 
 vehemently ; " away, not to come back." I opened the door into 
 the drawing-room ; pointed to the sofa there, which had wraps and 
 pillows plenty ; and the poor nun at once withdrew, looking and 
 murmuring her regrets and apologies. " What was she doing to 
 thee, my own poor little woman ?" No very distinct answer was 
 to be had then (and afterwards there was always a dislike to speak 
 of that hideous bit of time at all, except on necessity); but I 
 learned, in general, that during the heavy hours, loaded, every mo- 
 ment of them, with its misery, the nun had gradually come for- 
 ward with ghostly consolations, ill received, no doubt; and at 
 length with something more express, about "Blessed Virgin," 
 "Agnus Dei," or whatever it might be; to which the answer had 
 
300 KEMINISCENCES. 
 
 been, " Hold your tongue, I tell yon, or I will ring the bell !" Upon 
 which the nun had rushed forward with her dreadfuUest supernal 
 admonitions, " impenitent sinner," etc., and a practical attempt to 
 prevent the ringing. Which only made it more immediate and 
 more decisive. The poor woman expressed to Miss Welsh much 
 regret, disappointment, real vexation, and self-blame ; lay silent, 
 after that, amid her rugs ; and disappeared, next morning, in a po- 
 lite and soft manner : never to reappear, she or any consort of hers. 
 I was really sorry for this heavy-laden, pious or quasi-pious, and 
 almost broken-hearted Frenchwoman — though we could perceive 
 she was under the foul tutelage and guidance, probably, of some 
 dirty muddy-minded semi-felonious proselytizing Irish priest. Bnt 
 there was no help for her in this instance ; probably, in all Eng- 
 land, she could not have found an agonized human soul more nobly 
 and hopelessly superior to her and her poisoned gingerbread " con- 
 solations." Tliis incident threw suddenly a glare of strange and 
 far from pleasant light over the sublime Popish " sister of charity " 
 movement ; and none of us had the least notion to apply there 
 henceforth. 
 
 The doctors were many ; Dr. Quain (who would take no fees) 
 the most assiduous ; Dr. Blakiston (ditto) from St. Leonard's, ex- 
 press one time ; speaking hope, always, both of these, and most in- 
 dustrious to help, with many more, whom I did not even see. When 
 any new miraculous kind of doctor was recommended as such, my 
 poor struggling martyr, conscious, too, of grasping at mere straws, 
 could not but wish to see him ; and he came, did his mischief, and 
 went away. We had even (by sanction of Barnes and, indeed, of 
 sound sense never so sceptical) a trial of " animal magnetism ;" 
 two magnetizers, first a man, then a quack woman (evidently a 
 conscious quack I perceived her to be), who at least did no ill, ex- 
 cept entirely disappoint (if that were much an exception). By 
 everybody it had been agreed that a change of scene (as usual, 
 wheu all else has failed was the thing to be looked to : " St. Leon- 
 ard's as soon as the weather will permit!" said Dr. Quain and 
 everybody, especially Dr. Blakiston, who generously offered his 
 house withal ; " Definitely more room than we need ! " said the san- 
 guine B. always ; and we dimly understood, too, from his wife 
 (Bessie Barnet, an old inmate here, and of distinguished qualities 
 and fortunes) that the doctor would accept remuneration, though 
 this proved quite a mistake. The remuneration he had expected 
 was to make a distinguished cure over the heads of so many Lon- 
 don rivals. Money for the use of two rooms in his house, we might 
 
JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 301 
 
 have anticipated, "but did not altogether, he would regard with 
 sovereign superiority. 
 
 It was early in March, perhaps March 2, 1864, a cold-blowing 
 damp and occasionally raining day, when the flitting thither took 
 effect. Never shall I see again so sad and dispiriting a scene ; 
 hardly was the day of her last departure for Haddington, departure 
 of what had once been she (the instant of which they contrived to 
 hide from me here), so miserable ; for she, at least, was now suffer- 
 ing nothing, but safe in victorious rest for evermore, though then 
 beyond expression suffering. There was a railway invalid car- 
 riage, so expressly adapted, so, etc., and evidently costing some ten 
 or twelve times the common expense : this drove up to the door ; 
 Maggie and she to go in this. Well do I recollect her look as they 
 bore her down-stairs : full of nameless sorrow, yet of clearness, 
 practical management, steady resolution ; in a low, small voice she 
 gave her directions, once or twice, as the process went on, and 
 practically it was under her wise management. The invalid car- 
 riage was hideous to look upon ; black, low, base-looking, and you 
 entered it by window, as if it were a hearse. I knew well what 
 she was thinking ; but her eye never quailed, she gave her direc- 
 tions as heretofore ; and, in a minute or two, we were all away. 
 Twice or offcener in the journey I visited Maggie and her in their 
 prison. No complaint : but the invalid carriage, in which I doubt 
 if you could actually sit upright (if you were of man's stature or of 
 tall woman's), was evidently a catchpenny humbug, and she freely 
 admitted afterwards that she would never enter it again, and that 
 in a coup6 to ourselves she would have been far better. At St. 
 Leonard's, I remember, there was considerable waiting for the 
 horses that should have been ready, a thrice bleak and dreary 
 scene to us all (she silent as a child) : the arrival, the dismount- 
 ing, the ascent of her quasi-bier up Blakiston's long stairs, etc., 
 etc. Ah me ! Dr. Blakiston was really kind. The sea was hoarsely 
 moaning at our hand, the bleared skies sinking into darkness over- 
 head. Within doors, however, all was really nice and well pro- 
 vided (thanks to the skilful Mrs. B.) ; excellent drawing-room, and 
 sitting-room, with bed for her; bedroom up-stairs for Maggie, 
 ditto ; for servant, within call, etc., etc. ; all clean and quiet. A 
 kind of hope did rise, perhaps even in her, at sight of all this. My 
 mood, when I bethink me, was that of deep misery frozen torpid ; 
 singularly dark and stony, strange to me now ; due in part to the 
 " Friedrich " incubus then. I had to be home again that night, 
 by the last train ; miscalculated the distance, found no vehicle ; 
 
302 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 and never iu my life saved a train by so infinitesimally small a 
 miss. I had taken mournfully tender leave of my poor, much-suffer- 
 ing heroine (speaking hope to her, when I could readily have lifted 
 up my voice and wept). I was to return in so many days, if noth- 
 ing went wrong ; at once, if anything did. I lost nothing by 
 that hurried ride, except, at London Station, or in the final cab, a 
 velvet cap, of her old making, which I much regretted, and still 
 regret. " I will make you another cap, if I get better," said she, 
 lovingly, at our next meeting ; but she never did, or perhaps well 
 could. What matter? That would have made me still sorrier, 
 had I had it by me now. Wae's me, wae's me ! * 
 
 I was twice or perhaps thrice at St. Leonard's (Warrior Square, 
 Blakiston's house right end of it to the sea). Once I recollect be- 
 ing taken by Forster, who was going on a kind of birthday holi- 
 day with his wife. Blakiston spoke always in a tone of hope, and 
 there really was some improvement; but, alas! it was small and 
 slow. Deep misery and pain still too visible : and all we could 
 say was, " We must try St. Leonard's farther ; I shall be able to 
 shift down to you in May !" My little darling looked sweet grati- 
 tude upon me (so thankful always for the day of small things !) ; 
 but heaviness, sorrow, and want of hope was written on her face ; 
 the sight filliug me with sadness, though I always strove to be of 
 B.'s opinion. One of my volumes (fourth, I conclude) was coming out 
 at that time ; during the Forster visit, I remember there was some 
 review of this volume, seemiugly of a shallow, impudent descrip- 
 tion, concerning which I privately applauded F.'s silent demeanor, 
 and not B.'s vocal, one evening at F.'s inn. The dates, or even the 
 number of these sad preliminary visits, I do not now recollect: 
 they were all of a sad and ambiguous complexion. At home, too, 
 there daily came a letter from Maggie ; but this, in general, thongh 
 it strove to look hopeful, was ambiguity's own self! Much driving 
 in the open air, appetite where it was, sleep at least ditto ; all this, 
 I kept saying to myself, must lead to something good. 
 
 Dr. Blakiston, it turned out, would accept no payment for his 
 rooms ; " a small furnished house of our own " became the only 
 outlook, therefore; and was got, and entered into, some time in 
 Ajn-il, some weeks before my arrival in May. Brother John, be- 
 fore this, had come to visit me here ; ran down to St. Leonard's one 
 day : and, I could perceive, was silently intending to pass tlie sum- 
 
 * Wae is the Scotch adjective, too. Was, wae; there is no wol-d in English 
 that will expresB what T feel. Wae is my habitnal mood in these months. 
 
JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 303 
 
 raer witli us at St. Leonard's. He did so, in an innocent, self- 
 soothing, kindly, and harmless way (the good soul, if good wishes 
 would always suifice !) ; and occasionally was of some benefit to us, 
 though occasionally also not. It was a quiet sunny day of May 
 when we went down together; I read most of" Sterne's Life" (just 
 out, by some Irishman, named Fitz-somethiug) ; looked out on the 
 old Wilhelmus Conquestor localities; on Lewes, for one thing (de 
 "Le Ouse" — Ouse the dirty river there is still named); on Peven- 
 sey, Bexhill, etc., with no unmixed feeling, jet not with absolute 
 miser^'^, as we rolled along. I forget if Maggie Welsh was still 
 there at St. Leonard's. My darling, certain enough, came down to 
 meet us, attempting to sit at dinner (by my request, or wish al- 
 ready signified) ; but too evidently it would not do. Mary Craik 
 was sent for (from Belfast) instead of Maggie Welsh, who " was 
 wanted ".at Liverpool, and did then or a few days afterwards re- 
 turn thither, Mary Craik succeeding, who was very gentle, quiet, 
 prudent, and did well in her post. 
 
 I had settled all my book affairs the best I could. I got at once 
 installed into my poor closet on the ground-floor, with window to 
 the north (keep that open, and, the door ajar, there will be fresh 
 air!). Book-box was at once converted into book-press (of rough 
 deal, but covered with newspaper veneering where necessary), and 
 fairly held and kept at hand the main books I wanted ; camp-desk, 
 table or two, drawer or two, were put in immediate seasonablest 
 use. In this closet there was hardly room to turn ; and I felt as if 
 crushed, all my apparatus and I, into a stocking, and there bidden 
 work. But I really did it withal, to a respectable degree, printer 
 never pausing for me, work daily going on ; and this doubtless 
 was my real anchorage in that sea of trouble, sadness, and confu- 
 sion for the two months it endured. I have spoken elsewhere of 
 my poor darling's hopeless wretchedness, which daily cut my heart, 
 and might have cut a very stranger's : those drives with her (" dai- 
 ly, one of your drives is with me," and I saw her gratitude, poor 
 soul, looking out through her despair ; and sometimes she would 
 try to talk to me about street sights, persons, etc. ; and it was like 
 a bright lamp flickering out into extinction again) ; drives mainly 
 on the streets to escape the dust, or still dismaller if we did vent- 
 ure into the haggard, parched lanes, and their. vile whirlwinds. 
 Oh, my darling, I would have cut the universe in two for thee, and 
 this was all I had to share with thee, as we were ! 
 
 St. Leonard's, now that I look back upon it, is very odious to my 
 fancy, yet not without points of interest. I rode a great deal too, 
 
304 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 two hours and a half my lowest stint ; bathed also, and remember 
 the bright morning air, bright Beachy Head and everlasting sea, 
 as things of blessing to me ; the old lanes of Sussex too, old cot- 
 tages, peasants, old vanishing ways of life, were abundantly touch- 
 ing ; but the new part, and it was all getting "new," was uni- 
 formly detestable and even horrible to me. Nothing but dust, 
 noise, squalor, and the universal tearing and digging as if of gigan- 
 tic human swine, not finding any worm or roots that would be 
 useful to them ! The very "houses" they were building, each "a 
 congeries of rotten bandboxes" (as our own poor " furnished house " 
 had taught me, if I still needed teaching), were " built" as if for 
 nomad apes, not for men. The " moneys " to be realized, the etc., 
 etc., does or can God's blessing rest on all that ? M}-^ dialogues 
 with the dusty sceneries there (Fairlight, Crowhurst, Battle, Rye 
 even, and Winchelsea), with the novelties and the antiquities, were 
 very sad for most part, and very grim ; here and there with a kind 
 of wild interest too. Battle I did arrive at, one evening, through 
 the chaotic roads ; Battle, in the rustle or silence of incipient dusk, 
 was really affecting to me ; and I saw to be a good post of fence 
 for King Harold, and wondered if the Bastard did " land at Peven- 
 sey," or not near Hastings somewhere (Bexhill or so ?), and what 
 the marchings and preliminaries had really been. Faithful study, 
 continued for long years or decades, upon the old Norman romances, 
 etc., and upon the ground, would still tell some fit person, I be- 
 lieve ; but there shriek the railway "shares" at such and such a 
 premium ; let us make for home ! My brother, for a few times at 
 first, used to accompany me on those rides, but soon gave in (not 
 being bound to it like me) ; and Noggs* and I had nothing for it 
 but solitary contemplation and what mute " dialogue " with nature 
 and art we could each get up for himself. I usually got homo 
 towards nine p.m. (half-past eight the rigorous rule) ; and in a gray 
 dusty evening, from some windy hill-tops, or in the intricate old 
 narrow lanes of a thousand years ago, one's reflections were apt to 
 be of a sombre sort. My poor little Jeannie (thanks to her, the 
 loving one !) would not fail to be waiting for me, and sit trying to 
 talk or listen, while I had tea ; trying her best, sick and weary as 
 she was ; but always very soon withdrew after that ; quite worn 
 down and longing for solitary silence, and even a sleepless bed, as 
 was her likeliest prospect for most part. How utterly sad is all 
 that! yes; and there is a kind of devout blessing in it too (so nobly 
 
 • Carlyle's horse. 
 
JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 305 
 
 ■was it borne, and conquered in a sort) ; and I would not have it 
 altered now, after what lias come, if I even could. 
 
 We lived in the place called "Marina" (what a name!), almost 
 quite at the west end of St. Leonard's ; a new house (bearing marks 
 of thrifty, wise, and modestly elegant habits in the old lady own- 
 ers just gone from it) ; and, for the rest, decidedly the worst-built 
 house I have ever been within. A scandal to human nature, it 
 and its fellows ; which are everywhere, and are not objected to by 
 an enlightened public, as appears ! No more of it, except our fare- 
 well malison ; and pity for the poor old ladies who perhaps are 
 still there ! 
 
 My poor suffering woman had at first, for some weeks, a vestige 
 of improvement, or at least of new hope and alleviation thereby. 
 She " slept " (or tried for sleep) in the one tolerable bedroom ; sec- 
 ond floor, fronting the sea, darkened and ventilated, made the ti- 
 diest we could ; Miss Craik slept close by. I remember our set- 
 tlings for the night ; my last journey ujj, to sit a few minutes, and 
 see that the adjustments were complete ; a " nun's lamp " was left 
 glimmering within reach. My poor little woman strove to look as 
 contented as she could, and to exchange a few friendly words Avith 
 me as our last for the night. Then in the morning, there some- 
 times had been an hour or two of sleep ; what news for us all ! 
 And even brother John, for a while, was admitted to step up and 
 congratulate, after breakfast. But this didn't last; hardly into 
 June, even in that slight degree. And the days were always heavy ; 
 so sad to her, so painful, dreary without hope. What a time, even in 
 my reflex of it ! Dante's Purgatory I could now liken it to ; both 
 of us, especially my loved one by me, " bent like corbels," under 
 our unbearable loads, as we wended on, yet in me always with a 
 kind of steady, glimmering hope ! Dante's Purgatory, not his Hell, 
 for there was a sacred blessedness in it withal ; not wholly the so- 
 ciety of devils, but among their hootings and tormentings some- 
 thing still pointing afar off towards heaven withal. Thank God ! 
 
 At the beginning of June she still had the feeling we were bet- 
 ter here than elsewhere ; by her direction, I warned the people 
 we would not quit " at the end of June," as had been bargain- 
 ed, but of " July," as was also within our optiou, on due notice 
 given. End of June proved to be the time, all the same ; the old 
 ladies (justly) refusing to revoke, and taking their full claim of 
 money, poor old souls ; very polite otherwise. Middle of June had 
 not come when that bedroom became impossible ; " roaring of the 
 sea," once a lullaby, now a little too loud, on some high tide or west 
 
306 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 wind, kept her entirely awake. I exchanged hedrooms with her ; 
 *^sea always a lullaby to me ;" but, that night, even I did not sleep 
 one wink ; upon which John exchanged with me, who lay to rear- 
 ward, as I till then had done. Rearward we looked over a Mews 
 (from this room) ; from her now room, into the paltry little " gar- 
 den ;" overhead of both were clay cliffs, mnltifarious dog and cock 
 establishments (unquenchable by bribes paid), now and then stray 
 troops of asses, etc., etc. ; what a lodging for poor sufferers ! Sleep 
 became worse and worse ; we spoke of shifting to Bexhill ; " tine 
 airy house to be let there " (fable when we went to look) ; then some 
 quiet old country inn ? She drove one day (John, etc., escorting) to 
 Battle, to examine ; nothing there, or less than nothing. Chelsea 
 home was at least quiet, wholesomely aired and clean ; but she 
 had an absolute horror of her old home bedroom and drawing- 
 room, where she had endured such torments latterly. " We will 
 new - paper them, rearrange them," said Miss Bromley ; and this 
 was actually done in August following. That " new - papering " 
 was somehow to me the saddest of speculations. " Alas, darling ! 
 is that all we can do for thee ?" The weak, weakest of resources ; 
 and yet what other had we ? As June went on, things became 
 worse and worse. The sequel is mentioned elsewhere. I will here 
 put down only the successive steps and approximate dates of it. 
 
 Juue 29. After nine nights totally without sleep she announced 
 to us, with a fixity and with a clearness all her own, that she would 
 leave this place to-morrow for London ; try there, not in her own 
 house, but in Mrs. Forster's (Palace Gate house, Kensington), which 
 was not yet horrible to her. June 30 (John escorting), she set off 
 by the noon train. Miss Bromley had come down to see her ; could 
 only be allowed to see her in stepping into the train, so desperate 
 was the situation, the mood so adequate to it ; a moment never to 
 be forgotten by me! How I " worked" afterwards that day is not 
 on record. I dimly remember walking back with Miss Bromley 
 and her lady friend to their hotel ; talking to them (as out of the 
 heart of icebergs) ; and painfully, somehow, sinking into icy or stony 
 rest, worthy of oblivion. 
 
 At FoTster's there could hardly be a more dubious problem. My 
 poor wandering martyr did get snatches of sleep there ; but found 
 the room so noisy, the scene so foreign, etc., she took a farther res- 
 olution in the course of the night and its watchings. Sent for 
 John, the first thing in the morning ; bade him get places in the 
 night train for Annandale (my sister Mary's ; all kindness poor 
 Mary, whom she always liked) ; "The Gill; we are not yet at the 
 
JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 307 
 
 end there; aud Nithsdale, too, is that way!" John failed not, I 
 dare say, in representations, couuter-consideratious, hut she was 
 coldly positive ; and go they did, express of ahout 330 miles. Poor 
 Mary was loyal kindness itself; poor means made nohle and more 
 than opulent by the wealth of love and ready will and invention. 
 I was seldom so agreeably surprised as by a letter in ray darling's 
 own hand, narrating the heads of the adventure briefly, Avith a kind 
 of defiant satisfaction, and informing me that she had slept that 
 first Gill night for almost nine hours ! Whose joy like oars, durst 
 we have hoped it would last, or even though we durst not ! She 
 stayed about a week still there ; Mary and kindred eager to get her 
 carriages (rather helplessly in that particular), to do and attempt 
 for her whatever was possible ; but the success, in sleep especially, 
 grew less and less. In about a week she went on to Nithsdale, to 
 Dr. aud Mrs. Russell, and there, slowly improving, continued. Im- 
 provement pretty constant; fresh air, driving, silence, kindness. 
 By the time Mary Craik had got me flitted home to Chelsea, aud 
 herself went for Belfast, all this had steadily begun ; and there were 
 regular letters from her, etc., and I could work here with such an 
 alleviation of spirits as had long been a stranger to me. In August 
 (rooms all ''new-papered," poor little Jeannie!) she came back to 
 me, actually there in the cab (John settling), when I ran down- 
 stairs, looking out on me with the old kind face, a little graver, I 
 might have thought, but as quiet, as composed and wise and good 
 as ever. This was the end, I might say, of by far the most tragic 
 part of our tragedy : Act 5th, though there lay death in it, was 
 nothiug like so unhappy. 
 
 The last epoch of my darling's life is to be defined as almost 
 happy in comparison. It was still loaded with infirmities, bodily 
 weakness, sleeplessness, continual or almost continual pain, and 
 weary misery, so far as body Avas concerned ; but her noble spirit 
 seemed as if it now had its wings free, and rose above all that to 
 a really singular degree. The battle was over, aud we were sore 
 wounded ; but the battle was over, and well. It was remarked by 
 everybody that she had never been observed so cheerful and bright 
 of mind as in this last period. The poor bodily department, I con- 
 stantly hoped too was slowly recovering ; and that there ivould re- 
 main to us a " sweet farewell" of sunshine after such a day of rains 
 and storms, that would still last a blessed while, all my time at 
 least, before the end came. And, alas ! it lasted only about twenty 
 months, aud ended as I have seen. It is beautiful still, all that pe- 
 riod, the death very beautiful to me, and will continue so; let me 
 
308 EEMINISCENCES. 
 
 not repine, but patiently bear what I have got ! While the autumn 
 weather continued good, she kept improving. I remember morn- 
 ings w hen I fouud her quite wonderfully cheerful, as I looked in 
 upon her bedroom in passing down, a bright ray of mirth in what 
 she would say to me, inexpressibly pathetic, shining through the 
 wreck of such storms as there had been. How could I but hope ? 
 It was an inestimable mercy to me, as I often remark, that I did at 
 last throw aside everything for a few days, and actually get her 
 that poor brougham. Never was soul more grateful for so small a 
 kindness ; which seemed to illuminate, in some sort, all her remain- 
 ing days for her. It was, indeed, useful and necessary as a means 
 of health; but still more precious, I doubt not, as a mark of my re- 
 gard for her. Ah me! she never knew fully, nor could I show her, 
 in my heavy-laden miserable life, how much I had at all times re- 
 garded, loved, and admired her. No telling of her now. " Five 
 minutes more of your dear company in this world. Oh that I had 
 you yet for but five minutes, to tell you all!" this is often my 
 thought since April 21. 
 
 She was surely very feeble in the Devonshire time (March, etc., 
 1865) ; but I remember her as wonderfully happy. She had long 
 dialogues with Lady A. ; used to talk so prettily with me, when I 
 called, in passing up to bed and down from it ; she made no com- 
 plaint, went driving daily through the lanes — sometimes regretted 
 her own poor brougham and " Bellona" (as "still more one's own "), 
 and contrasted her situation as to carriage convenience with that 
 of far richer ladies. " They have £30,000 a year, cannot command 
 a decent or comfortable vehicle here ; their vehicles all locked up, 
 400 miles off, in these wanderings ; while we — !" The Lady Ash- 
 burton was kindness itself to her; and we all came up to town to- 
 gether, rather in improved health she, I not visibly so, being now 
 vacant and on the collapse, which is yet hardly over, or fairly on 
 the turn. Will it ever be ? I have sometimes thought this dread- 
 ful unexpected stroke might perhaps be providential withal upon 
 me ; and that there lay some little work to do, under changed con- 
 ditions, before I died. God enable me, if so ; God knows. 
 
 In Nithsdale, last year, it is yet only fourteen months ago (ah 
 me !), how beautiful she was ; for three or four half or quarter days 
 together, how unique in their sad charm as I now recall them from 
 beyond the grave ! That day at KusselPs, in the garden, etc., at 
 Holmhill ; so poorly she, forlorn of outlook, one would have said 
 (one outlook ahead, that of getting me this room trimmed up, the 
 darling, ever-loving soul !) ; and yet so lively, sprightly even, for 
 
JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 309 
 
 ray poor sake. " Sir William Gomm" (old Peninsular and Indian 
 General, who bad been reading " Friedricb " wben she left), what a 
 sparkle that was ! her little slap on the table, and arch look, when 
 telling us of him and it! And her own right hand was lame, she 
 had only her left to slap with. I cut the meat for her, on her plate, 
 that day at dinner, and our drive to the station at seven p.m., so 
 sweet, so pure and sad. "We must retrench, dear! (in my telling 
 her of some foolisb bank adventure with the draft I had left her) ; 
 retrench," oh dear, oh dear! Amongst the last things she told me 
 that evening was, with deep sympathy, "Mr. Thomson (a Virginian 
 who sometimes came) called one night ; he says there is little doubt 
 they will hang President Davis !' upon which I almost resolved to 
 write a pamphlet upon it, had not I myself been so ignorant about 
 the matter, so foreign to the whole abominable fratricidal " war '' 
 (as they called it ; " self-murder of a million brother Englishmen, 
 for the sake of sheer phantasms, and totally false theories upon the 
 Nigger, " as I had reckoned it). In a day or two I found I could 
 not enter upon that thrice abject Nigger - delirium (viler to me 
 than old witchcraft or the ravings of John of Miinster, considerably 
 viler), and that probably I should do poor Davis nothing but harm. 
 The second day, at good old Mrs. Ewart's, of Nithbank, is still 
 finer to me. Waiting for me with the carriage. " Better, dear, 
 fairly better since I shifted to Nithbauk;" the "dinner" ahead 
 there (to my horror), her cautions charming preparation of me for 
 it; our calls at Thornhill (new servant, "Jessie," admiring old 
 tailor-women — no, they were not of the Shankland kind — weari- 
 some old women, whom she had such an interest in, almost wholly 
 for my sake) ; then our long drive through the Drumlanrig woods, 
 Avith such talk from her (careless of the shower that fell battering 
 on our hood and apron) ; in spite of my habitual dispiritment and 
 helpless gloom all that summer, I, too, was cheered for the time. 
 And then the dinner itself, and the bustling rustic company, all 
 this, too, was saved by her ; with, a quiet little touch here and 
 there, she actually turned it into something of artistic, and it was 
 pleasant to everybody. I was at two, or perhaps three, dinners 
 after this, along with her in London. I partly remarked what is 
 now clearer to me, with what easy perfection she had taken her po- 
 sition in these things — that of a person recognized for quietly su- 
 perior, if she cared to be so — and also of a suffering, aged woman, 
 accepting her age and feebleness with such a grace, polite comjios- 
 ure, and simplicity, as — as all of you might imitate, impartial by- 
 standers would have said! The minister's assistant, poor young 
 
310 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 fellow, was gently ordered out by her to sing me " Hame cam' our 
 gudeman at e'en," which made him completely haj)py, aud set the 
 dull drawing-room all into illumination till tea ended. He, the as- 
 sistant, took me to the station (too late for her that evening). 
 
 The third day was at Dumfries ; sister Jean's aud the railway- 
 station : more hampered and obstructed, but still good and beauti- 
 ful as ever on her part. Dumb Turner, at the station, etc. ; even- 
 ing falling, ruddy opulence of sky ; how beautiful, how brief and 
 wae! The fourth time was only a ride from Dumfries to Annan, as 
 she went home, sad and afflictive to me, seeing such a journey ahead 
 for her (and nothing but the new ''Jessie" as attendant, some car- 
 riages off) ; I little thought it was to be the last bit of railwaying 
 we did together. These, I believe, were all our meetings in Scot- 
 land of last year. One day I stood watching " her train " at the 
 Gill, as appointed ; brother Jamie too had been summoned over by 
 her desire; but at Dumfries she felt so weak in the hot day, she 
 could only lie down on the sofa, aud sadly send John in her stead. 
 Brother Jamie, whose rustic equipoise, fidelity, and sharp vernacu- 
 lar sense she specially loved, was not to behold her at this time or 
 evermore. Slie was waiting for me the night I returned hither; 
 she had hurried back from her little visit to Miss Bromley (after 
 the "room" operation); must and would be here to receive me. 
 She stood there, bright of face aud of soul, her drawing-room all 
 bright, aud everything to the last fibre of it in order; had arrived 
 only two or three hours before; and here again we were. Such 
 welcome, after my vile day of railwaying, like Jonah in the whale's 
 belly ! That was always her way ; bright home, with its bright 
 face, full of love and victorious over all tlisorder, always shone on 
 me like a star as I journeyed and tumbled along amid the shriek- 
 eries and miseries. Such welcomes could not await me forever ; I 
 little knew this was the last of them on earth. My next, for a thou- 
 sand years I should never forget the next (of April 23, 1866) which 
 now was lying only some six months away. I might have seen she 
 was very feeble ; but I noticed only how refinedly beautiful she 
 was, and thought of no sorrow ahead — did not even think, as I now 
 do, how it was that she was beautifuller than ever; as if years aud 
 sorrows had only " worn" the noble texture of her being into greater 
 fineness, the color and tissue still all complete! Tbat night she 
 said nothing of the room here (down below), but next morning, 
 after breakfast, led me down, with a quiet smile, expecting her 
 little triumph — and contentedly had it ; though I knew not at first 
 the tenth part of her merits in regard to that poor enterprise, or 
 
JANE WELSH CAELYLE. 311 
 
 how cousummately it had heeii done to the bottom in spite of her 
 weakness (the noble heart!); and I think (remorsefully) I never 
 praised her enough for her efforts and successes in regard to it. 
 Too late now ! 
 
 My return Avas about the middle of September ; she never trav- 
 elled more, except among her widish circle of friends, of whom she 
 seemed to grow fonder and fonder, though generally their qualities 
 were of the affectionate and faithfully honest kind, and not of the 
 distinguished, as a requisite. She was always very cheerfal, and 
 had business enough ; though I recollect some mornings, one in 
 particular, when the sight of her dear face (haggard from the mise- 
 ries of the past night) was a kind of shock to me. Thoughtless 
 mortal — she rallied alvrays so soon, and veiled her miseries away — 
 I was myself the most collapsed of men, and had no sunshine in my 
 life but what came from her. Our old laundress, Mrs. Cook, a very 
 meritorious and very poor and courageous woman, age eighty or 
 more, had fairly fallen useless that autumn, and gone into the 
 workhouse. I remember a great deal of trouble taken about her, 
 and the search for her, and settlement of her ; such driving and 
 abstruse inquiry in the slums of Westminster, and to the work- 
 houses indicated ; discovery of her at length, in the chaos of some 
 Kensington Union (a truly cosmic body, herself, this poor old cook) ; 
 with instantaneous stir in all directions (consulting with Eector 
 Blunt, interviews with Poor-law Guardians, etc., etc.), and no rest 
 till the poor old Mrs. Cook was got promoted into some quiet cos-, 
 mic arrangement ; small cell or cottage of your own somewhere, 
 with liberty to read, to be clean, and to accept a packet of tea, if 
 any friend gave you one, etc., etc. A good little triumph to my 
 darling ; I think, perhaps, the best she had that spring or winter, 
 and the last till my business and the final one. 
 
 " Frederick" ended in January, 1805, and we went to Devonshire 
 together, still prospering, she chiefly, though she was so weak. 
 And her talk with me and with others there ! nobody had such a 
 charming tongue for truth, discernment, graceful humor, and inge- 
 nuity ; ever patient too, and smiling, over her many pains and sor- 
 rows. We were peaceable and happy, comparatively, through au- 
 tumn and winter ; especially she was wonderfully bearing her sleep- 
 less nights and thousandfold infirmities, and gently picking out of 
 them more bright fragments for herself and me than many a one in 
 perfect health and overflowing prosperity could have done. She 
 had one or two select quality friends among her many others. 
 Lady William Russell is the only one I will name, who loved her 
 
312 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 like a dangliter, and was charmed with her talents and graces. 
 "Mr. Carlyle a great man? Yes! but Mrs. Carlyle, let me inform 
 you, is no less gr^at as a woman !" Lady William's pretty little 
 dinners of three were every week or two an agreeable and beneficial 
 event to me also, who heard the report of them given with such 
 lucidity and charm. 
 
 End of October came somebody about the Edinburgh Rectorship, 
 to which she gently advised me. Beginning of November I was 
 elected; and an inane though rather amusing hurlyburly of empty 
 congratulations, imaginary businesses, etc., etc., began, the end of 
 Avhich has been so fatally tragical! Many wire our plans and 
 speculations about her going with me; to lodge at Newbattle, at 
 etc., etc. The heaps of frivolous letters lying every morning at 
 breakfast, and which did not entirely cease all winter, were a kind 
 of entertainment to her into March, when the address and journey 
 had to be thought of as i)ractical and close at hand. She decided 
 unwillingly, and with various hesitations, not to go with me to 
 Edinburgh, in the inclement weather, not to go even to Fryston 
 (Lord Houghton's ; Richard Milnes's). As to Edinburgh, she said 
 one day, " You are to speak extempore" (this was more than once 
 clearly advised, and with sound insight) ; " now, if anything should 
 happen to you, I find, on any sudden alarm, there is a sharp twinge 
 comes into my back, which is like to cut my breath, and seems to 
 stop the heart almost. I should take some fit in the crowded 
 house ; it will never do, really !" Alas ! the doctors now tell me this 
 meant an affection in some ganglion near the spine, and was a most 
 serious thing ; though I did not attach importance to it, but only 
 assented to her practical conclusion as perfectly just. She loving- 
 ly bantered, and beautifully encouraged me about my speech, and 
 its hateful ceremonials and empty botherations ; which, for a couple 
 of weeks, were giving me, and her through me, considerable trouble, 
 interruption of sleep, etc. ... so beautifully borne by her (for my 
 sake), so much less so by me for hers. In fact, I was very miser- 
 able (angry with myself for getting into such a coil of vanity, sad- 
 ly ill in health), and her noble example did not teach me as it 
 should. Sorrow to me now, when too late ! 
 
 Thursday, March 29, about nine a.m., all was ready here ; she 
 softly regulating and forwarding, as her wont was. Professor 
 Tyndall, full of good spirits, appeared with a cab for King's Cross 
 Station. Fryston Hall to be our lodgings till Saturday. I was in 
 the saddest, sickly mood, full of gloom and misery, but striving to 
 hide it; she, too, looked very pale and ill, but seemed intent only 
 
JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 313 
 
 on forgetting nothing that could further me. A little flask, hold- 
 ing perhaps two glasses of fine brandy, she brought me as a 
 thought of her own ; I did keep a little drop of that brandy (hers, 
 such was a superstition I had), and mixed it in a tumbler of water 
 in that wild scene of the address, and afterwards told her I had 
 done so ; thank Heaven that I remembered that in one of my hur- 
 ried notes. The last I saw of her was as she stood with her back 
 to the parlor door to bid me her good-bye. She kissed me twice 
 (she me once, I her a second time); and — oh, blind mortals! my 
 one wish and hope was to get back to her again, and be in peace 
 under her bright welcome, for the rest of my days, as it were ! 
 
 Tyndall was kind, cheery, inventive, helpful; the loyalest son 
 could not have more faithfully striven to support his father under 
 every difficulty that rose ; and they were many. At Fryston, no 
 sleep was to be had for railways, etc., and the terror lay in those 
 nights that speaking would be impossible, that I should utterly 
 break down; to which, indeed, I had in my mind said, ''Well, 
 then," and was preparing to treat it with the best contempt I could. 
 Tyndall wrote daily to her, and kept up better hopes ; by a long 
 gallop with me the second day he did get me one good six hours of 
 sleep, and to her made doubtless the most of it : I knew dismally 
 what her anxieties would be, but trust well he reduced them to their 
 minimum. Lord Houghton's, and Lady's, kindness to me was un- 
 bounded ; sJie also was to have been there, but I was thankful not. 
 Saturday (to York, etc., with Houghton ; thence, after long evil 
 loiterings, to Edinburgh with Tyndall and Huxley) was the acme 
 of the three road days. My own comfort was that there could be 
 no post to her; and I arrived in Edinburgh the forlornest of all 
 physical wretches ; and had it not been for the kindness of the 
 good Erskines, and of their people, too, I should have had no sleep 
 there either, an-d have gone probably from bad to worse. But 
 Tyndall's letter of Sunday would be com.forting; and my poor 
 little darling would still be in hope that Monday morning, though, 
 of course, in the painiuUest anxiety, and I know she had quite 
 "gone off her sleep" in those five days since I had left. 
 
 Monday, at Edinburgh, was to me the gloomiest chaotic day, 
 nearly intolerable for confusion, crowding, noisy inanity and mise- 
 ery, till once I got done. My speech was delivered as in a mood of 
 defiant despair, and under the pressure of nightmares. Some feel- 
 ing that I was not speaking lies alone sustained me. The applause, 
 etc., I took for empty noise, which it really was not altogether. 
 The instant I found myself loose, I hurried joyfully out of it over to 
 
 14 
 
314 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 my brother's lodging (73 George Street, near by) ; to the students 
 all crowding and shouting round me, I waved my hand prohibitive- 
 ly at the door, perhaps lifted my hat : and they gave but one cheer 
 more ; something in the tone of it which did for the first time go 
 into my heart. " Poor young men ! so wxll-atfected to the poor old 
 brother or grandfather ; and in such a black whirlpool of a world 
 here all of us !" Brother Jamie and son, etc., were sitting within. 
 Erskine and I went silently walking through the streets ; and at 
 night was a kind, but wearing and wearying, congratulatory din- 
 ner, followed by other such, unwholesome to me, not joyful to me ; 
 and endured as duties, little more. But that same afternoon Tyu- 
 dall's telegram, emphatic to the uttermost ("A perfect triumph" 
 the three words of it), arrived here; a joy of joys to my own little 
 heroine, so beautiful her description of it to me, which was its one 
 value to me ; nearly nought otherwise (in very truth), and the last 
 of such that could henceforth have any such addition made to it. 
 Alas ! all " additions" are now ended, and the thing added to has be- 
 come only a pain. But I do thank Heaven for this last favor to her 
 that so loved me; and it will remain a joy to me, if my last in this 
 world. She had to dine with Forster and Dickens that evening, and 
 their way of receiving her good news charmed her as much almost 
 as the news itself. 
 
 From that day forward her little heart appears to have been fuller 
 and fuller of joy; newspapers, etc., etc., making such a jubilation 
 (foolish people, as if the address were anything, or had contained 
 the least thing in it which had not been told you already !). She 
 went out for two days to Mrs. Oliphant, at Windsor ; recovered her 
 sleep to the old poor average, or nearly so ; and by every testimony 
 and all the evidence I myself have, was not for many years, if ever, 
 seen in such fine spirits and so hopeful and joyfully serene and vic- 
 torious frame of mind, till the last moment. Noble little heart ! 
 her painful, much-enduring, much-endeavoring little history, now 
 at last crowned with plain victory, in sight of her own people and 
 of all the world : everybody now obliged to say my Jeauuie was not 
 wrong; she was right, and has made it good! Surely for this I 
 should be grateful to Heaven, for this amidst the immeasurable 
 wreck that was preparing for us. She had from an early period 
 formed her own little opinion about me (what an El Dorado to me, 
 ungrateful being — blind, ungrateful, condemnable, and heavy-laden, 
 and crushed down into blindness by great misery as I oftenest was !), 
 and she never flinched from it an instant, I think, or cared, or count- 
 ed, what the world said to the contrary (very brave, magnanimous, 
 
JANE WELSH CAKLYLE. 315 
 
 and noble, truly slie was in all this) ; but to have the world confirm 
 her in it Avas always a sensible pleasure, which she took no pains to 
 hide, especially from me. 
 
 She lived nineteen days after that Edinburgh Monday ; on the 
 nineteenth (April 21, 1866, between three and four p.m., as near as 
 I can gather and sift), suddenly, as by a thunderbolt from skies all 
 blue, she was snatched from me ; a " death from the gods," the old 
 Eomans would have called it ; the kind of death she many a time 
 expressed her wish for ,• and in all my life (and as I feel ever since) 
 there fell on me no misfortune like it, which has smitten my whole 
 world into universal wreck (unless I can repair it in some small 
 measure), and extinguished whatever light of cheerfulness and lov- 
 ing hopefulness life still had in it to me. 
 
 [Here follows a letter from Miss Jewsbury, with part of a second, 
 which tell their own tale, and after them Mr. Carlyle's closing 
 
 words.] 
 
 43 Markham Square, Chelsea, May 26, 1SG6. 
 
 Dear Mr. Carlyle, — I think it better to write than to speak on 
 the miserable subject about which you told me to inquire of Mr. 
 Sylvester.* I saw him to-day. He said that it would be about 
 twenty minutes after three o'clock, or thereabouts, when they left 
 Mr. Forster's house; that he then drove through the Queen's Gate, 
 close by the Kensington Gardens ; that there, at the uppermost gate, 
 she got out, and walked along the side of the Gardens very slowly, 
 about two hundred paces, with the little dog running, until she 
 came to the Serpentine Bridge, at the southern end of which she 
 got into the carriage again, and he drove on until they came to a 
 quiet place on the Tyburnia side, near Victoria Gate, and then she 
 put out the dog to run along. When they came opposite to Albion 
 Street, Stanhope Place (lowest thoroughfare of Park towards Mar- 
 ble Arch), a brougham coming along upset the dog, which lay on 
 its back screaming for a while, and then she pulled the check- 
 string ; and he turned round and pulled up at the side of the foot- 
 path, and there the dog was (he had got up out of the road and 
 gone there) ; almost before the carriage stopped she was out of it. 
 The lady whose brougham had caused the accident got out also, 
 and several other ladies who were walking had stopped round the 
 dog. The lady spoke to her ; but he could not hear what she said, 
 and the other ladies spoke. She then lifted the dog into the car- 
 
 * Mrs. Carlyle's coachman. 
 
316 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 riage, and got iu herself. He asked if the little dog were hurt ; 
 but, he thinks, she did not hear him, as carriages were passing. He 
 heard the wretched vermin of a dog squeak as if she had been feel- 
 ing it (nothing but a toe was hurt) ; this was the last sound or 
 sigh he ever heard from her place of fate. He went on towards 
 Hyde Park Corner, turned there and drove past the Duke of Wel- 
 lington's Achilles figure, up the drive to the Serpentine and past it, 
 and came round hy the road where the dog was hurt, past the Duke 
 of Wellington's [house] and past the gate opposite St. George's ; 
 getting no sign (noticing only the two hands laid on the lap, palm 
 ui)perraost the right hand, reverse way the left, and all motionless), 
 he turned into the Serpentine drive again ; but after a few yards, 
 feeling a little surprised, he looked back, and seeing her in the 
 same posture, became alarmed, made for the streetward entrance 
 into the Park (few yards westward of gate-keeper's lodge), and 
 asked a lady to look iu ; and she said what we know, and she ad- 
 dressed a gentleman who confirmed her fears. It was then fully a 
 quarter past four; going on to twenty minutes (but nearer the 
 quarter), of this he is quite certain. She was leaning back in one 
 corner of the carriage, rugs spread over her knees ; her eyes were 
 closed, and her upper lip slightly, slightly opened. Those who saw 
 her at the hospital, and when in the carriage, speak of the beauti- 
 ful expression upon her face. 
 
 I asked him how it was that so long a time was put over in so 
 short a drive ? He said he went very slowly on account of the 
 distractions, etc., and he did not seem to think the time taken up 
 at all remarkable (fifty-five minutes) : nor did he tell me if he no- 
 ticed the time as he j)assed the Marble Arch clock, either of the 
 two times. 
 
 If there be any other question you wish asked of him, if you will 
 tell me, I will ask him. He said he heard the little dog cry out as 
 though she were feeling to find if it were hurt. 
 
 Very respectfully and affectionately, 
 
 Geraldine E. Jewsbury. 
 
 On that miserable night, when we were preparing to receive 
 her, Mrs. Warren* came to me and said that one time, when she was 
 very ill, she said to her that when the last had come, she was to go 
 up-stairs into the closet of the spare room, and there she would 
 find two wax candles wrapped in jiaper, and that those were to be 
 lighted and burned. She said that after she came to live in Lon- 
 
 * The housekeeper in Cheyne Row. 
 
JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 317 
 
 dou, she wanted to give a party. Her mother wished everything 
 to be very nice, and went out and bought candles and confection- 
 ery, and set out a table, and lighted up the room quite splendidly, 
 and called her to come and see it when all was i)reparcd. She was 
 angry ; she said people would say she was extravagant, and would 
 ruin her husband. She took away two of the candles and some of 
 the cakes. Her mother was hurt and began to weep [I remember 
 the "soiree" well; heard nothing of this! — T. C.]. She was 
 pained at once at what she had done ; she tried to comfort her, 
 and was dreadfully sorry. She took the candles and wrapped 
 them up, and put them where they could be easily found. We 
 found them and lighted them, and did as she had desired. 
 
 G. E. J. 
 
 What a strange, beautiful, sublime, and almost terrible little ac- 
 tion ; silently resolved on, and kept silent from all the earth, for 
 perhaps twenty-four years! I never heard a whisper of it, and 
 yet see it to be true. The visit must have beeu about 1837 ; I re- 
 member the " soiree " right well ; the resolution, bright as with 
 heavenly tears and lightning, was probably formed on her moth- 
 er's death, February, 1842. My radiant one ! Must question War- 
 ren the first time I have heart (May 29, 1866). 
 
 I have had from Mrs. Warren a clear narrative (shortly after the 
 above date). Geraldine's report is perfectly trne ; fact with Mrs. 
 Warren occurred in February or March, 1866, ^- perhaps a month 
 before you went to Edinburgh, sir." I was in the house, it seems, 
 probably asleep up-stairs, or gone out for my walk, evening about 
 eight o'clock. My poor darling was taken Avith some bad fit 
 ("nausea," and stomach misery, perhaps), and had rung for Mrs. 
 Warren, by whom, with some sip of warm liquid, and gentle words, 
 she was soon gradually relieved. Being very grateful and still 
 very miserable and low, she addressed Mrs. Warren as above, 
 "When the last has come, Mrs. Warren;" and gave her, with 
 brevity, a statement of the case, and exacted her promise ; which 
 the other, with cheering counter-words (" Oh, madam, what is all 
 this ! you will see me die first !"), hypothetically gave. All this 
 was wiped clean away before I got in ; I seem to myself to half 
 recollect one evening, when she did complain of "nausea so 
 habitual now," and looked extremely miserable, while I sat at tea 
 (pour it out she always would, herself drinking only hot water, O 
 heavens !). The candles burned for two whole nights, says Mrs. W. 
 (July 24, 1866). 
 
318 EEMINISCENCES. 
 
 The paper of this poor note-hook of hers is done ; all I have to 
 say, too (though there lie such volumes yet unsaid), seems to he 
 almost done, and I must sorrowfully end it, and seek for something 
 else. Very sorrowfully still, for it has heeu my sacred shrine and 
 religious city of refuge from the hitterness of these sorrows during 
 all the doleful weeks that are past since I took it up ; a kind of 
 devotional thing (as I once already said), which softens all grief 
 into tenderness and infinite pity and repentant love, one's whole, 
 sad life drowned as if in tears for one, and all the wrath and scorn 
 and other grim elements silently melted away. And now, am I to 
 leave it, to take fiirewell of her a second time ? Right silent and 
 serene is she, njy lost darling yonder, as I often think in my gloom, 
 no sorrow more for her, nor will there long he for me. 
 
APPENDIX 
 
REMINISCENCES OF SUNDRY. 
 
 [Begun at Mentone (Alpes Mavitimes), Monday, January 28, 1867.] 
 
 Many literary, and one or two political and otherwise public persons, 
 more or less superior to the common run of men I have met with in my 
 life, but perhaps none of them really great or worth more than a tran- 
 sient remembrance, loud as the talk about them once may have been ; and 
 certainly none of them, what is more to the purpose, ever vitally interest- 
 ing or consummately admirable to myself ; so that if I do, for want of some- 
 thing else to occupy me better, mark down something of vfhsit I recollect 
 concerning some of them, who seemed the greatest, or stood the nearest to 
 me, it surely ought to be with extreme brevity, with rapid succinctness (if 
 I can) ; at all events, with austere candor, and avoidance of anything which 
 I can suspect to be untrue. Perhaps nobody but myself will ever read 
 this — but that is not infallibly certain — and even in regard to myself, the 
 one possible profit of such a thing is that it be not false or incorrect in any 
 point, but correspond to the fact in all. 
 
 When it was that I first got acquainted with Southey's books I do not 
 now recollect, except that it must have been several years after he had 
 been familiar to me as a name, and many years after the public had been 
 familiar with him as a poet, and poetically and otherwise didactic writer. 
 His laureateship provoked a great deal of vulgar jesting ; about the " butt 
 of sack," etc. ; for the newspaper public, by far the greater number of them 
 radically given, had him considerably in abhorrence, and called him not only 
 Tory, but "renegade," who had traitorously deserted, and gone over to the 
 bad cause. It was at Kirkcaldy that we all read a " slashing article" (by 
 Brougham, I should now guess, were it of the least moment) on Southey's 
 "Letters to W. Smith, M.P.," of Norwich, a Small Socinian; personage, con- 
 scious of meaning grandly and well, who had been deno'lincing him as 
 " renegade " (probably contrasting the once " Wat Tyler " wi|,h the now lau- 
 reateship) in the House of Commons; a second back stroke, which, in the 
 irritating circumstances of the "Wat" itself (repubhshed by. some sneak- 
 ing bookseller) had driven Southey to his fighting gear or polemical pen. 
 The pamphlet itself we did not see, except in review quotations, which were 
 naturally the shrillest and weakest discoverable, with citations from " Wat 
 Tyler " to accompany ; but the flash reviewer understood his trade ; and I 
 can remember how we all cackled and triumphed over Southey along with 
 him, as over a slashed and well-slain foe to us and mankind ; for we were 
 
 14* 
 
322 APPENDIX. 
 
 all Radicals in heart, Irving and I as much as any of the others, and were 
 not very wise, nor had looked into the per contra side. I retract now on 
 many points, on that of " Barabbas " in particular, which example Southey 
 cited as characteristic of democracy, greatly to my dissent, till I had much 
 better, and for many years, considered the subject. 
 
 That bout of pamphleteering had brought Southey much nearer me, but 
 had sensibly diminished my esteem of him, and would naturally slacken 
 my desire for farther acquaintance. It must have been a year or two later 
 when his " Thalaba," " Curse of Kehama," " Joan of Arc," etc., came into 
 my hands, or some one of them came, which awakened new effort for the 
 others. I recollect the much kindlier and more respectful feeling these 
 awoke in me, which has continued ever since. I much recognize the piety, 
 the gentle, deep affection, the reverence for God and man, which reigned 
 in these pieces : full of soft pity, like the wailings of a mother, and yet 
 with a clang of chivalrous valor finely audible too. One could not help 
 loving such a man ; and yet I rather felt, too, as if he were a shrillish, thin 
 kind of man, the feminine element perhaps considerably predominating and 
 limiting. However, I always afterwards looked out for his books, new or 
 old, as for a thing of value, and in particular read his articles in the " Quar 
 terly," which were the most accessible productions. In spite of my Radical- 
 ism, I found very much in these Toryisms which was greatly according to 
 my heart ; things rare and worthy, at once pious and true, which were al- 
 ways welcome to me, though I strove to base them on a better ground than 
 his — his being no eternal or time-defying one, as I could see, and time, in 
 fact, in my own case, having already done its work then. In this manner 
 our innocently pleasant relation, as writer and written for, had gone on, 
 without serious shock, though, after " Kehama," not with much growth in 
 quality or quantity, for perhaps ten years. 
 
 It was probably in 1836 or *?, the second or third year after our removal 
 to London, that Henry Taylor, author of " Artevelde," and various similar 
 things, with whom I had made acquaintance, and whose early regard, con- 
 stant esteem, and readiness to be helpful and friendly, should be among 
 my memorabilia of those years, invited me to come to him one evening, 
 and have a little speech with Southey, whom he judged me to be curious 
 about, and to like, perhaps, more than I did. Taylor himself, a solid, sound- 
 headed, faithful man, though of morbid vivacity in all senses of that deep- 
 reaching word, and with a fine readiness to apprehend new truth, and 
 stand by it, was in personal intimacy with the "Lake" sages and poets, 
 especially with Southey ; he considered that in Wordsworth and the rest 
 of them was embodied all of pious wisdom that our age had, and could not 
 doubt but the sight of Southey would be welcome to me. I readily con- 
 sented to come, none but we three present, Southey to be Taylor's guest at 
 dinner, I to join them after — which was done. Taylor, still little turned 
 of thirty, lived miscellaneously about, in bachelor's lodgings, or sometimes 
 for a month or two during " the season " in furnished houses, where he 
 
ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
APPENDIX. 323 
 
 could receive guests. In the former I never saw him, nor to the latter did 
 I go but when invited. It was in a quiet ground-floor, of the latter char- 
 acter as I conjectured, somewhere near Downing Street, and looking into 
 St. James's Park, that I found Taylor and Southey, with their wine before 
 them, which they hardly seemed to be minding; very quiet this seemed to 
 be, quiet their discourse, too ; to all which, not sorry at the omen, I quietly 
 joined myself. Southey was a man towards well up in the fifties ; hair 
 gray, not yet hoary, well setting off his fine clear brown complexion ; head 
 and face both smallish, as indeed the figure was Avhile seated ; features 
 finely cut ; eyes, brow, mouth, good in their kind — expressive all, and even 
 vehemently so, but betokening rather keenness than depth either of intel- 
 lect or character ; a serious, human, honest, but sharp, almost fierce-looking, 
 thin man, with very much of the militant in his aspect — in the eyes especially 
 was visible a mixture of sorrow and of anger, or of angry contempt, as if 
 his indignant fight with the world had not yet ended in victory, but also 
 never should in defeat. A man you were willing to hear speak. We got 
 to talk of Parliament, public speaking and the like (perhaps some election- 
 eering then afoot ?). On my mentioning the candidate at Bristol, with his 
 *' I say ditto to Mr. Burke " — " Hah, I myself heard that " (had been a boy 
 listening when that was said !). His contempt for the existing set of par- 
 ties was great and fixed, especially for what produced the present electoral 
 temper ; though in the future, too, except through Parliaments and elec- 
 tions, he seemed to see no hope. He took to repeating in a low, sorrowfully 
 mocking tone, certain verses (I supposed of his own), emphatically in that 
 vein which seemed to me bitter and exaggerative, not without ingenuity, 
 but exhibiting no trace of genius. Partly in response, or rather as sole 
 articulate response, I asked who had made those verses. Southey an- 
 swered, carelessly, "Praed, they say; Praed, I suppose." My notion was, 
 he was merely putting me off, and the verses were his own, though he dis- 
 liked confessing to them. A year or two ago, looking into some review of a 
 reprint of Praed's works, I came upon the verses again, among other ex- 
 cerpts of a similar genus, arid found that they verily were Praed's ; my 
 wonder now was that Southey had charged his memory with the like of 
 them. This Praed was a young M.P. who had gained distinction at Oxford 
 or Cambridge. As he spoke and wrote without scruple against the late 
 illustrious Reform Bill and sovereign Reform docti-ine in general, great 
 things were expected of him by his party, now sitting cowed into silence, and 
 his nariie was very current in the newspapers for a few months ; till sud- 
 denly (soon after this of Southey), the poor young man died, and sank at 
 once into oblivion, tragical, though not unmerited, nor extraordinary, as I 
 judged from the contents of that late repi-int and Biographical Sketch, by 
 some pious and regretful old friend of his. That Southey had some of 
 Praed's verses by heart (verses about Hon. Mr. this moving, say, to abolish 
 death and the devil ; Hon. Mr. B., to change, for improvement's sake, the 
 obliquity of the Ecliptic, etc., etc.) is, perhaps, a kind of honor to poor 
 
324 APPENDIX. 
 
 Praed, who (inexorable fate cutting short his " career of ambition " in 
 that manner) is, perhaps, as sad and tragical to me as to another. After 
 Southey's bit of recitation I think the party must have soon broken up. I 
 recollect nothing more of it, except my astonishment when Southey at last 
 completely rose from his chair to shake hands. He had only half risen and 
 nodded on my coming in ; and all along I had counted him a lean little 
 man ; but now he shot suddenly aloft into a lean tall one, all legs, in shape 
 and stature like a pair of tongs, which peculiarity my surprise doubtless 
 exaggerated to me, but only made it the more notable and entertaining. 
 Nothing had happened throughout that was other than moderately pleas- 
 ant; and I returned home (I conclude) well enough satisfied with my 
 evening. Southey's sensitiveness I had noticed on the first occasion as 
 one of his characteristic qualities, but was nothing like aware of the ex- 
 tent of it till our next meeting. 
 
 This was a few evenings afterwards, Taylor giving some dinner, or party, 
 party in honor of his guest; if dinner, I was not at that, but must have 
 undertaken for the evening sequel, as less incommodious to me, less un- 
 wholesome more especially. I remember entering, in the same house, 
 but up-stairs this time, a pleasant little drawing-room, in which, in well- 
 lighted, secure enough condition, sat Southey in full dress, silently reclin- 
 ing, and as yet no other company. We saluted suitably ; touched ditto on 
 the vague initiatory points ; and were still there, when, by way of coming 
 closer, I asked mildly, with no appearance of special interest, but Avith 
 more than I really felt, " Do you know De Quincey ?" (the opium-eater, whom 
 I knew to have lived in Cumberland as his neighbor). " Yes, sir," said 
 Southey, with extraordinary animosity, " and if you have opportunity, I'll 
 thank you to tell him he is one of the greatest scoundrels living !" I laugh- 
 ed lightly, said I had myself little acquaintance with the man, and could 
 not wish to recommend myself by that message. Southey's face, as I look- 
 ed at it, was become of slate-color, the eyes glancing, the attitude rigid, 
 the figure altogether a picture of Rhadamanthine rage — that is, rage con- 
 scious to itself of being just. He doubtless felt I would expect some 
 explanation from him. " I have told Hartley Coleridge," said he, " that 
 he ought to take a strong cudgel, proceed straight to Edinburgh, and give 
 De Quincey, publicly in the streets there, a sound beating, as a calumniator, 
 cowardly spy, traitor, base betrayer of the hospitable social hearth, for one 
 thing !" It appeared De Quincey was then, and for some time past, writing 
 in " Blackwood's Magazine " something of autobiographic nature, a series 
 of papers on the " Lake" period of his life, merely for the sake of the high- 
 ly needful trifle of money, poor soul, and with no wish to be untrue (I 
 could believe) or hurt anybody, though not without his own bits of splenetic 
 conviction, and to which latter, in regard of Coleridge in particular, he had 
 given more rein than Avas agreeable to parties concerned. I believe I had 
 myself read the paper on Coleridge, one paper on him I certainly read, and 
 had been the reverse of tempted by it to look after the others ; finding in 
 
APPENDIX. 825 
 
 this, e. g., that Coleridge had the greatest intellect perhaps ever given to 
 man, " but that he wanted, or as good as wanted, common honesty in ap- 
 plying it ;" which seemed to me a miserable contradiction in terms, and 
 threw light, if not on Coleridge, yet on De Quincey's faculty of judging him 
 or others. In this paper there were probably withal some domestic details 
 or allusions, to which, as familiar to rumor, I had paid but little heed ; but 
 certainly, of general reverence for Coleridge and his gifts and deeds, I had 
 traced, not deficiency in this paper, but glaring exaggeration, coupled with De 
 Quincean drawbacks, which latter had alone struck Southey with such poign- 
 ancy ; or perhaps there had been other more criminal papers, which Southey 
 knew of, and not I ? In few minutes we let the topic drop, I helping what I 
 could, and he seemed to feel as if he had done a little wrong, and was bound to 
 show himself more than usually amicable and social, especially with me, for 
 the rest of the evening, which he did in effect, though I quite forget the de- 
 tails, only that I had a good deal of talk with him, in the circle of the oth- 
 ers, and had again more than once to notice the singular readiness of the 
 blushes ; amiable red blush, beautiful like a young girl's, when you touched 
 genially the pleasant theme, and serpent-Uke flash of blue or black blush 
 (this far, very far the rarer kind, though it did recur too) when you struck 
 upon the opposite. All details of the evening, except that primary one, are 
 clean gone ; but the effect was interesting, pleasantly stimulating, and sur- 
 prising. I said to myself, " How has this man contrived, with such a nerv- 
 ous system, to keep alive for near sixty years ? Now blushing under his 
 gray hairs, rosy like a maiden of fifteen ; now slaty almost, like a rattle- 
 snake or fiery serpent ? How has he not been torn to pieces long since, 
 under such furious pulling this way and that ? He must have somewhere 
 a great deal of methodic virtue in him; I suppose, too, his heart is 
 thoroughly honest, which helps considerably." I did not fancy myself to 
 have made personally much impression on Southey ; but on those terms I 
 accepted him for a loyal kind of man; and was content and thankful to 
 know of his existing in the world, near me, or still far from me, as the fates 
 should have determined. For perhaps two years I saw no more of him ; 
 heard only from Taylor in particular, that he was overwhelmed in misery, 
 and imprudently refusing to yield, or screen himself in any particular. Im- 
 prudently, thought Taylor and his other friends ; for not only had he been, 
 for several continuous years, toiling and fagging at a collective edition of 
 his works, which cost him a great deal of incessant labor, but, far worse, 
 his poor wife had sunk into insanity, and moreover he would not, such his 
 feeling on this tragic matter, be persuaded to send her to an asylum, or trust 
 her out of his own sight and keeping. Figure such a scene ; and what the 
 most sensitive of mankind must have felt under it. This, then, is the gar- 
 land and crown of " victory " provided for an old man, when he survives, 
 spent with his fifty years of climbing and of running, and has what you call 
 won the race ! 
 
 It was after I had finished the "French Revolution," and perhaps after 
 
326 APPENDIX. 
 
 my Annandale journey to recover from this adventure, that I heard of 
 Southey's being in town again. His collective edition was complete, his 
 poor wife was dead and at rest ; his work was done ; in fact (had he known 
 it), all his work in the world was done ; and he had determined on a few 
 weeks of wandering, and trying to repose and recreate himself, among old 
 friends and scenes. I saw him twice or thrice on this occasion ; it was our 
 second and last piece of intercourse, and much the more interesting, to me 
 at least, and for a reason that will appear. My wild excitation of nerves, 
 after finishing that grim book on "French Revolution," was something 
 strange. The desperate nature of our circumstances and outlooks while 
 writing it, the thorough possession it had taken of me, dwelling in me day 
 and night, keeping me in constant fellowship with such a " flamy cut-throat 
 scene of things," infernal and celestial both in one, with no fixed prospect 
 but that of writing it, though I should die, had held me in a fever blaze 
 for three years long; and now the blaze had ceased, problem talife)' qualiter 
 was actually done, and my humor and way of thought about all things was 
 of an altogether ghastly, dim-smouldering, and as if preternatural sort. I 
 well remember that ten minutes' survey I had of Annan and its vicinity the 
 forenoon after my landing there. Brother Alick must have met me at the 
 steamboat harbor, I suppose ; at any rate, Ave were walking towards Scotsbrig 
 together, and at Mount Annan Gate, bottom of Landhead hamlet, he had 
 left me for a moment till he called somewhere. I stood leaning against a 
 stone or mile-stone, face towards Annan, of which with the two miles of va- 
 riegated cheerful green slope that intervened, and then of the Solway Frith, 
 far and wide from Gretna, St. Bees Head and beyond it, of the grand and 
 lovely Cumberland mountains, with Helvellyn and even with Ingleborough 
 in the rearward, there was a magnificent view well known to me. Stone 
 itself was well known to me ; this had been my road to Annan School from 
 my tenth year upward ; right sharp was my knowledge of every item in 
 this scene, thousandfold my memories connected with it, and mournful and 
 painful rather than joyful, too many of them. And now here it was again ; 
 and here was I again. Words cannot utter the wild and ghastly expres- 
 siveness of that scene to me ; it seemed as if Hades itself, and the gloomy 
 realms of death and eternity, were looking out on me through those poor 
 old familiar objects ; as if no miracle could be more miraculous than this 
 same bit of space and bit of time spread out before me. I felt withal how 
 wretchedly unwell I must be ; and was glad, no doubt, when Alick returned, 
 and we took the road again. What precedes and what follows this clear bit 
 of memory are alike gone ; but for seven or more weeks after, I rode often 
 down and up this same road, silent, solitary, weird of mood, to bathe in the 
 Solway ; and not even my dear old mother's love and cheery helpfulness 
 (for she was then still strong for her age) could raise my spirits out of ut- 
 ter grimness and fixed contemptuous disbelief in the future. Hope of hav- 
 ing succeeded, of ever succeeding, I had not the faintest, was not even at 
 the pains to wish it ; said only, in a dim, mute way, " Very well, then ; be it 
 
APPENDIX. 327 
 
 just so, then !" A foolish young neighbor, not an ill-disposed, sent me a 
 number of the "Athenceum" (literary journal of the day), in which I was 
 placidly, with some elaboration, set down as blockhead and strenuous fail- 
 ure : the last words were, " Readers, have we made out our case ?" I read 
 it without pain, or pain the least to signify ; laid it aside for a day or two ; 
 then one morning, in some strait about our breakfast tea-kettle, slipt the 
 peccant number under that, and had my cup of excellent hot tea from it. 
 The foolish neighbor who was filing the "Athenaeum " (more power to him !) 
 found a lacima in his set at this point ; might know better, another time, it 
 was hoped. Thackeray's laudation in the " Times," I also recollect the 
 arrival of (how pathetic now her mirth over it to me!). But neither did 
 Thackeray inspire me with any emotion, still less with any ray of exulta- 
 tion. "One other poor judge voting," I said to myself; "but what is he, 
 or such as he ? The fate of that thing is fixed ! I have written it ; that 
 is all my result." Nothing now strikes me as aifecting in all this but her 
 noble attempt to cheer me on my return home to her, still sick and sad ; 
 and how she poured out on me her melodious joy, and all her bits of con- 
 firmatory anecdotes and narratives. " Oh, it has had a great success, dear !" 
 and not even she could irradiate my darkness, beautifully as she tried for 
 a long time, as I sat at her feet again by our own parlor fire. " Oh, you 
 are an unbelieving nature !" said she at last, starting up, probably to give 
 me some tea. There was, and is, in all this something heavenly ; the rest 
 is all of it smoke ; and has gone up the chimney, inferior in benefit and 
 quality to what ray pipe yielded me. I was rich once, had I known it — 
 very rich ; and now I am become poor to the end. 
 
 Such being my posture and humor at that time, fancy my surprise at 
 finding Southey full of sympathy, assent and recognition of the amplest 
 kind, for my poor new book ! We talked largely on the huge event itself, 
 which he had dwelt with openly or privately ever since his youth, and tend- 
 ed to interpret, exactly as I, the suicidal explosion of an old wicked world, 
 too wicked, false, and impious for living longer ; and seemed satisfied and 
 as if grateful that a strong voice had at last expressed that meaning. My 
 poor " French Eevolution " evidently appeared to him a good deed, a salu- 
 tary bit of "scriptural" exposition for the public and for mankind; and 
 this, I could perceive, was the soul of a great many minor approbations 
 and admirations of detail, which he was too polite to speak of. As Southey 
 was the only man of eminence that had ever taken such a view of me, and 
 especially of this my first considerable book, it seems strange that I should 
 have felt so little real triumph in it as I did. For all other eminent men, 
 in regard to all my books and writings hitherto, and most of all in regard 
 to this latest, had stood pointedly silent, dubitative, disapprobatory, many 
 of them shaking their heads. Then, when poor "Sartor" got passed 
 through " Fraser," and was done up from the Fraser types as a separate 
 thing, perhaps about fifty copies being struck off, I sent six copies to six 
 Edinburgh literary friends, from not one of whom did I get the smallest 
 
328 APPENDIX. 
 
 whisper even of receipt — a thing disappointing more or less to human nat- 
 ure, and which has silently and insensibly led me never since to send any 
 copy of a book to Edinburgh, or, indeed, to Scotland at all, except to my 
 own kindred there, and in one or two specific unliterary cases more. The 
 Plebs of literature might be divided in their verdicts about me, though, by 
 count of heads, I always suspect the " guilties " clean had it ; but the con- 
 script fathers declined to vote at all. And yet here was a conscript father 
 voting in a very pregnant manner ; and it seems I felt but little joy even 
 in that. Truly I can say for myself, Southey's approbation, though very 
 privately I doubtless had my pride in it, did not the least tend to swell 
 me; though, on the other hand, I must own to very greatgloom of mind, 
 sullen some part of it, which is possibly a worse fault than what it saved 
 me from. I remember now how polite and delicate his praises of me 
 were ; never given direct or in overmeasure, but always obliquely, in the 
 way of hint or inference left for me ; and how kind, sincere, and courteous 
 his manner throughout was. Our mutual considerations about French 
 Revolution, about its incidents, catastrophes, or about its characters, Dan- 
 ton, Camille, etc., and contrasts and comparisons of them with their (prob- 
 able) English compeers of the day, yielded pleasant and copious material 
 for dialogue when we met. Literature was hardly touched upon : our dis- 
 course came almost always upon moral and social topics. Southey's look, 
 I remarked, was strangely careworn, anxious, though he seemed to like 
 talking, and both talked and listened well ; his eyes especially were as if 
 filled with gloomy bewilderment and incurable sorrows. He had got to be 
 about sixty-three, had buried all his suffering loved ones, wound up forty 
 years of incessant vehement labor, much of it more or less ungenial to 
 him ; and, in fact, though he knew it not, had finished his work in the 
 world, and might well be looking back on it with a kind of ghastly aston- 
 ishment rather than with triumph or joy. 
 
 I forget how often we met ; it was not very often ; it was always at H. 
 Taylor's, or through Taylor. One day, for the first and last time, he made 
 us a visit at Chelsea, A certain old lady cousin of Taylor's, who sometimes 
 presided in his house for a month or two in the town season — a Miss Fen- 
 wick, of provincial accent and type, but very wise, discreet, and well-bred — 
 had come driving down with him. Their arrival, and loud thundering 
 knock at the door, is very memorable to me — the moment being unusually 
 critical in our poor household. My little Jeannie was in hands with the 
 marmalade that day: none ever made such marmalade for me, pure as 
 liquid amber, in taste and in look almost poetically delicate, and it was the 
 only one of her pretty and industrious comfitures that I individually cared 
 for ; which made her doubly diligent and punctual about it. (Ah, me ! ah, 
 me !) The kitchen fire, I suppose, had not been brisk enough, free enough, 
 so she had had the large brass pan and contents brought up to the brisker 
 parlor fire, and was there victoriously boiling it, when it boiled over, in 
 huge blaze, set the chimney on fire — and I (from my writing up-stairs, I 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 329 
 
 suppose) had been siaddenly summoned to the rescue. What a moment ! 
 what an outlook ! The kindling of the chimney soot was itself a grave 
 matter, involving fine of £10 if the fire-engines had to come. My first 
 and immediate step was to parry this, by at once letting down the grate 
 valve, and cutting quite off the supply of oxygen or atmosphere, which, of 
 course, was effectual, though at the expense of a little smoke in the room 
 meanwhile. The brass pan, and remaining contents (not much wasted or 
 injured), she had herself snatched off and set on the hearth ; I was puhing 
 down the back windows, which would have completed the temporary set- 
 tlement, when, hardly three yards from us, broke out the thundering door- 
 knocker ; and before the brass pan could be got away. Miss Fenwick and 
 Southey were let in. Southey, I don't think my darling had yet seen ; but 
 her own fine, modest composure and presence of mind never in any great- 
 est other presence forsook her. I remember how daintily she made the 
 salutations, brief, quizzical bit of explanation, got the wreck to vanish, and 
 sate down as member of our little party. Southey and I were on the sofa 
 together ; she nearer Miss Fenwick, for a little of feminine " aside " now 
 and then. The colloquy did not last long : I recollect no point of it, ex- 
 cept that Southey and I got to speaking about Shelley (whom, perhaps, I 
 remembered to have lived in the Lake country for some time, and had 
 started on Shelley as a practicable topic). Southey did not rise into admira- 
 tion of Shelley either for talent or conduct; spoke of him and his life 
 without bitterness, but with contemptuous sorrow, and evident aversion 
 mingled with his pity. To me also poor Shelley always was, and is, a kind 
 of ghastly object, colorless, pallid, without health, or warmth, or vigor ; the 
 sound of him shi'ieky, frosty, as if a ghost were trying to " sing to us ;" 
 the temperament of him spasmodic, hysterical, instead of strong or robust ; 
 Avith fine affections and aspirations, gone all such a road : a man infinitely 
 too weak for that solitary scahng of the Alps, which he undertook in spite 
 of all the world. At some point of the dialogue I said to Southey, " A hag- 
 gard existence that of his." I remember Southey's pause, and the tone 
 and air with which he answered, " It is a haggard existence !" His look 
 at this moment was unusually gloomy and heavy-laden, full of confused 
 distress — as if in retrospect of his own existence, and the haggard battle it 
 too had been. 
 
 He was now about sixty-three ; his work all done, but his heart as if 
 broken. A certain Miss Bowles, given to scribbling, with its affectations, 
 its sentimentalities, and perhaps twenty years younger than he, had (as I 
 afterwards understood) heroically volunteered to marry him, " for the pur- 
 pose of consoling," etc., etc., to which he heroically had assented, and was" 
 now on the road towards Bristol, or the western region where Miss Bowles 
 lived, for completing that poor hope of his and hers. A second wedlock ; 
 in what contrast almost dismal, almost horrible, with a former there had 
 been ! Far away that former one ; but it had been illuminated by the 
 hopes and radiances of very heaven ; this second one was to be celebrated 
 
330 APPENDIX. 
 
 under sepulchral lamps, and as if in the forecoast of the charnel-house ! 
 Southey's deep misery of aspect I should have better understood had this 
 been known to me ; but it was known to Taylor alone, who kept it locked 
 from everybody. 
 
 The last time I saw Southey was on an evening at Taylor's, nobody there 
 but myself ; I think he meant to leave town next morning, and had wished 
 to say farewell to me first. We sat on the sofa together ; our talk was 
 long and earnest ; topic ultimately the usual one, steady approach of de- 
 mocracy, with revolution (probably explosive), and a finis incomputable to 
 man ; steady decay of all morality, political, social, individual ; this once 
 noble England getting more and more ignoble and untrue in every fibre of 
 it, till the gold (Goethe's composite king) would all be eaten out, and noble 
 England would have to collapse in shapeless ruin, whether forever or not 
 none of us could know. Our perfect consent on these matters gave an 
 animation to the dialogue, which I remember as copious and pleasant, 
 Southey's last word was in answer to some tirade of mine against univer- 
 sal mammon worship, gradual accelerating decay of mutual humanity, of 
 piety and fidelity to God or man, in all our relations and performances, the 
 whole illustrated by examples, I suppose ; to which he answered, not with 
 levity, yet with a cheerful tone in his seriousness, " It will not and it can- 
 not come to good!" This he spoke standing; I had risen, checking my 
 tirade, intimating that, alas ! I must go. He invited me to Cumberland, to 
 " see the lakes again," and added, " Let us know beforehand that the rites of 
 hospitality — " I had already shaken hands, and now answered from be- 
 yond the door of the apartment, " Ah, yes ; thanks, thanks !" little thinking 
 that it was my last farewell of Southey. 
 
 He went to the Western country, got wedded, went back to Keswick, and 
 I heard once or so some shallow jest about his promptitude in wedding; 
 but before long the news came, first in whispers, then public and undenia- 
 ble, that his mind was going and gone, memory quite, and the rest hope- 
 lessly following it. The new Mrs. Southey had not succeeded in "con- 
 soling and comforting" him, but far the reverse. We understood after- 
 wards that the grown-up daughters and their step-mother had agreed ill ; 
 that perhaps neither they nor she were very wise, nor the arrangement it- 
 self very wise or well contrived. Better, perhaps, that poor Southey was 
 evicted from it, shrouded away in curtains of his own, and deaf to all dis- 
 cords henceforth ! We heard of him from Miss Fenwick now and then (I 
 think for a year or two more) till the end came. He was usually altogeth- 
 er placid and quiet, without memory, more and more without thought. 
 One day they had tried him with some fine bit of his own poetry ; he woke 
 into beautiful consciousness, eyes and features shining with their old 
 brightness (and perhaps a few words of rational speech coming) ; but it 
 lasted only some minutes, till all lapsed into the old blank again. By de- 
 grees all intellect had melted away from him, and quietly, unconsciously, he 
 died. There was little noise in the public on this occurrence, nor could his 
 
APPENDIX. 331 
 
 private friends do other than, in silence, mournfully, yet almost gratefully, 
 acquiesce. There came out by-and-by, two lives of him — one by his widow, 
 one by his son (such the family discrepancies, happily inaudible where 
 they would have cut sharpest) ; neither of these books did I look into. 
 
 Southey I used to construe to myself as a man of slight build, but of 
 sound and elegant, with considerable genius in him, considerable faculty 
 of speech and rhythmic insight, and with a morality that shone distin- 
 guished among his contemporaries. I reckoned him (with those blue 
 blushes and those red) to be the perhaps excitablest of all men, and that 
 a deep mute monition of conscience had spoken to him, " You are capable 
 of running mad, if you don't take care. Acquire habitudes ; stick firm as 
 adamant to them at all times, and work — continually work !" 
 
 This, for thirty or forty years, he had punctually and impetuously done ; 
 no man so habitual, we were told ; gave up his poetry, at a given hour, on 
 stroke of the clock, and took to prose, etc., etc. ; and as to diligence and 
 velocity, employed his very walking hours, walked with a book in his hand ; 
 and by these methods of his, had got through, perhaps, a greater amount 
 of work, counting quantity and quaUty, than any other man whatever in 
 those years of his ; till all suddenly ended. I likened him to one of those 
 huge sandstone grinding cylinders which I had seen at Manchester, turning 
 with inconceivable velocity (in the condemned room of the iron factory, 
 where "the men die of lung disease at forty," but are permitted to smoke 
 in their damp cellar, and think that a rich recompense !), screaming 
 harshly, and shooting out each of them its sheet of fire (yellow, starlight, 
 etc., according as it is brass or other kind of metal that you grind and 
 polish there) — beautiful sheets of fire, pouring out each as if from the 
 paper cap of its low-stooping-backed grinder, when you look from rear- 
 ward. For many years these stones grind so, at such a rate ; till at last 
 (in some cases) comes a moment when the stone's cohesion is quite worn 
 out, overcome by the stupendous velocity long continued ; and while grind- 
 ing its fastest, it flies off altogether, and settles some yards from you, a 
 grinding-stone no longer, but a cart-load of quiet sand. 
 
 Of Wordsworth I have little to write that could ever be of use to myself 
 or others. I did not see him much, or till latish in my course see him at 
 all ; nor did we deeply admire one another at any time. Of me in my first 
 times he had Httle knowledge ; and any feeling he had towards me, I sus- 
 pect, was largely blended with abhorrence and perhaps a kind of fear. 
 His works I knew, but never considerably reverenced ; could not, on at- 
 tempting it. A man recognizably of strong intellectual powers, strong 
 character ; given to meditation, and much contemptuous of the unmeditative 
 world and its noisy nothingnesses ; had a fine limpid style of writing and 
 delineating, in his small way ; a fine limpid vein of melody too in him (as 
 of an honest rustic fiddle, good, and well handled, but wanting two or 
 more of the strings, and not capable of much !). In fact, a rather dull, 
 hard-tempered, unproductive, and almost wearisome, kind of man; not 
 
332 APPENDIX. 
 
 adorable, by any means, as a great poetic genius, much less as the Trisrae- 
 gistus of such ; whom only a select few could ever read, instead of mis- 
 reading, which was the opinion his worshippers confidently entertained of 
 him ! Privately I had a real respect for him withal, founded on his early 
 biography (which Wilson of Edinburgh had painted to me as of antique 
 greatness). *' Poverty and Peasanthood ! Be it so ! but we consecrate 
 ourselves to the Muses, all the same, and will proceed on those terms. 
 Heaven aiding !" This, and what of faculty I did recognize in the man, 
 gave me a clear esteem of him, as of one remarkable and fairly beyond 
 common ; not to disturb which, I avoided speaking of him to his worship- 
 pers ; or, if the topic turned up, would listen with an acquiescing air. But 
 to my private self his divine reflections and unfathomabilitiies seemed 
 stinted, scanty, palish, and uncertain — perhaps in part a feeble reflex (de- 
 rived at second hand through Coleridge) of the immense German fund of 
 such — and I reckoned his poetic store-house to be far from an opulent or 
 well-furnished apartment. It was perhaps about 1840 that I first had any 
 decisive meeting with Wordsworth, or made any really personal acquaint- 
 ance with him. In parties at Taylor's I may have seen him before ; but 
 we had no speech together, nor did we specially notice one another. One 
 such time I do remember (probably before, as it was in my eai-lier days of 
 Sterling acquaintanceship, when Sterling used to argue much with me) ; 
 Wor'dsworth sat silent, almost next to me, while Sterling took to asserting 
 the claims of Kotzebue as a dramatist (" recommended even by Goethe," as 
 he likewise urged), whom I with pleasure did my endeavor to explode 
 from that mad notion, and thought (as I still recollect), " This will perhaps 
 please Wordsworth too," who, however, gave not the least sign of that or 
 any other feeling. I had various dialogues with him in that same room ; 
 but those, I judge, were all or mostly of after-date. 
 
 On a summer morning (let us call it 1840 then) I was apprised by Taylor 
 that Wordsworth had come to town, and would meet a small party of us at 
 a certain tavern in St. James's Street, at breakfast, to which I was invited 
 for the given day and hour. We had a pretty little room, quiet, though 
 looking streetward (tavern's name is quite lost to me) ; the morning sun 
 was pleasantly tinting the opposite houses ; a balmy, calm, and sunlight 
 morning. Wordsworth, I think, arrived just along with me ; we had still 
 five minutes of sauntering and miscellaneous talking before the whole were 
 assembled, I do not positively remember any of them, except that James 
 Spedding was there, and that the others, not above five or six in whole, 
 were polite, intelligent, quiet persons, and, except Taylor and Wordsworth, 
 not of any special distinction in the world. Breakfast was pleasant, fairly 
 beyond the common of such things. Wordsworth seemed in good tone, 
 and, much to Taylor's satisfaction, talked a great deal ; about " poetic," 
 correspondents of his own (i. e., correspondents for the sake of his poetry; 
 especially one such who had sent him, from Canton, an excellent chest of 
 tea ; correspondent grinningly applauded by us all) ; then about ruralities 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
APPENDIX. 333 
 
 and miscellanies ; " Countess of Pembroke," antique she-Clifford, glory of 
 those northern parts, who was not new to any of us, but was set forth by 
 Wordsworth with gusto and brief emphasis — " you lily-livered," etc. ; and 
 now the only memorable item under that head. These were the first top- 
 ics. Then, finally, about hterature, literary laws, practices, observances, 
 at considerable length, and turning wholly on the mechanical part, includ- 
 ing even a good deal of shallow enough etymology, from me and others, 
 which was well received. On all this Wordsworth enlarged with evident 
 satisfaction, and Avas joyfully reverent of the " wells of English undefiled," 
 though stone-dumb as to the deeper rules and wells of Eternal Truth and 
 Harmony, which you were to try and set forth by said undefiled wells of 
 English, or what other speech you had ! To me a little disappointing, but 
 not much ; though it would have given me pleasure had the robust veteran 
 man emerged a little out of vocables into things now and then, as he never 
 once chanced to do. For the rest, he talked well in his way ; with veracity, 
 easy brevity, and force, as a wise tradesm-an would of his tools and work- 
 shop, and as no unwise one could. His voice was good, frank, and so- 
 norous, though practically clear, distinct, and forcible rather than melodious ; 
 the tone of him business-like, sedately coiffident ; no discourtesy, yet no 
 anxiety about being courteous. A fine wholesome rusticity, fresh as his 
 mountain breezes, sat well on the stalwart veteran, and on all he said and 
 did. You would have said he was a usually taciturn man ; glad to unlock 
 himself to audience sympathetic and intelhgent, when such offered itself. 
 His face bore marks of much, not always peaceful, meditation ; the look 
 of it not bland or benevolent so much as close, impregnable, and hard : a 
 man multa tacere loqitive paratus, in a world where he had experienced no 
 lack of contradictions as he strode along. The eyes were not very brilliant, 
 but they had a quiet clearness ; there was enough of brow, and well shaped ; 
 rather too much of cheek (" horse face " I have heard satirists say) ; face 
 of squarish shape, and decidedly longish, as I think the head itself was 
 (its " length " going horizontal) ; he was large-boned, lean, but still firm- 
 knit, tall, and strong-looking when he stood, a right good old steel-gray 
 figure, v/ith rustic simplicity and dignity about him, and a vivacious strength 
 looking through him which might have suited one of those old steel-gray 
 markgrafs whom Henry the Fowler set up to ward the " marches," and do 
 battle with the intrusive heathen in a stalwart and judicious manner. 
 
 On this and other occasional visits of his, I saw Wordsworth a number 
 of times, at dinner, in evening parties ; and we grew a little more familiar, 
 but without much increase of real intimacy or affection springing up be- 
 tween us. He was willing to talk with me in a corner, in noisy, extensive 
 circles, having weak eyes, and little loving the general babble current in 
 such places. One evening, probably about this time, I got him upon the 
 subject of great poets, who, I thought, might be admirable equally to us 
 both ; but was rather mistaken, as I gradually found. Pope's partial fail- 
 ure I was prepared for ; less for the narrowish limits visible in Milton and 
 
334 APPENDIX. 
 
 others. I tried him with Burns, of whom he had sung tender recognition ; 
 but Burns also turned out to be a limited, inferior creature, any genius he 
 had a theme for one's pathos rather; even Shakspeare himself had his 
 blind sides, his limitations. Gradually it became apparent to me that of 
 transcendent unlimited there was, to this critic, probably but one specimen 
 known — Wordsworth himself ! He by no means said so, or hinted so, in 
 words ; but on the whole it was all I gathered from him in this considera- 
 ble tete-d-tete of ours ; and it was not an agreeable conquest. New notion as 
 to poetry or poet I had not in the smallest degree got ; but my insight into 
 the depths of Wordsworth's pride in himself had considerably augmented, 
 and it did not increase my love of him ; though I did not in the least hate 
 it either, so quiet was it, so fixed, unappealing, like a dim old lichened crag 
 on the way-side, the private meaning of which, in contrast with any public 
 meaning it had, you recognized with a kind of not wholly melancholy grin. 
 Another and better corner dialogue I afterwards had with him, possibly 
 also about this time, which raised him intellectually some real degrees high- 
 er in my estimation than any of his deliverances, written or oral, had ever 
 done, and which I may reckon as the best of all his discoursings or dia- 
 logues with me. He had withdrawn to a corner, out of the light and of 
 the general babble, as usual with him. I joined him there, and knowing 
 how little fruitful Avas the literary topic between us, set him on giving me 
 an account of the notable practicalities he had seen in life, especially of the 
 notable men. He went into all this with a certain alacrity, and was will- 
 ing to speak whenever able on the terms. He had been in France in the 
 earlier or secondary stage of the Revolution ; had witnessed the struggle of 
 Girondins and Mountain, in particular the execution of Gorsas, " the first 
 deputy sent to the scaffold ;" and testified strongly to the ominous feeling 
 which that event produced in everybody, and of which he himself still seem- 
 ed to retain something : " Where will it end, when you have set an exam- 
 ple in this kind ?" I knew well about Gorsas, but had found in my read- 
 ings no trace of the public emotion his death excited, and perceived now 
 that Wordsworth might be taken as a true supplement to my book, on this 
 small point. He did not otherwise add to or alter my ideas on the Revo- 
 lution, nor did we dwell long there ; but hastened over to England, and to 
 the noteworthy, or at least noted, men of that and the subsequent time. 
 " Noted " and named, I ought, perhaps, to say, rather than " noteworthy ;" 
 for in general I forget what men they were, and now remember only the 
 excellent sagacity, distinctness, and credibility of Wordsworth's little bio- 
 graphic portraitures of them. Never, or never but once, had I seen a strong- 
 er intellect, a more luminous and veracious power of insight, directed upon 
 such a survey of fellow-men and their contemporary journey through the 
 world. A great deal of Wordsworth lay in the mode a-nd tone of drawing, 
 but you perceived it to be faithful, accurate, and altogether life-like, though 
 Wordsworthian. One of the best remembered sketches (almost the only 
 one now remembered at all) was that of Wilberforce, the famous Nigger 
 
APPENDIX. , 335 
 
 philanthropist, drawing-room Christian, and busy man and politician. In 
 all which capacities Wordsworth's esteem of him seemed to be privately 
 as small as my own private one, and was amusing to gather. No hard 
 word of him did he speak or hint ; told in brief firm business terms, how 
 he was born at or near the place called Wilbei'force in Yorkshire (" force " 
 signifying torrent or angry brook as in Cumberland ?) ; where, probably, 
 his forefathers may have been possessors, though he was poorish ; how he 
 did this and that of insignificant (to Wordsworth insignificant) nature ; 
 "and then," ended Wordsworth, "he took into the oil trade" (I suppose 
 the Hull whaling) ; which lively phrase, and the incomparable historical 
 tone it was given in — "the oil trade" — as a thing perfectly natural and 
 proper for such a man, is almost the only point in the delineation which is 
 now vividly present to me. I remen.ber only the rustic picture, sketched 
 as with a burnt stick on the board of a pair of bellows, seemed to me 
 completely good ; and that the general effect was, one saw the great Wil- 
 berforce and his existence visible in all their main lineaments, but only as 
 through the reversed telescope, and reduced to the size of a mouse and its 
 nest, or little more ! This was, in most or in all cases, the result brought 
 out : one's self and telescope of natural (or perhaps preternatural) size ; 
 but the object, so great to vulgar eyes, reduced amazingly, with all its lin- 
 eaments recognizable. I found a very superior talent in these Words- 
 worth delineations. They might have reminded me, though I know not 
 whether they did at the time, of a larger series like them, which I had 
 from my father during two wet days, which confined us to the house, the 
 last time we met at Scotsbrig. These were of select Annandale figures 
 whom I had seen in my boyhood, and of whom, now that they were all 
 vanished, I was glad to have, for the first time, some real knowledge as 
 facts ; the outer simulacra, in all their equipments, being still so patheti- 
 cally vivid to me. My father's, in rugged simple force, picturesque inge- 
 nuity, veracity and brevity, were, I do judge, superior to even Words- 
 worth's as bits of human portraiture, without flavor of contempt, too, but 
 given out with judicial indifference, and intermixed here and there with 
 flashes of the poetical and soberly pathetic (e. g., the death of Ball of Dun- 
 naby, and why the two joiners were seen sawing wood in a pour of rain), 
 which the Wordsworth sketches, mainly of distant and indifferent persons, 
 altogether wanted. Oh, my brave, dear, and ever-honored peasant father, 
 where among the grandees, sages, and recognized poets of tke world, did 
 I listen to such sterling speech as yours, golden product of a heart and 
 brain all sterling and royal ? That is a literal fact, and it has often filled 
 me with strange reflections, in the whirlpools of this mad world. 
 
 During the last seven or ten years of his life Wordsworth felt himself 
 to be a recognized lion in certain considerable London circles, and was in 
 the habit of coming up to town with his wife for a month or two every 
 season, to enjoy his quiet triumph, and collect his bits of tribute tales quales. 
 The places where I met him oftenest were Marshall's (the great Leeds 
 
336 APPENDIX. 
 
 linen manufacturer, an excellent and very opulent man), Spring-Rice's 
 (i. e.. Lord Monteagle's, who and whose house was strangely intermarried 
 with this Marshall's), and the first Lord Stanley's of Alderly (who then, 
 perhaps, was still Sir Thomas Stanley). Wordsworth took his bit of lion- 
 ism very quietly, with a smile sardonic rather than triumphant, and cer- 
 tainly got no harm by it, if he got or expected little good. His wife, a 
 small, withered, puckered, winking lady, who never spoke, seemed to be 
 more in earnest about the affair, and was visibly and sometimes ridicu- 
 lously assiduous to secure her proper place of precedence at table. One 
 evening at Lord Monteagle's — ah, who was it that then made me laugh as 
 we went home together ? ah me ! Wordsworth generally spoke a little with 
 me on those occasions ; sometimes, perhaps, we sate by one another ; but 
 there came from him nothing considerable, and happily at least nothing 
 with an effort. "If you think me dull, be it Just so!" — this seemed to a 
 most respectable extent to be his inspiring humor. Hardly above once 
 (perhaps at the Stanleys') do I faintly recollect something of the contrary 
 on his part for a Uttle while, which was not pleasant or successful while it 
 lasted. The light was always afflictive to his eyes ; he carried in his pock- 
 et something hke a skeleton brass candlestick, in which, setting it on the 
 dinner table, between him and the most afflictive or nearest of the chief 
 lights, he touched a little spring, and there flirted out, at the top of his 
 brass implement, a small vertical green circle which prettily enough threw 
 his eyes into shade, and screened him from that sorrow. In proof of his 
 equanimity as lion, I remember, in connection with this green shade, one 
 ilttle glimpse which shall be given presently as finis. But first let me say 
 that all these Wordsworth phenomena appear to have been indifferent to 
 me, and have melted to steamy oblivion in a singular degree. Of his talk 
 to others in my hearing I remember simply nothing, not even a word or 
 gesture. To myself it seemed once or twice as if he bore suspicions, 
 thinking I was not a real worshipper, which threw him into something of 
 embarrassment, till I hastened to get them laid, by frank discourse on 
 some suitable thing ; nor, when we did talk, was there on his side or on 
 mine the least utterance worth noting. The tone of his voice when I got 
 him afloat on some Cumberland or other matter germane to him had a 
 braced rustic vivacity, willingness, and solid precision, which alone rings 
 in my ear when all else is gone. Of some Druid circle, for example, he 
 prolonged his response to me with the addition, "And there is another 
 some miles off, which the country people call Long Meg and her Daugh- 
 ters ;" as to the now ownership of which " It " etc. ; " and then it came 
 into the hands of a Mr. Crackenthorpe ;" the sound of those two phrases 
 is still lively and present with me ; meaning or sound of absolutely noth- 
 ing more. Still more memorable is an ocular glimpse I had in one of 
 these Wordsworthian lion-dinners, very symbolic to me of his general de- 
 portment there, and far clearer than the little feature of opposite sort, am- 
 biguously given above (recollection of that viz. of unsuccessful exertion 
 
APPENDIX. 337 
 
 at a Stanley dinner being dubious and all but extinct, while this is still 
 vivid to me as of yesternight). Dinner was large, luminous, sumptuous. 
 I sate a long way from Wordsworth; dessert I think had come in, and cer- 
 tainly there reigned in all quarters a cackle as of Babel (only politer, per- 
 haps), which, far up in Wordsworth's quarter (who was leftward on my 
 side of the table), seemed to have taken a sententious, rather louder, log- 
 ical, and quasi-scientific turn, heartily unimportant to gods and men, so 
 far as I could judge of it and of the other babble reigning. I look up- 
 wards, leftwards, the coast being luckily for a moment clear ; then, far off, 
 beautifully screened in the shadow of his vertical green circle, which was 
 on the farther side of him, sat Wordsworth, silent, slowly but steadily 
 gnawing some portion of what I judged to be raisins, with his eye and at- 
 tention placidly fixed on these and these alone. The sight of whom, and 
 of his rock-like indifference to the babble, quasi-scientific and other, with 
 attention turned on the small practical alone, was comfortable and amusing 
 to me, who felt like him, but could not eat raisins. This little glimpse I 
 could still paint, so clear and bright is it, and this shall be symbolical of 
 all. 
 
 In a few years, I forget in how many and when, these Wordsworth ap- 
 pearances in London ceased ; we heard, not of ill-health, perhaps, but of 
 increasing love of rest ; at length of the long sleep's coming ; and never 
 saAv Wordsworth more. One felt his death as the extinction of a public 
 light, but not otherwise. The public itself found not much to say of him, 
 and staggered on to meaner but more pressing objects. Why should I 
 continue these melancholy jottings, in which I have no interest ; in which 
 the one figure that could interest me is almost wanting ! I will cease. 
 [Finished, after many miserable interruptions, catarrhal and other, at 
 Mentone, March 8, ISGY.] 
 
INDEX 
 
 A. 
 
 Aberfeldt, Falls of, at the, 102. 
 
 Abbotshall, Piers, the school-master 
 of, 63. 
 
 Accident from falling, to Jane Welsh 
 Carlyle, 295. 
 
 Acquaintances, Glasgow, 77. 
 
 Adder, seeing an, 242. 
 
 ^Addiscombe, visiting, 263. 
 
 AflFectation, James Carlyle's free- 
 dom from, 13. 
 
 Airock Stane, over, 169. 
 
 Airy, Mr., the "Astronomer Royal," 
 128. 
 
 Aitken, Margaret, 27. 
 
 Albury, invited to, 154. 
 
 Althorp's, Lord, residence at Wim- 
 bledon Park, 193. 
 
 America, Lord Jeffrey's voyage to, 
 184. 
 
 American Rebellion, reference to, 
 184, 309. 
 
 Anderson, James, 185. 
 
 Anger of James Carlyle, 5. 
 
 Annan, Academy at, 29, 45 ; bridge 
 toll-money, 17; Burgher con- 
 gregation, 44 ; description of, 
 92 ; Thomas Carlyle as teach- 
 er of mathematics at, 175. 
 
 Annandale, a lawless Border coun- 
 try, 26 ; Irving's remarks 
 about visiting, 91, 94, 307. 
 
 Annuity offered Thomas Carlyle by 
 Lord Jeffrey, 188. 
 
 "Anson's Voyages," reading, 20. 
 
 Appendix, 321-337. 
 
 "Arabian Nights," James Carlyle's 
 scruples about the, 20. 
 
 Aristocracy of England, some of the, 
 262. 
 
 Arithmetic, well understood by 
 James Carlyle, 11 ; teaching 
 Thomas Carlyle, 29. 
 
 Arnott's improved grate, allusion 
 to, 286. 
 
 Article in "Blackwood's Maga- 
 zine," Wilson's, 103. 
 
 Ashburton, Lady, 263, 289. 
 
 Astronomical Observatory, Edin- 
 burgh, 195. 
 
 Athelstanford ("Elshinford"), 8-8. 
 
 Athenseum Club in London, th« pro- 
 jected, 145. 
 
 Auchtertool, visit to, 289. 
 
 Augusta, Miss, called "Miss Disgus- 
 ta," 88. 
 
 Auldgarth, bridge building at, 23, 24. 
 
 Austin, Mrs., reminiscences of, 270. 
 
 Authors and the half-profi-ts sys- 
 tem, 138. 
 
 B. 
 
 Bad preacher, James Carlyle's opin- 
 ion respecting a : "he was like 
 a fly wading among tar," 13. 
 
 Badam's family, the, 122, 250. 
 
 Bain, Master, of the Royal Navy, G5. 
 
 Ball, the Dancing-school, 218. 
 
 Ballad of "Johnnie o' Braidislea," 
 253. 
 
 Bankruptcy of "Uncle John" 
 Welsh, 240. 
 
 Barber's shop, Jane Welsh Carlyle, 
 in a, 217. 
 
 Barnet, Bessie, 300 ; family, the, 123. 
 
 Baron, Dr., of Gloucester, 191. 
 
 "Barry Cornwall" (Procter), 113 ; 
 introduction to Lord Jeffrey, 
 177. 
 
 Battle,visit to, 304. 
 
 Battle of Mollwitz, referring to the, 
 287. 
 
 Beach of Kirkcaldy, 54. 
 
 Belcher, Jemmy, a Unitarian book- 
 seller, 127. 
 
 "Belfast Shoemaker," song called 
 the, 169. 
 
 Bell, John, the steamboat inventor, 
 66. 
 
 — Surgeon, 225. 
 
 — William, playing at cards, 20. 
 
340 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Bell Top Hill part of the vale of 
 Dryfe, 75. 
 
 Bell's, James, remarks about educa- 
 tion, 14. 
 
 Ben Lomond signal column seen 
 through a theodolite sixt}' 
 miles off, 55. 
 
 Bensley the printer, and the half- 
 profits system, 138. 
 
 Benson, Mr., a wine -merchant of 
 York, 114. 
 
 "Biographic Universelle," the, 257. 
 
 "Birks of Aberfeldy," singing the, 
 241. 
 
 Birmingham, visiting, 132, 251 ; Irv- 
 ing in, 128. 
 
 Birrens, the, 84. 
 
 Birthday celebration in London, a, 
 214. 
 
 Birth of James Carlyle, 15. 
 
 — John Welsh, Mrs. Carlyle's fa- 
 
 ther, 224. 
 
 — Jane Welsh— afterward Mrs. 
 
 Carlyle, 227. 
 
 Bishop of Toronto, a triumphant 
 Canadian, 120. 
 
 Black Bull, Edinburgh, Jane Welsh 
 Carlyle at the,l218. 
 
 Blacklock, Joe, a stocking-weaver, 
 45. 
 
 "Blackwood's Magazine," article 
 in, 103 ; criticisms in, 187. 
 
 Blakiston, Dr., of St. Leonard's, 300. 
 
 Boarding with Mr. Glen, a burgher 
 minister at Annan, 55. 
 
 Bonnet, a Highland, 245. 
 
 "Book on the Sabbath," by Rev. 
 Mr. Macbeth, 120. 
 
 Border robbery of Cumberland cat- 
 tle, 18. 
 
 Boreland, a drive to, 238. 
 
 Bowles, Miss, 329. 
 
 " Boxes from Weimar," 245. 
 
 Boys fighting in London, separating 
 two, 250. 
 
 Brand, Robert, a rigid religionist, 
 26. 
 
 Braxfield's, Lord (Old Braxey), re- 
 marks about Lord Jeflfrey, 
 192. 
 
 Breach of promise of marriage, trial 
 of a Scotch minister for, 209. 
 
 Bread-making, 210, 243. 
 
 Breadalbane's, Lord, invitation to 
 Irving at Taymouth, 104. 
 
 Breakfasts in Bristo Street, Kirk- 
 caldy, 72. 
 
 Break-up in Irving's triumphant 
 Kirkcaldy Kingdom, 51. 
 
 Brewster, Dr., and his dreary trans- 
 lations, 92. 
 
 " Bridekirk's Hunting," 15. 
 
 Bridge-building at Auldgarth, 23, 24. 
 
 Bridge of Shinnel, the, 241. 
 
 BrigofTeith, 63. 
 
 Bromley, Miss, visiting, 310. 
 
 Brougham, Lord, reference to, 185. 
 
 Brown, James, in company with, 
 63-68. 
 
 — Rev. James, 217. 
 
 — William, a mason from Peebles, 
 
 21. 
 
 Brownknowe, 15. 
 
 Bubbly Jock, the, 204. 
 
 Buller, Charles, Thomas Carlyle's 
 appointment as tutor to, 97; 
 circle, the, 279. 
 
 " Bummbee " (humming oa* field- 
 bee), ordering a roasted, 218. 
 
 Burning of railway -carriage, inci- 
 dent of, 289; a woman in a 
 furnace at Muirkirk, 90, 91. 
 
 Burns, Robert, remarks about, 10; 
 Mrs. Montague's visit to, 114. 
 
 Burns's, Robert, landlord, Mr. Mil- 
 ler, Laird of Dalswinton, Dum- 
 friesshire, 66. 
 
 Burnswark, description of, 83 ; Tom 
 Stoddart's farm at, 172. 
 
 — William Graham, of, 79, 83-86. 
 Burr in pronouncing the letter r, 
 
 old Walter Welsh's, 219, 231. 
 Burrens, farming at, 18. 
 
 C. 
 
 Caledcnian Chapel, London, 109, 
 
 Callander, breakfasting in, 63. 
 Campbell, Mr., the Argyll factor at 
 
 Rosen eath, 67. 
 Canary-bird, " Chico," the, 254. 
 Cancer, operation on Aunt Jeannie 
 
 Welsh, 236. 
 Capelgill, old Walter Welsh's farm 
 
 at, 69, 233. 
 Card-playing in the kiln at Relief, 
 
 20. 
 Carlile, Gavin, 83. 
 
 — Warrand, 83. 
 
 Carlyle, Francis, " the captain of 
 Middlebie,"17. 
 
 — Frank, 16. 
 
 — James, death of, 4, 157 ; recol- 
 
 lections of, 5-33 ; large natu- 
 ral endowments, 5 ; when an- 
 gry, his words like " sharp ar- 
 rows," 5 ; scrupulous veraci- 
 
INDEX. 
 
 341 
 
 Carl3'le, James, continued. 
 
 ty, 5; dislike to speak of dis- 
 agreeable and past matters, 
 6 ; placid indifference to pub- 
 lic opinion, 6 ; great interest 
 in the mode of living men, 7 ; 
 contempt for idle tattle, 7; 
 complains to some laughing 
 rustics, 8 ; strong language 
 in the tax courts, 8 ; impres- 
 sions of Sir W. Maxwell, 9; 
 politeness of manner, 9 ; true 
 hospitality, 10; opinion of 
 Burns' s poetry, 10; education, 
 11 ; religious impressions, 11 ; 
 generous economist, 12; free- 
 dom from affectation, 13 ; con- 
 fidence in own judgment, 13 ; 
 allusion to words about ed- 
 ucation uttered by James Bell, 
 14; preparation for death, 14 ; 
 personal appearance, 14 ; date 
 of birth, 15; description of 
 birthplace at Brownknowe, 
 15 ; removal to Sibbaldry 
 Side, 15 ; relatives, 15, 16, 23 ; 
 his father a principal in the 
 " Ecclefechan Dog-fight," 17 ; 
 his brother Francis, " the Cap- 
 tain of Middlebie," 17; at 
 Burrens, in Middlebie, 18 ; 
 Border robbery of Cumber- 
 land cattle, 18; Sandy Mac- 
 leod, a wandering pensioner, 
 19; John Orr, the school 
 master, 20 ; scruples about 
 the "Arabian Nights," 20; 
 card - playing, 20 ; John Orr 
 employed to exorcise a house, 
 21 ; William Brown, a mason 
 from Peebles, 21 ; learning 
 masonry, 23 ; bridge-building 
 at Auldgarth,23; at Craigen- 
 puttoch,24,33; Robert Hen- 
 derson and his dashing daugh- 
 ter, 26 ; introduction to the 
 "pride of life," 26; old Rob- 
 ert Brand's influence, 26; 
 Annandale a lawless Border 
 country, 26 ; meeting-house at 
 Ecclefechan, 26; Jolm John- 
 ston, the priest, 26 ; race of 
 religious men in Annandale, 
 27 ; married to Janet Carlyle, 
 27 ; death of Janet Carlyle, 
 27; reverent custom in speak- 
 ing of death, 27; married to 
 Margaret Aitkin, 27; birth of 
 Thomas Carlyle, 27 ; crossing 
 
 Carlyle, James, continued. 
 
 Mein Water, 28 ; teaching 
 arithmetic, 29; Annan Acad- 
 emy, 29; opinion about Na- 
 poleon, 31; in the "dear 
 years" (1799 and 1800), 31; 
 burning of smuggled tobacco 
 at Langholm, 31; building of 
 Cressfield House, 31 ; farming 
 at Main Hill, 31 ; writing to 
 General Sharpe, 33 ; reception 
 of small presents, 33; was 
 FEY, 33 ; touching tribute to, 
 oo, 
 
 — Jane Welsh, recollections of, 
 303-318; "In memoriam," 
 204; some tempting custards, 
 204; frightened by a turkey, 
 204; learning Latin, 204; 
 scnool at Haddington, 305; 
 appearance in girlhood, 206; 
 her parents, 207; residing at 
 Templand, 208, 338; flirting, 
 308; marriage, 309; Comley 
 Bank, 210 ; Lord Jeffrey, 211 ; 
 heavy snow, 313 ; Craigenput- 
 toch horse-riding incident, 
 213; journey to Ecclefechan, 
 214 ; George Rennie, 215 ; 
 Dods, the peasant school-fel- 
 low, 215; Geraldine Jews- 
 bury's account of her child- 
 hood, 216 ; at a barber's shop, 
 217; education, 317; dining at 
 the Black Bull, Edinburgh, 
 218; the dancing-school ball, 
 318; old Walter Welsh, 219; 
 the Welsh family, 219-341; 
 Hoggan of Waterside, 233 ; the 
 Perthshire Fencible Cavalry, 
 335 ; Nisbet of Dirleton, 226 ; 
 birth, July 14, 1801, 227 ; death 
 of Mrs. Welsh, 230,264; Capel- 
 gill, 233 ; medical operation 
 on Aunt Jeannie, 336 ; funeral 
 of Aunt Jeannie, 236 ; descrip- 
 tion of Templand, 237; inci- 
 dent on " Cluden Water" 
 road, 238; Dumfries Cattle 
 Show, 239; bankruptcy of 
 Uncle John Welsh, 239; sing- 
 ing " The Birks of Aberfeldy," 
 241 ; seeing a hernshaw, 241 ; 
 trouble with servants, 243; 
 Scotsbrig, 244; "boxes from 
 Weimar," 245; Moir's sketch 
 of Craigenputtoch, 245; visit 
 from Emerson, 245 ; Lord Jef- 
 frey, 245; old Esther, 246; 
 
342 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Carlyle, Jane Welsh, continued. 
 
 Review editors, 348 ; Keform 
 Bill uproar, 249; Drur}^ Lane 
 Tlieatre, 250; Charles Lamb, 
 250; Edinburgh in 1832,252; 
 suffering from headaches, 252; 
 departure from Edinburgh, 
 May, 1834, 253 ; " Chico," the 
 canary-bird, 254; residence in 
 London, 255; letter from Hen- 
 ry Drummond, 255; Leigh 
 Hunt, 256, 271 ; John Stuai't 
 Mill, 256; London circles, 258, 
 261 ; Giuseppe Mazzini, 258 ; 
 Godefroi Cavaignac, 258 ; 
 financial matters, 260, 261, 
 266; noticed by the aristoc- 
 racy, 261 ; opinion of Lady 
 Holland, 262 ; John Marshall's 
 family (Leeds), 262, 275 ; Lady 
 Ashburton, 263, 289; visit to 
 Addiscombe, 263; "Latter- 
 day Pamphlets," 266, 281; 
 Duke of Wellington at Bath 
 house, 268 ; funeral of the 
 Duke of Wellington, 269; 
 John Sterling's death - day, 
 269; Mrs. Austin, 270; Eras- 
 mus and Charles Darwin, 271 ; 
 Allan Cunningham, 272; Har- 
 riet Martineau, 273 ; Socinian 
 preaching of James Marti- 
 neau, 273; Sir James Ste- 
 phens, 278; at Troston Par- 
 sonage, in Suffolk, 279; in Ely 
 Cathedral, 279 ; weak state of 
 health, 280, 293, 308 ; the Chel- 
 sea house remodelled, 282; 
 the "demon fowls," 283; 
 death of Mrs. James Carlyle, 
 284; Prussian Blockheadism, 
 287 ; revisiting Edinburgh, 
 289 ; incident of the burning 
 railway-carriage, 289 ; sorting 
 a mother's memorials, 292; 
 suffering from neuralgic rheu- 
 matism, 293; visiting Mrs. 
 Goodby, 294 ; accident from a 
 fall, 295 ; scene with a Catholic 
 sick-nurse, 298 ; Dr. Blakiston 
 of St. Leonard's, 300 ; visit to 
 Haddington, 301; St. Leon- 
 ard's, 302, 303, return to Lon- 
 don, 306; visiting Annandale, 
 807 ; Edinburgh Rectorship, 
 313 ; Prof Tyndall, 313 ; Vis- 
 iting Mrs. Oliphant at Wind- 
 sor, 314 ; death, 315 ; Geral- 
 dine Jewsbury's letter, 315. 
 
 Carlyle, Janet, 27. 
 
 — John, as travelling physician to 
 
 Lady Clare, 191. 
 
 — Margaret, wife of James Carlyle, 
 
 27. 
 
 — Margaret, sister of Thomas Car- 
 
 lyle, death of, 150. 
 
 — Mrs. James, death of, 283. 
 
 — Ihomas, the father of James 
 
 Carlyle, 15. 
 
 Carron Iron-works, the, 63. 
 
 Castlehill, in Durisdeer, 233. 
 
 Cataract of the " Grey Mai-e's Tail," 
 the, 69. 
 
 Catholic sick-nurse, a, 298. 
 
 Cattle Show at Dumfries, visiting 
 the, 239. 
 
 Cavaignac, Godefroi, 258. 
 
 Chalmers, Dr., preaching at Dun- 
 fermline, 54; requiring an as- 
 sistant, 73; receives Edward 
 Irving as assistant, 77 ; char- 
 acter^ of, 79 ; respect for his 
 mother, 81 ; death of, 81. 
 
 Change in school-masters at Kirk- 
 caldy, 53. 
 
 Chapman and Hall, publishers, 366. 
 
 Charles Dix of France, 133. 
 
 Chelsea house, remodelling the, 282. 
 
 Cherch, Mr. and Mrs., of Hitchill, 47. 
 
 Cheviots, the shepherds of the, 69. 
 
 Cheyne Row, Chelsea, living at, 163. 
 
 Chezy, M. de, professor oi Persic., 134. 
 
 " Chico," the canarj'-bird, 254, 
 
 Childhood of Jane Welsh Carlyle, 
 216. 
 
 Chivalry of Irving, 51. 
 
 Chorley, John, 285. 
 
 Christison, Professor, 51. 
 
 " Christus Consolator," a print, 374. 
 
 Church dissensions in Scotland, 43. 
 
 Clare, Lady, and Lord Jeffrey's offer, 
 191. 
 
 Clerk, John, 171. 
 
 Closeburn academy, 235. 
 
 Clothes made of leather, 16. 
 
 Clove of Maxwellton, the, 341. 
 
 Cluden Water road (Lower Cairn), 
 incident of a drive on the, 338. 
 
 Clyde, Falls of, visiting the, 67. 
 
 Cochin China fowls, incident about 
 some, 383. 
 
 Coleridge, Hartley, 334. 
 
 — Samuel Taylor, Irving's opinion 
 
 of, 103 ; visiting at Highgate, 
 115 ; death of, 115, 154. 
 
 Collected works of Thomas Carlyle, 
 the, 367. 
 
 Comley Bank, Edinburgh, at, 146, 
 
INDEX. 
 
 343 
 
 Comley Bank, continned. 
 
 210 ; Lord Jeffrey calling at, 
 
 179. 
 Contempt for idle tattle, 7. 
 Conversion and its meaning, 143. 
 Cook, Mrs., tlie laundress, 311. 
 " Correyran saddle-yoke " at Moffat 
 
 dale, 69. 
 Coterie-spraclie, family circle dia- 
 lect, 292. 
 " Countess of Pembroke," the, 333. 
 Countess of Rothes, the, 55. 
 Cow, milking a, 212. 
 "Crabbe Robinson," 116. 
 Crackenthorpe, Mr., 336. 
 Craigenputtoch, at, 24, 32, 181, 211 ; 
 
 the laird of, 221 ; sale of, 223 ; a 
 
 sketch of, 245. 
 Craigcrook, Lord Jeffrey's residence 
 
 at, 181 ; visit to, 245. 
 Craik, Mary, 303. 
 " Craiks of Arligsland," Nithsdale, 
 
 114. 
 Crawford, funeral of Aunt Jeannie 
 
 Welsh at, 236. 
 Cressfield House, building the, 31. 
 Crichop Linn, at, 241. 
 Criticisms in "Blackwood," 187. 
 Cunninu-ham, Allan, acquaintance 
 
 With, 137, 272. 
 Custards, Jane Welsh Carlyle and 
 
 some tempting, 204. 
 
 D. 
 
 Dairy experiences, 243. 
 
 Dalgleish, George, 176. 
 
 Dancing -school ball, Jane Welsh 
 
 Carlyle at the, 218. 
 Darwin, Charles, and species of these 
 
 days, 271. 
 
 — Erasmus, 271. 
 
 Davis, Jefferson, reference to, 309. 
 
 D'Ewes's "Election to the Long 
 Parliament," 268. 
 
 Dean of Faculty, Lord Jeffrey elect- 
 ed, 189. 
 
 "Dear years" (1799 and 1800), the, 
 31. 
 
 Death, impressions regarding, 191. 
 
 Death of James Carlyle, 4, 157. 
 
 — Mrs. James Carlyle, 283. 
 
 — Jane Welsh Carl3ie, 315. 
 
 — Margaret Carlyle. 150. 
 
 — Chalmers, Dr., 81. 
 
 — Coleridge, 115, 154. 
 
 — Old Esther, 247. 
 
 — Eraser, the publisher, 266. 
 
 — Adam Hope's wife, 50. 
 
 Death of Edward Irving, 37, 165. 
 
 — Lord Jeffrey, 198. 
 
 — Louis Dix-huit, 132; lying in 
 
 state, 132. 
 
 — Southej^ 330. 
 
 — Jolni Sterling in 1848, 269. 
 
 — Old Walter Welsh, 220. 
 
 — Wordsworth, 337. 
 Democracy, remarks on, 199. 
 
 " Demon fowls," incident about the, 
 283. 
 
 De Quincey, the opium-eater, refer- 
 ence to, 127, 324. 
 
 Devizes, 38. 
 
 Devonshire, visiting, 311. 
 
 Dickens's essential faculty, 186. 
 
 Dickson, Frank, visiting, 73. 
 
 Dining at Black Bull, Edinburgh, 
 218. 
 
 Dinners, Wordsworthian, recollec- 
 tions of 336, 337. 
 
 Dinwiddle, Mr., 109. 
 
 " Discovery of Junius," Joe Parkes's 
 new, 126. 
 
 Dissent in Scotland, 43. 
 
 Dixon's, Provost, lodging at, 93. 
 
 Dods, the peasant school-fellow, 215. 
 
 Dolph, an excellent cob or pony, 
 called, 102. 
 
 Donaldson, of Aberdeen origin, 55. 
 
 Donaldsons at Sunnybank {hodie 
 Tenterfield), visit to the, 246. 
 
 Douglas from Haddington, 54. 
 
 Dover, visiting, 129, 135. 
 
 Dow of " Irongray," the, 147. 
 
 Drumclog Moss, 89. 
 
 Drumlanrig Castle, 237. 
 
 — woods, drive through the, 309. 
 Drummond, Henry, 147; and his 
 
 fanatics, 255 ; description of 
 the house of, 154. 
 
 — Willie, with mournful goggle- 
 
 eyes, 45. 
 
 Drury Lane Theatre, visiting, 250. 
 
 Dryfe Water, 73. 
 
 Dudley "Black Country," viewing 
 the, 126, 128. 
 
 Duke, horsewhipped by a, 191. 
 
 Duke of Wellington, incidents about 
 the,268;'funeralof, 269. 
 
 Dumfries, walking from Muirkirk to, 
 91; a sixteen miles' moonlight 
 ride from, 150 ; to Ecclefech- 
 an, Jane Welsh Carlvle's ride 
 from, 214; Cattle Show, visit 
 to the, 239 ; to Scotsbrig, rid- 
 ing experiences from, 248; vis- 
 iting, 310. 
 
 Duncan, Rev. H., of Ruthwell, 47. 
 
344 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Dunfermline, Dr. Chalmers preach- 
 ing at, 54, 
 
 Dunse, the native country of Piers, 
 67. 
 
 Dyspepsia, suffering from, 120. 
 
 E. 
 
 ECCLEFECHAN Dog-fight, the, 17. 
 
 Ecclefechan, meeting-house at, 26 ; 
 Edward Irving attending, 44 ; 
 James Carlyle and his broth- 
 ers settle at, 28; revisiting, 
 141 ; Nell Kennedy buying ar- 
 senic at, 172; Jane Welsh Car- 
 lyle's ride from Dumfries to, 
 214. 
 
 Edinburgh, "Peddie's Meeting- 
 house" at, 56; George IV.'s 
 visit to, 87 ; Outer House, Par- 
 liament Square, 169 ; Astro- 
 nomical Observatory, the, 195; 
 Jane Welsh Carlyle at the 
 Black Bull Inn at, 218 ; in win- 
 ter of 1832-'33, 252 ; in May, 
 1834,253; visiting, 289; Lord 
 Rectorship election, 312. 
 
 "Edinburgh Review," contributions 
 to, 176. 
 
 Education, James Bell's remarks 
 about, 14. 
 
 Ellenborough's, Lord, " Gates of 
 Somnauth," 269. 
 
 Ely Cathedral, in, 279. 
 
 "Embassy," McCartney's Sketch 
 of, 7. 
 
 Emerson's visit from Concord, 245. 
 
 Empson, Mrs., 184. 
 
 English aristocracy, some of the, 
 
 262. 
 — writers at Mrs. Montague's, 115, 
 116. 
 
 Envy, James Carlyle's freedom from, 
 13. 
 
 Erskine, Thomas, allusion to, 59. 
 
 Esther, Old, memories of, 246. 
 
 Ewart, Mrs., of Nithbank, at, 309. 
 
 Exaggeration, tendency to, 5. 
 
 " Exegesis " on the question " Num 
 detur religio naturalis ?" 48. 
 
 Exorcising a house in the Parish of 
 Hoddam, 21. 
 
 Expulsion from the presbytery of 
 Edward Irving, 160. 
 
 F. 
 
 Falkland ruined palace, 55. 
 Falls of Aberfeldy, at the, 102. 
 
 Falls of Clyde, the, 67. 
 
 Farewell to Irving, 165. 
 
 Farming at Main Hill, 31. 
 
 Fearn, Mr., profound in metaphys- 
 ics, 116. 
 
 Feast of shells, a, 155. 
 
 Ferguson's, Mrs., breakfasting at, 
 93. 
 
 Fey, James Carlyle's remark about 
 being, 33, 192. 
 
 Financial matters, 260, 261, 266. 
 
 Fletcher's, Phineas, "Purple Isl- 
 and," Irving reading, 129. 
 
 Flirting, 208, 215. 
 
 Fonthill Abbey sale, Hazlitt at the, 
 103. 
 
 Forster, Mrs., Kensington, 306. 
 
 Fowls, Cochin China, "incident about 
 some, 282. 
 
 France, Mentone, Thomas Carlyle 
 in, 153, 166. 
 
 Eraser, the publisher, death of, 266. 
 
 "Free Kirk making no noise," a, 
 
 French, Rev. Mr., breakfasting with, 
 89. 
 
 "French Revolution," writing on 
 the, 163. 
 
 Fryston Hall, seat of Lord Hough- 
 ton, 312. 
 
 Fulton, Robert, and John Bell, in- 
 ventors of steamboats on the 
 Hudson, 66. 
 
 Funeral of Thomas Carlyle, the fa- 
 ther of James Carlyle, 16. 
 
 — Mrs. James Carlyle, 217. 
 
 — of Aunt Jeannie Welsh, at Craw- 
 
 ford, 236. 
 
 — of the Duke of Wellington, 269. 
 Furnace at Muirkirk, incident of an 
 
 accident at a, 90. 
 Furniture, solid, 252, 253. 
 
 G., 
 
 "Gates of Somnauth," Lord El- 
 lenborough's, 269. 
 
 General Assembly, Edinburgh, May, 
 1814, meeting notable persons 
 at the, 175. 
 
 Generous economy of James Car- 
 lyle, 12. 
 
 George IV.'s visit to Edinburgh, 87. 
 
 Geraldine Jewsbury's mystic jot- 
 tings, 204; Craigenputtoch's 
 stories, 242. 
 
 "German Romance," doing, 141, 
 166 ; and Lord Jeffrey, 178. 
 
 " Gift of tongues," the, 147, 157. 
 
INDEX. 
 
 345 
 
 Gillespie, Mary, 15. 
 
 Girlhood of Jane Welsh Carlyle, 206. 
 
 Girondins, struggles of the, 334. 
 
 Glasgow in 1819- Radical "rising" 
 in ; Irving's appointment as 
 assistant to Dr. Cluilmers, 77 ; 
 Irving's preaching in, 82; Ir- 
 ving's position at, 95 ; depart- 
 ure'frora, 96. 
 
 Glen, Mr., a Burgher minister at An- 
 nan, 55; and family embark- 
 ing from Leith for Astrachan, 
 56; return to Scotland; death 
 of Mr. Glen, 58 ; his widow 
 pensioned on the "Literary 
 List," 58. 
 
 Glen Truin, meeting Lord Jeffrey 
 at, 197. 
 
 Godby, Mrs. , visiting, 293. 
 
 Goethe, letter from, 137, 151. 
 
 Goram, Sir William, 809. 
 
 Gordon, Mfirgaret, 71. 
 
 Gorsas, execution of, 334. 
 
 " Graham Brothers," the firm of, 
 85. 
 
 Graham, Sir James, 239. 
 
 — William, of Burnswark, 79, 83- 
 
 86. 
 Grant's, Captain, marriage to Sir 
 
 Peter Laurie's niece, 109. 
 Greenock steamei's, impressions at 
 
 firstsight ofthe, 65. 
 Greg's, Robie, rickety yawl, rowing 
 
 in Leith water in, 56. 
 Gretna, the head of Solway Frith, 
 
 83. 
 "Grey Mare's Tail," the cataract 
 
 of the, 69. 
 Grouse-shooting, 245. 
 
 H. 
 
 Haddington, visiting, 87, 88, 301 ; 
 
 birthplace of James Baillie 
 
 Welsh, 203; school at, 205; 
 
 Sunnybank, at, 290. 
 Hagley and Hagley Tap, visiting, 
 
 126. 
 Haileybury College, 198. 
 Hainning's, James, father, 24. 
 Hales Owen, 126. 
 Half-pence, the fl rst new, 29 ; profits 
 
 system and poor authors, the, 
 
 138. 
 Hall, Captain Basil, 72, 
 
 — Dr., of Leicester, sermon by, 
 
 127. 
 Hamilton, William, a pious Niths- 
 dale man, 108, 163. 
 15^' 
 
 Hard times in the " dear years " 
 (1799 and 1800), 31. 
 
 Hare's flesh as food, 19. 
 
 "Harmonious Blacksmith," the, 
 271. 
 
 Hat-maker, Dumfries, 38. 
 
 Hatton Garden, Irving's preaching 
 at, 117. 
 
 Haunted house, James Orr, exorcis- 
 ing an, 21. 
 
 Hazlitt at the Fonthill Abbey sale, 
 103 ; Lord Jeffrey's generosi- 
 ty to, 186, 245. 
 
 " He might be thankful he was not 
 in purgatory," Sandy Mac- 
 leod's quaint saying, 19, 
 
 Headaches, fearful suffering from, 
 252, 
 
 Heads, large, 38, 
 
 Hen, musings upon seeing a, 136, 
 
 Henderson, Robert, and his dashing 
 daughter, 25, 26. 
 
 Hernshaw (herrin'shouw") fishing, 
 241, 
 
 Hero-worship, lectures on, 210. 
 
 Heron-fishing in a stream, 241. 
 
 Hoddam, James Orr, school-master. 
 at, 21. 
 
 Hoddam Hill, settlement at, 31; the 
 "Tower of Repentance" at, 
 141. 
 
 Hogg, James, the poet, a celebrity, 
 69. 
 
 — Thomas, 20, 
 
 Hoggan of Waterside, old, 223. 
 Home's, John, "Douglas," 88, 
 Hope, Adam, the school-master, 40; 
 wife's death, 50. 
 
 — David, of Glasgow, 83. 
 
 — David, the farmer, 42. 
 Horrox's "Venus in Sole visa," 
 
 176. 
 
 Horsemanship of Jane Welsh Car- 
 lyle, 213. 
 
 " Horsewhipped by a duke," Ma- 
 caulay on, 191. 
 
 Hospitality of James Carlyle, 10. 
 
 Houghton, Lord and Lady, at Fry- 
 ston Hall, 312, 313. 
 
 House -keeping at Comlcy Bank, 
 210 at Craigenputtoch, 212, 
 243. 
 
 Hunt, Leigh, acquaintance with, 157, 
 194; and his impractical mes- 
 sages, 254 ; reminiscences of, 
 271. 
 
 Hunter, Farmer, and famil}% 222. 
 
 Hyde Park Corner (London), view- 
 ing the equipages at, 258. 
 
346 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Idle tattle, contempt for, 7. 
 
 Illness of Jane Welsh Carlyle, 280, 
 293, 308. 
 
 In memoriam Jane Welsh Carlyle, 
 204. 
 
 Inchkeith, rowing to, 55; light- 
 house at, 57; Russian graves 
 at, 57; voyage from Leith to, 
 57. 
 
 Indifference to public opinion, 6. 
 
 Infersnaidt, the Kharrkon of, 04. 
 
 Inglis, Dr., description of, 175. 
 
 Institute Paris, meeting of the, 134. 
 
 Introduction to Edward Irving, 46 ; 
 to Lord Jeffrey, 178. 
 
 Irish dandy, meeting with an, 93. 
 
 Irving, Edward, recollections of, 37- 
 166; death of, 37,165 ; his rel- 
 atives, 38-40; theQueensberry 
 farmers, 39; boyhood of, 40- 
 45 ; his remarkable school- 
 master, "Old Adam Hope," 
 40-44; David Hope's remarks 
 about the wind, 42; early re- 
 ligious impressions, 43 ; defi- 
 nition of dissent in Scotland, 
 43; at Annan Academy, 45; 
 success as a teacher, 48; at 
 Dr. Waugh's house in Edin- 
 burgh, 49; death of Adam 
 Hope's wife, 50; rumors of 
 break-up at Kirkcaldy, 51; 
 gives a warm welcome to 
 Thomas Carlyle at Kirkcaldy, 
 52; library, 53; hearing Dr. 
 Chalmers, 54 ; conversation 
 about the famous Trigonomet- 
 rical Survey, 55; the Count- 
 ess of Rothes, 55; voyage to 
 Inchkeith, 55, 57 ; regard for 
 Mr. Glen, 55; "Peddie's Meet- 
 ing-house," 56; Mrs. Glen re- 
 ceives pension on the "Liter- 
 ary list," 58; Kirkcaldy cir- 
 cles, 59; house of Rev. Mr. 
 Martin, 60; preaching as a li- 
 centiate, 61, 62 ; walking-tour, 
 62; impressions of the Tros- 
 achs, 64; the " Kharrison of 
 Infersnaidt," 64; Greenock 
 steamers, 65 ; Leith steamers, 
 65 ; Bell, and his first steamer 
 on the Hudson, 66; at Rose- 
 neath, 65, 66; Falls of Clyde, 
 67 ; visiting Robert Owen, 67; 
 tour through the Peebles- 
 Moffat moor country, 68; cat- 
 
 Irving, Edward, continued. 
 
 aract of the "Grey Mare's 
 Tail," 69; the Kirkcaldy pop- 
 ulation, 70 ; breakfast parties, 
 72; Captain Basil Hall, 72; 
 doing "lunars," 72; recom- 
 mendation of Rev. Andrew 
 Thomson, 73 ; Dryfe Water, 
 73; visiting Frank Dickson, 
 73; appointed assistant to 
 Dr. Chalmers at Glasgow, 76, 
 77; Radical "rising" in Glas- 
 gow, 77; acquaintances in 
 Glasgow, 79 ; relating to Dr. 
 Chalmers, 79, 80 ; Painter Wil- 
 kie, 80 ; death of Chalmers, 
 81 ; preaching in Glass'ow, 
 82 ; visiting Paisley, 83 ; Wil- 
 liam Graham, of Burnswark, 
 79, 83-86 ; George IV.'s visit 
 to Edinburgh, 87; visiting 
 Haddington, 88; Drumclog 
 Moss, 89 ; visits to Annan- 
 dale, 91 ; remarks about An- 
 nandale,94; invitation to Lon- 
 don, 95 ; leaving Glasgow, 95; 
 preaching in London^96-166; 
 Cliarles Buller, junior, 98; at- 
 tains great popularity in Lon- 
 don, I'Ol; married to Miss 
 Martin, of Kirkcaldy, 101 ; ar- 
 ticle in "Blackwood's Maga- 
 zine," 103 ; residing in Myd- 
 dleton Terrace, Islington, 
 London, 106; London circles, 
 107-112; Montague establish- 
 ment, 111; visiting Coleridge 
 at Highgate, 115 ; Barry Corn- 
 wall, 116; preaching at Ha tton 
 Garden, 117; Rev. Mr. Mac- 
 beth, 118; Caledonian Chapel, 
 Regent Square, 121; in Bir- 
 mingham, 128 ; in Dover, 129, 
 135; reading in Phineas 
 Fletcher's "Purple Island," 
 129; the half- profits system 
 and poor authors, 138 ; theo- 
 logical doubts, 139; criti- 
 cisms, 144 ; speaking at a 
 meeting of the London Mis- 
 sionary Society, 144 ; at a col- 
 lection, 144 ; the London 
 University, 115; at Comley 
 Bank, Edinburgh, 146 ; Henry 
 Drummond, 147; prophetic 
 conferences, 147; Methodism, 
 147 ; doctrinal changes, 148, 
 149 ; politics, 153 ; death of 
 Coleridge, 154; the "Gift 
 
INDEX. 
 
 347 
 
 Irving, Edward, continued. 
 
 of Tongues," 157; expul- 
 sion from the Scottish Kirk, 
 160; vocal appellatio ad popu- 
 lum, 161; new "Irvingite 
 Church, " London, 161 ; relig- 
 ious forebodings, 163-166; ill- 
 ness, 163 ; death, 165. 
 
 — Gavin, 38. 
 
 — George, 52. 
 
 — Waslungton, in Paris, 133. 
 Irving family, the, 37. 
 
 Irvingite Church, new, established 
 in London, 161. 
 
 Italian sculptures on the Queens- 
 berry tomb, 235. 
 
 Jamieson, Mrs., 162. 
 
 Jean Paul, paper in " Edinburgh 
 
 Keview,"on, 178. 
 Jeffrey family visiting at Craigen- 
 
 puttoch,211; atComleyBauk, 
 
 245. 
 
 — Francis, account of the charac- 
 
 ter and existence of, 7. 
 
 — Lord, recollections of, 169-200 ; 
 
 "Outer House," Parliament 
 Square, Edinburgh, 169 ; pop- 
 ularity, 171; Nell Kennedy, 
 171 ; General Assemblv, May, 
 1814, 175; Comley Bank, 178 ; 
 Carlj^le's introduction to, 178 ; 
 paper on "Jean Paul," 178; 
 "Edinburgh Keview" arti- 
 cles, 180; Craigcrook, 181; 
 palatial residence at Moray 
 Place, 181 ; Craigenputtoch, 
 183 ; view of Loch Gor, 183 ; 
 admiring a pancake, 183 ; 
 Mrs. Jeffrey, 184; mimicking 
 public speakers, 185 ; sending 
 check to Hazlitt, 186, 245; 
 offer of annuity to Carlyle, 
 188; the Reform Bill, 189; 
 elected Dean of Faculty, 189 ; 
 appointed Lord Advocate, 
 189; elected member of Par- 
 liament for Malton, 189 ; in 
 lodgings at Jermyn Street, 
 London, 190 ; Lord Braxfield 
 (Old Braxey), 192 ; Astronom- 
 ical Observatory, Edinburgh, 
 195; illness, 197; appointed 
 judge, 197; in height of rep- 
 utation, 198; death, 198; de- 
 mocracy, 199. 
 
 — Mrs., formerly the American 
 
 Miss Wilkes, 184. 
 
 Jermyn Street, Lord Jeffrey in lodg- 
 ings at, 190. 
 
 Jersey, Lady, at Irving's Church at 
 Hatton Garden, 117. 
 
 Jewsbury's, Geraldine, jottings, 204; 
 Craigenputtoch stories, 242; 
 letter, 316, 317. 
 
 "Joe Blacklock,"a stocking-weav- 
 er, 45. 
 
 " Joe" Parkes,a Birmingham attor- 
 ney, 126. 
 
 "Johnnie o' Braidislea," ballad of, 
 253. 
 
 " Johnson," writing, 157. 
 
 Johnston, Jamie, 171. 
 
 — John, a priestly man, 26. 
 
 — Mr. and Mrs., of Grange, 86. 
 Judge, Lord Jeffrey appointed a, 
 
 197. 
 
 Kant and Co., 115. 
 
 " Kehama," Southey's, 322. 
 
 Kenilworth, ride from Birmingham 
 
 to, 125. 
 Kennedj^ master of Shrewsbury 
 
 school, 127. 
 
 — Nell and Lord Jeffrey's defence, 
 
 171-173. 
 
 Kew Green, lodgings at, 121. 
 
 " Kharrison of Infersnaidt,' ' the, 64. 
 
 Kinloch - Luichart, a fine hunting 
 seat in Ross-shire, 290. 
 
 Kirkcaldy, Edward Irving at, 51 ; 
 change in school - master at, 
 52 ; Thomas Carlyle appoint- 
 ed parish head school -mas- 
 ter at, 52; Rev. Mr. Martin's 
 house and family circle at, 
 59, 60 ; circles, the, 59; " The 
 Links" at, 62; opinion about 
 the population at, 70; Irving's 
 breakfasts in, 72. 
 
 Kirkpatrick, Kitty, 107. 
 
 L. 
 
 Laird of Bridekirk, hunting with, 
 15. 
 
 — Craigenputtoch, the, 221. 
 "Lake," De Quincey on the, 324. 
 Lamb, Charles, and his Pepe, 115; 
 
 and his sister, impressions of, 
 250. 
 
 Langholm, smuggled tobacco burn- 
 ed at, 31. 
 
 Laplace, Trismegistus, in Paris, 134. 
 
 Latin, Jane Welsh Carlyle studying, 
 204.. 
 
348 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 "Latter-day Pamphlets," 266, 281. 
 
 Laughter, smudges of, 231. 
 
 Laurie, Sir Peter, 109. 
 
 Leasowes, the, Poet Shenstone's 
 place, 126. 
 
 Leather clothes, wearing, 16. 
 
 "Lectures on Hero-worship," 210. 
 
 Legendre, old, the mathematician 
 in Paris, 134. 
 
 "Legendre's Geometry," translat- 
 ing, 99. 
 
 Leslie, mathematical, 46. 
 
 "Letters and Speeches," editing, 
 280. 
 
 Letters from Locldiart, 264. 
 
 — to W. Smith, M.P., of Norwich, 
 
 321. 
 
 Library, Edward Irving' s, 53. 
 
 " Life of Sterling," 115, 282. 
 
 Light-house at Inchkeith, 57. 
 
 "Like a shock of corn fully ripe," 
 4. 
 
 "Links, the," at Kirkcaldy, 62. 
 
 "Literary list," Mr. Glen's wid- 
 ow receives a pension on the, 
 59. 
 
 Little, Dr., 38. 
 
 Loch Gor, viewing, 183. 
 
 — Katrine, sailing up, 64. 
 
 — Skene, visiting, 69. 
 Lockhart, letters from, 264. 
 Lomond Hills, " Trigonometrical 
 
 Survey" on the, 54. 
 
 London circles, 107-110, 257; Words- 
 worth in, 335. 
 
 London, description of various 
 neighborhoods in, 253. 
 
 — Hyde'Park Corner, 258. 
 
 — Irving receives a call to, 95 ; 
 
 journey to, 96. 
 
 — Missionary Society, Irving 
 
 preaching to the, 144. 
 
 — Myddelton Square, Islington, in, 
 
 106. 
 
 — removal to, 161. 
 
 — residence in, 106. 
 
 — steamers, 65, 66. 
 
 — University progressing toward 
 
 fulfilment, 145. 
 "London Review," the, 260. 
 Lord Advocate, Jeffrey appointed, 
 
 189. 
 
 — Rectorship of Edinburgh, 312. 
 Louis Dix-huit, death and lying in 
 
 state of, 132. 
 Louvre gallery, France, visiting the, 
 
 133. 
 "Lunars," doing, at Dunglas, 72. 
 Lyttelton's, Lord, mansion, 126. 
 
 M. 
 
 Macbeth, Rev. Mr., a Scotch preaeh« 
 
 er, 118. 
 " MacEwen on the Types," reading, 
 
 16. 
 Macleod, Sandy, a wandering pen- 
 sioner, 19. 
 MaccuUoch, Ramsay, 239. 
 Macqueen, Robert, 241. 
 Macready at Drury Lane Theatre, 
 
 152. 
 Main Hill, farming at, 31 ; visiting, 
 
 68. 
 Malcolm, Lieutenant, of the 42d, 
 
 132. 
 Malton in Yorkshire, Jeffrey elected 
 
 member for, 189. 
 Manchester, visiting, 140. 
 " Man's inhumanity to man," 17. 
 Marriage of Grace Welsh, 227; death 
 
 of, 264. 
 
 — of Irving to Miss Martin, of 
 
 Kirkcaldy, 101, 102. 
 Marshall, the Leeds raillionnaire, 
 
 262, 275. 
 Martin, Miss, of Kirkcaldy, married 
 
 to Irving, 101. 
 Martin's, Rev.'Mr., house and family 
 
 at Kirkcaldy, 59. 
 Martineau, Harriet, 273. 
 
 — James, 273. 
 Masonry, learning, 22, 23. 
 Mathematical Leslie, 46. 
 Maxwell, Sir W., working for, 9. 
 Mazzini, G., and his exile life, 259. 
 McCartney's " Embassy," sketch 
 
 of, 7. 
 
 Metrgat Water, walking up, 68. 
 
 Meinlbot bridge, the, 28. 
 
 Mein Water, crossing, 28. 
 
 Men tone, December, 1866, 153; Jan- 
 uary 2, 1867, at, 166. 
 
 MetJiodism, a portraiture of, 147. 
 
 Middlebie, description of, 84. 
 
 Milking a cow, experiences of, 212, 
 243. 
 
 Mill, John Stuart, visits from, 249; 
 and his generous nature, 257. 
 
 Miller, Mr., Laird of Dalswinton in 
 Dumfriesshire, 66. 
 
 Mimicking public speakers. Lord 
 Jeffrey, 185, 245. 
 
 Missionary Society, London, Irving 
 preaching to the, 144. 
 
 Moffat, an incorrigible reaper, spo- 
 ken to by James Carlyle, 8. 
 
 — Dale, description of, 69. 
 
 — Hills, the scenery at, 73. 
 
INDEX. 
 
 349 
 
 Moir, Geordie, 245 ; sketch of Craig- 
 enputtoch, 245. 
 
 Molesworth, Sir William, 260. 
 
 Moliere's maid, appeal to, 198. 
 
 MoUwitz, referring to the battle of, 
 287. 
 
 Montague, Mrs. Basil, 103. 
 — family, reminiscences of the,lll. 
 
 Monteagle Lords (Spring - Rices), 
 the, 262. 
 
 Moray Place, Lord Jeffrey's resi- 
 dence at, 181. 
 
 Morlev, Mr., a Cumberland man, 46. 
 
 Mother's memorials, sorting a, 292. 
 
 Mousewold, the heights of, 143. 
 
 Muirkirk, visiting, 90. 
 
 Murray, John, the Albemarle Street 
 publisher, 155 ; interview 
 with, 249. 
 
 Myddelton Square., Islington, Lon- 
 don, Irving residing at, 106. 
 
 '' Mystic School," criticisms on the, 
 178. 
 
 K 
 
 Napoleon, reading about, in the 
 Russian Campaign, 31. 
 
 Nell Kennedy defended by Lord 
 Jeffrey, 171-173. 
 
 Nelsons, pleasant meeting with the 
 two brothers, 93. 
 
 Neuralgia, sufferings from, 293. 
 
 New ''Irvingite" Church estab- 
 lished in London, 161. 
 
 Nichol, a mathematical teacher in 
 Edinburgh, 49. 
 
 Nisbet, Nabal, of Dirleton, anecdote 
 about, 226. 
 
 Nithsdale, first sight of, 91. 
 
 "Noggs," the hor-se, 304. 
 
 " Num detur religio naturalis ?" 
 exegesis on the question, 48. 
 
 Nun sent as a sick-room nurse, in- 
 cident of a, 298. 
 
 Nungate Bridge, Haddington, on the 
 parapet of, 216. 
 
 Nurse, a nun as a sick-room nurse, 
 298. 
 
 O. 
 
 Old Adam Hope, the school-master, 
 40. 
 
 Old Braxey's (Lord Braxfield) re- 
 marks about Lord Jeffrey, 192. 
 
 " Old Esther," memories of, 246. 
 
 Oldham, Sunday morning at, 140. 
 
 Opinion about the Kirkcaldy popu- 
 lation, 70. 
 
 Orr, John, the school-master, 20, 21. 
 
 Ouse, the river, 303. 
 
 Outer House, Parliament Square, 
 
 Edinburgh, 169. 
 Owen, Robert, visiting, 67. 
 
 Paisley, visiting, 83, 88. 
 
 Pancake, Lord Jeffrey's remarks 
 
 about a, 183. 
 Panegyric on James Carlyle, 33. 
 Paris', seeing, 130-135. 
 Parkes, Bessy, of the Rights of 
 
 Women, 126. 
 
 — family, the, 126. 
 
 — "Joe," a Birmingham attor- 
 
 ney, 126. 
 
 Parliament, Jeffrey elected member 
 for, 189. 
 
 Parr, Dr., 123, 125. 
 
 Parting with Edward Irving, 140. 
 
 "Peddie's Meeting-house," Glen 
 preaching at, 56. 
 
 Peebles-Moflfat moor country, the, 
 68. 
 
 Penflllau house, the, 219. 
 
 Fenna, a pen, 205. 
 
 Perthshire Fencible Cavalry, the, 
 225. 
 
 Petrucci and his fiery chimney, 259. 
 
 Phineas Fletcher's "Purple Isl- 
 and," Irving reading, 129. 
 
 Phipsons, the, Unitarian people, 
 126. 
 
 Pictet's, M., theory of gravitation, 
 176. 
 
 Piprs, school-master of Abbotshall, 
 62 ; parting with, 72. 
 
 Poet-laureateship, Southey and the, 
 321. 
 
 Politeness of James Carlyle, 9. 
 
 Popish Sister of Charity, a, 298. 
 
 Popularity of Irving in London, 
 117, 118. 
 
 Poverty and Peasanthood, 332. 
 
 Praed's works, reference to, 323. 
 
 Preaching of Edward Irving, as a 
 licentiate, 61. 
 
 Preface, v.-viii. 
 
 Preparation for death by James Car- 
 lyle, 14. 
 
 Presbytery, expulsion of Edward 
 Irving, by the, 160. 
 
 Preston Pans Battle, allusion to 
 Skirring's ballad on, 88. 
 
 Printers and authors, and the half- 
 profits system, 138. 
 
 Procter, Bryan W. (Barry Cornwall), 
 113; introduction to Lord 
 Jeffrey, 177. 
 
350 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 " Prussian Blockheaclism," 287. 
 
 Publishers, autliors, and tlie lialf- 
 proflts system, 138. 
 
 "Punctuality" insisted upon by 
 Dr. Welsh, 226. 
 
 Purgatory, Sandy Macleod's allu- 
 sion to, 19. 
 
 "Purple Island," Phineas Fletch- 
 er's, 129. 
 
 Puttick, signification of the word, 
 247. 
 
 Q. 
 
 QuAiN, Dr.,300. 
 
 Queensberry tombs, Italian sculpt- 
 ures on the, 235. 
 
 Queensberry's, Duke of, way for 
 voting at an election, 39. 
 
 R. 
 
 Radical " rising" in Glasgow, 77. 
 
 Railway - carriage, incident of the; 
 burning of a, 289. 
 
 Reay, Miss, incident of the shooting 
 of, 112. 
 
 Rebellion, the Laird of Craigenput- 
 toch and the, 221. 
 
 Recollections of James Carlyle, 
 5-33 
 
 Rectorship, Edinburgh, 312. 
 
 Reform Bill, the, 155, 189; the up- 
 roar about, 249; Praed's re- 
 marks about, 323. 
 
 Relief, card-playing in the kiln at, 
 20. 
 
 Religion, the pole-star of James 
 Carlyle, 11. 
 
 Religious experiences at Ecclefech- 
 an, 26. 
 
 — impressions of Edward Irving, 
 
 early, 43, 
 
 — impressions of Thomas Carlyle, 
 
 142. 
 
 " Religious inquirer," letter from an 
 Oxford self-styled, 166. 
 
 Reminiscences of James Carlyle, of 
 Ecclefechan, 1-33; Edward 
 Irving, 37-166 ; Lord Jeffrey, 
 169-200 ; Jane Welsh Carlvle, 
 203-318 ; Robert Southey, 321 
 -331 ; William Wordsworth, 
 331-337; Sundry, 321-337. 
 
 Rennie, George, 215. 
 
 Rent 2)a?/,Wilkie's picture of the, 80. 
 
 Review editors, experiences about, 
 249. 
 
 " Review'of Pictet," 176. 
 
 Revolving light at Inchkeith, the, 
 57. 
 
 Ride on the Cluden Water road, in- 
 cident of a, 238. 
 Riding experiences, 248. 
 
 — sixteen miles out of Dumfries 
 
 on a moonlight night, 150. 
 
 Robber of Cumberland cattle, 18. 
 
 "Robie Greg's " rickety yawl, row- 
 ing in Leith water in, 56. 
 
 Robinson Crusoe, reference to, 182. 
 
 Roseneath Manse, 65-67. 
 
 Rothes, Countess of, the, 55. 
 
 Rules for hiring a servant, 224. 
 
 Russell, Lady William, 269, 311. 
 
 Russian Campaign, reading about 
 the, 31. 
 
 — graves at Inchkeith, 57. 
 Rus-tics, James Carlyle talks to some 
 
 idle, 8. 
 Rutherford, the advocate, 191. 
 
 S. 
 
 Sandwich, Earl of (Foote's " Jere- 
 my Diddler "), 112. 
 
 — Lady, 269. 
 
 Sandy Macleod, a wandering pen- 
 sioner, 19. 
 
 " Sartor Resartus," 149. 
 
 " Schiller," writing, 104. 
 
 School at Haddington, 205. 
 
 Scotland, Dissent in, 43. 
 
 Scotsbrig, at, 32, 142, 244 ; riding ex- 
 periences from Dumfries to, 
 248. 
 
 Seccder clergy in Scotland, the, 44. 
 
 Servant, rules for hiring a, 224. 
 
 Servants, trouble with, 243. 
 
 Sharpe, General, 32. 
 
 Shelley, reference to the poet, 329. 
 
 Shenstone's, Poet, place," The Leas- 
 owes," 126. 
 
 Shepherds of the Cheviots, the, 69. 
 
 Shillahill Bridge, 253. • 
 
 Shinnel, the Bridge of, 241. 
 
 "Shirra Scott," the Sheriflf of Sel- 
 kirkshire, 69. 
 
 Sibbaldry Side, farm at, 15. 
 
 Sinclair, Sir John, meeting, 139. 
 
 Singing the "Birks of Aberfeldy," 
 241. 
 
 Skepper, Mr.,114. 
 
 Sketch of Craigenputtoch, 24.5. 
 
 Skirring, tombstone of old, 88. 
 
 Small, Tom, 169. 
 
 Smith, W., of Norwich, letters to, 
 321. 
 
 Smith's "Wealth of Nations," 7. 
 
 Smollett's pillar, passing, 65. 
 
 Snowbound at Craigenputtoch, 213. 
 
INDEX. 
 
 .351 
 
 Socinian ideas of James Martineau, 
 273. 
 
 Southey, Robert, recollections of, 
 321-331; appointed poet -lau- 
 reate, 321; Letters to W. 
 Smith, M.P., of Norwich, 321 ; 
 "Wat Tyler," 321; "Kelia- 
 ma," 322 ; Henry Taylor, au- 
 thor of "Artevelde," 322; 
 Praed and his works, 323 ; the 
 Reform Bill, 323 ; at Taylor's 
 dinner-party, 324; De Quin- 
 cey, the opium - eater, 324 ; 
 sympathy and recognition for 
 "Sartor," 327; visiting Car- 
 lyle at Chelsea, 328; Miss 
 Fenwick, 328, 329; referring 
 to Shelley, 329; Miss Bowles, 
 329; death, 330. 
 
 Spring -Rices (Lords Monteagle), 
 ■"the, 262. 
 
 St. Leonard's, visits to, 302. 
 
 Steamers on the Hudson, the first, 
 66. 
 utl 
 
 — Greenock, 65. 
 Stephen, Sir James, 278. 
 Sterling, Life of, 115, 282. 
 Sterling's, John, death-day in 1845, 
 
 269. 
 
 Stewart of Minniyve, the master- 
 builder of the bridge at Auld- 
 garthj 24. 
 
 Stirling, visiting, 63. 
 
 Stoddart's, Tom, farm, and Nell 
 Kennedy, 172. 
 
 Story, Rev. Mr., of Roseneath, 65. 
 
 Strachey, Mr., speaks about the first 
 steamers on the Thames, 66. 
 
 — family, reminiscences of the, 110. 
 Strathmilligan in Tynron, 233. 
 Stroquhan, the Laird of, 245. 
 Subterranean passage from Birrens 
 
 to Birrenswark, 84. 
 Sundry reminiscences, 321-337. 
 "Sunnybank, Haddington," 290. 
 Swimming a river to avoid paying 
 
 toll-money, 17. 
 Sylvester, Mr., coachman to Mrs. 
 
 Carlyle, 315. 
 
 Tailed waistcoats, 46. 
 
 Tait, Bookseller, 268. 
 
 Talma, acting in Paris, 135 ; death 
 
 of, 135. 
 Tarbert, visiting, 65. 
 Tax Courts, James Carlyle raises his 
 
 voice in, 8. 
 
 Taylor and Wordsworth, 332. 
 
 Taylor, Henry, author of "Arte- 
 velde," 322. 
 
 Taymouth, attending service at the 
 kirk at, 104. 
 
 Teacher, Edward Irving, a success- 
 ful, 48. 
 
 Teith, Brig of, 63. 
 
 Templand, house in Nithsdale where 
 Miss Urleh's grandfather 
 lived, 143. 
 
 — near Thornhill, Dumfriesshire, 
 
 208. 
 
 — where Mrs. Welsh's father lived, 
 
 230. 
 
 — description of, 233, 237. 
 Thackeray's laudation in the 
 
 "Times," 327. 
 
 "The Devizes," 38. 
 
 " The Links," Kirkcaldy, 62. 
 
 Theological doubts arise with Ed- 
 ward Irving, 139. 
 
 Thomson, Rev. Andrew, introduc- 
 ing Irving's name to Dr. 
 Chalmers, 73. 
 
 "Times," the, on the tragedy of 
 noble literary life, 105. 
 
 Tobacco, gift of, by James Carlyle 
 to some old women, 12. 
 
 — smuggled, publicly burned at 
 
 Langholm, 31. 
 
 — ordered by a doctor to be given 
 
 up, 105. 
 "Tom Small," 169. 
 " Tongues, the Gift of," 147, 157. 
 Toronto, Bishop of, a triumphant 
 
 Canadian, 120. 
 Torryburn, visiting, 63. 
 "Tower of Repentance" atlloddam 
 
 Hill, the, 14L 
 Trades-union procession, 253. 
 Tre7it^ the, and Commodore Wilkes, 
 
 reference to, 184. 
 'S^Hal.pf a^Scotch minister for breach 
 '■ of promise of marriage, 209. 
 
 — of Nell Kennedy in Edinburgh, 
 
 172. 
 
 Tribute to the memory of James 
 Carlyle, 33. 
 
 "Trigonometrical Survey" on the 
 Lomond Hills, 54. 
 
 Trosachs, walking tour through the, 
 62. 
 
 Troston Parsonage, in Suffolk, at, 
 279. 
 
 Tunnel from Birrens to Birrens- 
 wark, 84. 
 
 Turkey-cock and Jane Welsh Car- 
 lyle, anecdote of, 204. 
 
352 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Tyndall, Professor, 312. 
 Tyuron Down, a lowland mountain, 
 237 
 
 — school, 222. 
 
 U. 
 "Upon all these you have will 
 and waygate," an Annandale 
 X)hrase, 52. 
 
 V. 
 Vekacity, scrupulous, 5. 
 Virtues of James Carlyle, 6. 
 Voting the Duke of Queensberry's 
 Avay at election, 39. 
 
 W. 
 
 Waistcoats, tailed, 46. 
 
 Walking tour through the Trosachs, 
 62; through the Peebles-Mof- 
 fat moor country, 68. 
 
 Warren, Mrs., the housekeeper in 
 Cheyne Kow, Chelsea, 316. 
 
 " Wat Tyler," allusion to, 321. 
 
 Waugh's, Dr., meeting at, 49. 
 
 " Wealth of Nations," Smith's, 7. 
 
 Weavers, the Glasgow, and the Rad- 
 ical ''Kiting" in 1819, 77, 78. 
 
 Wedding-jaunt of Edward Irving, 
 102. 
 
 ''Weimar, boxes from," 245. 
 
 Wellington, Duke of, incidents 
 about the, 268. 
 
 Welsh, Benjamin, 227. 
 
 Welsh, Dr., success of, 226. 
 
 — family, pedigree of the, 219. 
 
 — Grace, marriage of, 227. 
 
 — Jane, 32. 
 
 — Jane Baillie, 203. 
 
 — John, Mrs. Carlyle's father, 224. 
 
 — Walter, old, farm of, 69; descrip- 
 
 tion of, 219; death of, 220. 
 
 Welshes of Morton Mains, the, 227. 
 
 West Burn to Kirkcaldy harbor, 54. 
 
 Whewell,Mr.,271,277. 
 
 White bonnet, Hazlitt at the Font- 
 hill Abbey sale as a, 103. 
 
 Wilberforce, the famous Nigger 
 philanthropist, 3:34, 335. 
 
 "Wilhelra Meister," writing, 105 ; 
 criticism on, 127. 
 
 Wilkes, Commodore, reference to, 
 1S4. 
 
 — Miss, the American, afterward 
 
 Mrs. Jeffrey, 184. 
 
 Wilkie's picture of the Bent Day^ 
 80. 
 
 "Willie Drummond" with mourn- 
 ful goggle-eyes, 45. 
 
 Wilson's answer in "Blackwood's 
 Magazine," 103. 
 
 — criticisms in " Blackwood," 187. 
 "Wine makes cozy. Mamma," 218, 
 
 285. 
 
 Winter at Craigenputtoch, 212. 
 
 Wishaw, Mr. (Fisher), 193. 
 
 Wordsworth, William, recollections 
 of, 331-337; at' Henry Tay- 
 lor's, author of " Artevelde," 
 332 ; witnessing the struggles 
 of the Girondins and Moun- 
 tain, 334 ; execution of Gorsas, 
 334; Wilberforce the Nigger 
 philanthropist, 334, 335 ; lion- 
 ized in London circles, 335; 
 lion-dinners, 336 ; death, 337. 
 
 Wordsworthian lion-dinners, recol- 
 lections of some, 336, 337. 
 
 T. 
 
 YARitow, a secluded shepherd couu- 
 try, 68. 
 
 6^0 
 
 i*¥ii 
 
 THE END. 
 
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