S^sS^^^^^^^^S 

 
 CARLYLE.— Reminiscences, By Thomas 
 Carlyle. Edited by Charles Eliot | 
 Norton. i2mo. $2.50. j 
 
 " Of course, since the ' bit of writing ' has been | 
 given to the world, nothing remained to an outraged 
 friend but to set an edition before the public which 
 should at least be what was written. This is what 
 Mr Norton has done, and the spirit in which he ; 
 has entered upon the task is shown in his terse and in- 
 telligible notes, in hisclose adhesion to Carlyle s char- 
 acteristic punctuation and use of typography, and in 
 
 , his omission of trifling passages 'e^f.^'n^/o P"y^*^ 
 persons, calculated to give pain and likely to be of no 
 interest to the reader, whicli, as he observes, ought to 
 
 I have been omitted at fi^Vf^^^""^TK^5 "
 
 
 yt:.
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 CALIFORNIA 
 SAN DIESO 
 
 "^
 
 
 REMINISCENCES
 
 REMINISCENCES 
 
 BY 
 
 THOMAS CARLYLE 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 CHARLES ELIOT NORTON 
 
 TWO VOLUMES IN ONE 
 
 ?7^^97::? 
 
 SOLD BY THE 
 
 MERCANTILE LTBRA. 
 InEW yobk. 
 
 Hontion 
 
 MACMILLAN AND CO. 
 
 AND NEW YORK 
 1887 
 
 The right 0/ translation is reserved
 
 COPYRIGHT 
 
 1887 
 
 By CHARLES ELIOT NORTON
 
 PREFACE 
 
 The first edition of this book, edited by Mr. Froude, 
 was published in i 88 1, a few weeks after Mr. Carlyle's 
 death. In his Preface Mr. Froude said : — 
 
 " The 'Reminiscences' 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 type 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 nmch for him, 
 and the reader has here before him Mr. Carlyle's own handi- 
 work, but without his last touches, not edited by himself, 
 perhaps most of it not intended for publication, and written 
 down merely as an occupation, for his own private satisfac- 
 tion. 
 
 " The Introductory Fragments " [/.c. the Article ' Jane Welsh 
 Carlyle '] " were written immediately after his wife's death; the 
 account of Irving belongs to the autumn and winter which 
 followed. . . . Nothing more remains to be said about these 
 papers, save to repeat for clearness' sake, that they are pub- 
 lished with Mr. Carlyle's consent, but without his supervision. 
 The detailed responsibility is therefore entirely my own." 
 
 It would thus appear that Mr. Carlyle gave his 
 consent to the pubHcation of the Reminiscences on
 
 vi PREFACE 
 
 the condition that they should be printed with " the 
 requisite omissions." No omissions, except of a few 
 trivial passages, were made by Mr. Froude. But he 
 did omit a solemn injunction against the publication 
 of the Paper concerning Mrs. Carlyle ; this injunc- 
 tion is here printed in its place (i. 257-258). Its 
 weight, as the expression of Carlyle's real will in 
 the matter, is to be estimated by Mr. Froude's own 
 words in his Preface : " So singular was his condition 
 at this time " \i.e. shortly after Mrs. Carlyle's death in 
 I 866], " 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 injunction was 
 written when Mr. Carlyle was fully conscious of the 
 character of his own work. And with respect to 
 the consent of Mr. Carlyle to the publication of the 
 other Papers in the Reminiscences, it seems at most 
 to amount to his saying, " I have unbounded trust in 
 Mr. Froude's affection for me ; I have forgotten what 
 these papers are ; but I confide in his judgment in a 
 matter on which I now have none." 
 
 The Paper "James Carlyle" is thus referred to 
 in Carlyle's Will (see Appendix, i. 271): "My 
 other Manuscripts " [i.e. his MSS. other than the 
 Letters and Memorials of Jane Welsh Carlyle'] " I 
 leave to my Brother John. They are with one ex- 
 ception of no moment to mc ; I have never seen 
 any of them since they were written. . . . The ' one 
 exception ' ... is a Sketch of my Father and his
 
 PREFACE vii 
 
 Life hastily thrown off in the nights between his Death 
 and Burial, full of earnest affection and veracity ; — 
 most likely ////fit for printing ; but I wish it to be 
 taken charge of by my Brother John, and preserved 
 in the Family. Since, I think, the very night of my 
 Father's Funeral (far away from London and me !) I 
 have never seen a word of that poor bit of writing." 
 
 The first edition of the Reminiscences was so care- 
 lessly printed as frequently to do grave wrong to 
 the sense. The punctuation, the use of capitals and 
 italics, in the manuscript, characteristic of Carlyle's 
 method of expression in print, were entirely dis- 
 regarded. In the first five pages of the printed text 
 there were more than a hundred and thirty correc- 
 tions to be made, of words, punctuation, capitals, 
 quotation marks, and such like ; and these pages are 
 not exceptional. 
 
 In the present edition some trifling passages re- 
 ferring to private persons, calculated to give pain 
 and likely to be of no interest to the reader, are 
 omitted, as they ought to have been at first. All 
 omissions are indicated. The text conforms closely 
 to the manuscript. 
 
 CHARLES ELIOT NORTON. 
 
 CAMBRHiGE, MASSACHUSETTS, 
 
 January 1887.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 James Carlyle . . . . . i 
 
 Jane Welsh Carlyle . . . -53 
 
 Appendix . . . . . .259 
 
 Edward Irving ..... i 
 
 Lord Jeffrey . . . . .221 
 
 SouTHEY ...... 37G 
 
 Wordsworth ..... 297
 
 SOLD BY THE 
 
 keboanthe ubeaey, 
 
 OF New York. 
 REMINISCENCES 
 
 JAMES CARLYLE 
 
 On Tuesday, January the 24th, 1832, I received 
 tidings that my dear and worthy Father had departed 
 out of this world. He was called away, by 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 insen- 
 sible (as Pain usually soon made him of late years) ; 
 but when spoken to recollected himself He was up 
 and at the Kitchen fire (at Scotsbrig)^ on the Satur- 
 day evening about six : " but was evidently growing 
 fast worse in breathing." " About ten o'clock he fell 
 into a sort of stupor," writes my sister Jane, " still 
 breathing higher and with greater dif^culty : he 
 spoke little to any of us, seemingly unconscious of 
 
 ^ A farmhouse in the parish of IMiddleliie, about two miles and a half 
 from Ecclefechan. A brook, dividing it from the road, has carved a 
 deep path for itself in the rocks, which at one part almost meet 
 across, and form a natural bridge. It was anciently called Gotsbrig, 
 and was once a border "keep" or tower. A portion of the old wall 
 still stands incorporated in the walls of the house. The Carlyles re- 
 moved to it from Mainhill in May 1826, and James Carlyle, the 
 youngest son, continued tenant of the farm until iSSo. 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 REMINISCENCES 
 
 what he did ; came over 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 Wediiesday 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 in- 
 stantly determined on passing with my Wife only, and 
 all others were excluded. I have written to my Mother 
 and to John ;^ have walked far and much (chiefly in the 
 Regent's Park), and considered about many things ; if 
 so were 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 he 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 Scot- 
 land) ; for many years too he had the End ever in 
 
 ^ Dr. Carlyle, then absent in Rome.
 
 JAMES CARLYLE 
 
 his eye, and was studying to make all preparation 
 for what in his strong way he called often " that last, 
 that awful change." Ever 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. Mercifully 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 Everlasting 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, these 
 old and forever true words : " Blessed are the Dead 
 that die in the Lord. They do rest from their 
 labours, and their works follow them." Yes their 
 works follow them : the Force that had been lent my 
 Father he honourably expended in manful welldoing: 
 a portion of this Planet 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 in- 
 spiring example (now that I can read it in that rustic 
 character) ; it was he exclusively that determined on 
 educating me, that from his small hard-earned funds.
 
 REMINISCENCES 
 
 sent me to School and College ; and made me what- 
 ever 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 honourably forth into new generations. 
 
 I purpose now, while the impression is more pure 
 and clear within me, to mark down the main things 
 I can recollect of my Father : to myself, if I live to 
 after years, it may be 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 'wa^cX me. Neither,"should 
 these lines survive myself and be seen by others, can 
 the sight of them do harm to anyone. It is good to 
 know how a true spirit will vindicate itself into truth 
 and freedom, through what obstructions soever ; how 
 the ' acorn cast carelessly into the wilderness ' 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- 
 building and Kingdom-founding, or only of delving 
 and ditching, to me it is no matter, or next to none : 
 all human work is transitory, small, in itself con- 
 temptible ; 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.
 
 JAMES CARLYLE 5 
 
 In several respects, I consider my Father as one 
 of the most interesting men I have known. He was 
 a man of perhaps tJie very largest natural endow- 
 ment 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 the untutored Soul ; full of 
 metaphors (though he knew not what a metaphor 
 was), with all manner of potent words (which he ap- 
 propriated and applied with a surprising accuracy, you 
 often could not guess whence) ; brief, energetic ; and 
 which I should say conveyed the most perfect picture, 
 definite, clear not in ambitious colours 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 otherwise to 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 descrip- 
 tion and for the sake chiefly of humorous effect : he 
 was a man of rigid, even scrupulous veracity ; I have 
 often heard him turn back, when he thought his 
 strong words were misleading, and correct them into 
 mensurative accuracy. AcJi, uiid dies allcs ist Jiin ! 
 
 I call him a natural man ; singularly free from all 
 manner of affectation : he was among the last of the 
 true men, which Scotland (on the old system) pro- 
 duced, or can produce; a man healthy in body and in 
 mind; fearing God, and diligently working in God's
 
 REMINISCENCES 
 
 Earth with contentment hope and unwearied resolu- 
 tion. 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 now 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 even find 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 spoke of what zuas disagreeable and past. I 
 have often wondered and admired at this. The thing 
 that he had nothing to do with, he did nothing with. 
 This was a healthy mind. In like manner, I have 
 seen him always when we young ones (half roguishly, 
 and provokingly without doubt) were perhaps repeat- 
 ing 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 of give a look) in such a case. 
 
 [^Thursday morning.'] Another virtue, the example 
 of which has passed strongly into me, was his settled 
 placid indifference to the clamours or the murmurs 
 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,"
 
 JAMES CARLYLE 
 
 das gar iiicJit cxistirte. There was something truly- 
 great in this ; the very perfection of it hid from you 
 the extent of the attainment. 
 
 Or rather let me call it a new phasis of the Jicalth 
 which in mind as in body was conspicuous in him. 
 Like a healthy man, he wanted 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 it ?) 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 {ohnc Hast aber 
 ohiie Rast), and perhaps performed more (with the tools 
 he had) than any man I now know. It should 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 Super- 
 ficiality (in all senses) is in full course — 
 
 And yet he was a man of open sense ; wonder- 
 fully so. I could have entertained him for days 
 talking of any matter interesting to man. He de- 
 lighted to hear of all things that were worth talking 
 of; the mode of living men had, the mode of work- 
 ing, their opinions, virtues, whole spiritual and tem- 
 poral environment. 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
 
 REMINISCENCES 
 
 Francis Jeffrey. Another evening he enjoyed (prob- 
 ably it was on that very visit) with the heartiest 
 relish my description of the people (I think) of Tur- 
 key. The Chinese had astonished him much : in 
 some Magazine (from Little's of Cressfield) he had 
 got a sketch of Macartneys Embassy, the memory of 
 which never left him. Adam Smith's Wealth oj 
 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, 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 
 konnte ninnner seyn ! — Patience ! Hope ! 
 
 At the same time he had the most entire and 
 open contempt for all idle tattle, what he called 
 " clatter." Any talk that had meaning 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-paralysing, cold, 
 indifferent " Hah ! " — I should say of him, as I did 
 of our Sister ^ whom we lost, that he seldom or never 
 
 1 Margaret, born 20th September 1803, died 22d June 1830. — 
 "There are yet few days in which I do not meet on the streets some 
 face that recals my Sister Margaret's, and reminds me that she is not 
 suffering, but silent, asleep in the Ecclefechan Churchyard ; her Life, 
 her Self where God willed ! What a miracle is all Existence!" — 
 Carlyle's_/(9//;7/rt/, 8th February 1835.
 
 JAMES CARLYLE 
 
 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 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," said he to some 
 laughing rustics, while stating in his strong way 
 some complaint against them ; and their laughter 
 died into silence. Dear good Father ! There 
 looked Jionesty through those clear earnest eyes ; 
 a sincerity that compelled belief and regard. 
 " Moffat ! " said he one day to an incorrigible reaper, 
 " thou has every feature of a bad shearer : high, and 
 rough, and little on'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 passion never mastered him, or mad- 
 dened him ; it rather inspired him with new vehe- 
 mence of insight, and more piercing emphasis of wis- 
 dom. It must have been a bold man that did not 
 quail before that face, when glowing with 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 sophistries, 
 thundered even into their deaf ears the indignant 
 sentence of natural justice, to the conviction of all. 
 — Oh why did we laugh at these things while we
 
 REMINISCENCES 
 
 loved them ! There is a tragic greatness and sacred- 
 ness in them now. 
 
 I can call my Father a brave man {ehi Tapferet^. 
 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 un- 
 utterable Depths of Silence, through which flickered 
 a trembling Hope. How he used to speak of Death 
 (especially in late years) or rather to be silent, and 
 look of it ! There was no feeling in him here that he 
 cared to hide : he trembled at the really terrible ; the 
 mock-terrible he cared nought for. — That last act of 
 his Life ; when in the last agony, with the thick 
 ghastly vapours 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 sum- 
 mary 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 Valour wars no longer. Has it 
 not gained the victory ? Let me imitate him 
 rather ; let his courageous heart beat anew in me, 
 that when 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
 
 JAMES CARLYLE 
 
 him ; 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 ^/zzV- education of these days, 
 it is only among what are called the ^//educated 
 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 
 Roinanormn ! 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 at 
 Springkell 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 Gentlemen in Goethe. 
 Sir William, like those he ruled over and benignantly 
 (at least gracefully and earnestly) governed, has 
 passed away. — But even for the mere Clothes-screens 
 of rank, my Father testified no contempt : he spoke
 
 REMINISCENCES 
 
 of them in public or private without acerbity ; testi- 
 fied for them the outward deference which Custom 
 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 Honour;" with a manner respectful 
 yet unembarrassed ; a certain manful dignity looking 
 through his own fine face ; with his noble gray head 
 bent patiently to the (alas) unworthy. Such conduct 
 is perhaps no longer possible. 
 
 Withal he had in general a grave natural polite- 
 ness : I have seen him, when the women were per- 
 haps all in anxiety about the disorder of the house, 
 etc., usher men, 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 also had 
 a serious issue. 
 
 The more I reflect on it, the more must I admire 
 how completely Nature had taught him ; how com- 
 pletely 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 
 Biiriis'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 inves-
 
 JAMES CARLYLE 13 
 
 tigation 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 greatness of the Infinite itself) : neither was 
 he like Burns called to rebel against the world, but 
 to labour 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 phenomenon merely. Nay 
 Rumour 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 super- 
 intending 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 know 
 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 infinitely wider Education ; my Father a far 
 wholesomer : besides the one was a man of Musical 
 Utterance, the other wholly a man of Action, even 
 
 ^ Burns was bom in 1759, James Carlyle in 175S. Burns died in 
 1796.
 
 14 REMINISCENCES 
 
 with Speech subservient thereto. Never, of all the 
 men I have seen, has one come personally in my way 
 in whom the Endowment from Nature and the Arena 
 from Fortune were so utterly out of all proportion. 
 I have said this often ; and partly knozu it. As 
 a man of Speculation (had Culture ever unfolded 
 him) he must have gone wild and desperate as 
 Burns : but he was a man of Conduct, and Work 
 keeps all right. What strange shapeable creatures 
 we are. 
 
 My Father's Education was altogether of the worst 
 and most limited. I believe he was never more than 
 three months at any school : what he learned there 
 showed what he might have learned. A solid know- 
 ledge 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 endeavour) from 
 the better men 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 Reason he would have been nothing ; in- 
 deed 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
 
 JAMES CARLYLE 15 
 
 in Annandale, 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. Religion 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 
 forty miles diameter (he never in his life was farther, 
 or elsewhere so far, from home as at Craigenputtock); 
 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 sncJi, — I could take shame 
 to myself ; I feel to my Father (so great though 
 so neglected, so generous also towards inc) 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 Father 1 well may / forever honour 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 genuine and 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
 
 1 6 REMINISCENCES 
 
 was especially so. Till late years, when he began to 
 respect me more ; and, as it were, to look up to me 
 for instruction, for protection (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 the 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 i 8 1 7), and seemed to threaten the ex- 
 tinction of her reason : we were all of us nigh despe- 
 rate, and ourselves mad. He burst, at last, into quite 
 a torrent of grief ; cried piteously, and threw himself 
 on the floor, and lay moaning. I wondered, and had 
 no words, no tears. It was as if a rock of granite 
 had melted, and was thawing into water. What un- 
 known 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 Poverty in the shape of 
 actual want (in boyhood), and never had one penny 
 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 knew 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 tender-
 
 JAMES CARLYLE 17 
 
 ness that attaches to many similar things in his Hfe, 
 one or I rather think two times, when he sent ifie to 
 buy a quarter of a pound of Tobacco to give to some 
 old women whom he had had gathering Potatoes for 
 him : he nipt 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 when I fetched this Tobacco. 
 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. \Thursday 
 night.'\ 
 
 He was a man singularly free from Affectation. 
 The feeling that he had not he could in no wise pre- 
 tend to have : however ill the want of it might look, 
 he simply w^ould 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 impede 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 anyone ; was content to 
 be taught by whosoever could teach him : one or 
 two men (immeasurably his inferiors in faculty) he, 
 VOL. I. C
 
 1 8 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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 ol 
 those few that could believe and knozu, as well as 
 inquire and be of opinion. When I remember how 
 he admired Intellectual Force, how much he had of 
 it himself, and yet how unconsciously and contentedly 
 he gave others credit for superiority, I again see the 
 healthy spirit, 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 recognised 
 where 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 simple 
 earnestness (not two years ago) ; and it was his true 
 feeling. I have often pleased 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 prac- 
 tical valour and skill ; all of us (generally speaking) 
 for our decent demeanour in the 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 various obstructions, attain some look of 
 doing well. He had " educated " me against much
 
 JAMES CARLYLE 19 
 
 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 my Father was proud of me (not vain, for 
 he never, except 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 happi- 
 ness for me ! The fame of all this Planet were not 
 henceforth so precious. — 
 
 He was thrifty, patient ; careless of outward ac- 
 commodation ; had a Spartan indifference to all that. 
 When he quarrelled about such things, it was rather 
 because some human misinanageinent seemed to look 
 through the evil. Food and all else were simply and 
 solely there as the means for doing work. 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 
 w€re assiduous, abstemious, 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 Him for 
 ever." ^ By this light he walked, choosing his path, 
 fitting prudence to principle with wonderful skill and 
 manliness — through " the ruins of a falling Era," not 
 
 1 Words from the Scottish Shorter Catecliism.
 
 20 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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 pronounce: 
 " Prepare us for these solemn events, Death, Judg- 
 ment, 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 honoured 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 unrefine- 
 ment ; shut, indeed, and significant ; yet loosely 
 compressed (as I have seen in the firmest men, if 
 used to hard manual labour) ; betokening depth, 
 passionateness, force, all in an element not of lan- 
 guor, yet of toil and patient perennial Endurance. A 
 face full of meaning, and earnestness.^ A man of 
 Strength, and a man of Toil. Jane 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 
 
 ^ " About this hour is the funeral : Irving enters — unsatisfactory." — 
 T. C. 
 
 2 The profile by Mrs. Carlyle (face only) is done mechanically from 
 the shadow.
 
 JAMES CARLYLE 21 
 
 guilty (more than can be said of almost any man) of 
 110 excess. — 
 
 He was born (I think, but will inquire better) in 
 the year 1757;^ at a place called Brownknowe, a 
 small farm, not far from Burnswark Hill in Annan- 
 dale. I have heard him describe the anguish of 
 mind he felt when leaving this place, and 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 Sibbaldby- 
 side, another farm in the valley of Dryfe. — He was 
 come to full manhood. — 
 
 The family was exposed to great privations, while 
 at Brownknowe. The Mother (Mary Gillespie :" she 
 had relatives in Dryfesdale) was left with her children, 
 and had not always meal to make them porridge. 
 My Father was the second son, and fourth child. 
 My Grandfather (Thomas Carlyle, after whom I am 
 named) was an honest, vehement, adventurous, but 
 not an industrious man. He used to collect vigor- 
 ously and rigorously a sum sufficient for his half 
 year's rent (probably some six or five pounds) ; lay 
 this by ; and for the rest, leave the mother with her 
 little ones to manage very much as they could and 
 would; himself meanwhile amusing himself ; perhaps 
 hunting, most probably with the Laird of Bridekirk (a 
 swashbuckler of those days, composer of " Bridekirk's 
 Hunting ") partly in the character of kinsman, partly 
 of attendant and henchman. I have heard my Father 
 describe the shifts they were reduced to at home. 
 Once, he said, meal which perhaps had been long 
 
 ^ August 1758. " Died 1797, aged 70.
 
 REMINISCENCES 
 
 scarce and certainly for some time wanting, arrived 
 at last late at night, — she 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 
 " zvecJit-ivX "^ was stored up to be eaten perhaps about 
 Halloween. My Father often told us how he once, 
 with a providence early manifested, got possession ot 
 four potatoes ; and thinking that a time of want 
 might 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 laughed ; 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 our travelling, made smooth. 
 
 My Grandfather, whom I can remember as a 
 slightish wiry-looking old man, had not possessed 
 the wisdom of his Son ; yet perhaps he was more to 
 be pitied that 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 Middle- 
 bie : Thomas the elder became a joiner, and went to 
 work in Lancashire, perhaps in Lancaster, where he 
 staid more than one season (he once returned home, 
 in winter, partly by ice, skating along the Westmore- 
 land and Cumberland Lakes) : he was in Dumfries- 
 
 ^ A laec/if, large sieve for winnowing grain. 
 
 - Isabella Bell (born 16S7, died 1759), wife of John Cnrlyle of Bur- 
 rens (born 1687, died 1727).
 
 JAMES CARLYLE 23 
 
 shire in 1745 ; saw the Highlanders come through 
 Ecclefechan (over the Cowden-heights) as they went 
 dozvn; was at Dumfries among them, as they returned 
 back in flight : he had gone by the Lady of Bride- 
 kirk's request to look after the Laird, whom as a 
 Whig of some note, they had taken prisoner.^ His 
 whole adventures there he had minutely described to 
 his children (I too have heard him speak, but briefly, 
 indistinctly, of them) : by my uncle Frank I once 
 got a full account of the matter ; which shall perhaps 
 be inserted elsewhere. He worked as carpenter, I 
 know not how long, about Middlebie (?), then laid 
 aside that craft (except as a side-business ; for he 
 always had tools, which I myself have assisted him 
 in grinding), and 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) " MacEzveu on the 
 Types " (which I have not seen since, but then 
 partially understood, and even liked for its glib 
 smoothness) to the people sitting at the wake. The 
 
 ^ Adam Carlyle of Bridekirk was seized on the highway near his 
 own house, by the Pretender's army, in 1745, on its retreat from Carlisle. 
 In passing through Dumfries, he made himself conspicuous at the officers' 
 mess by obstinately refusing to give any sign when Prince Charlie's 
 health was drunk. When the enthusiasm had subsided a little, he 
 stood up alone, and drank "Confusion to the Pretender." Carlyle's 
 grandfather being denied access to him at Dumfries, followed the troops, 
 then on their way to Glasgow, across the Nith ; and mounting a gate, 
 shouted his message as the prisoner marched past, and there received 
 his answer for the Lady. — T. C. /o(/. (1874). 
 
 - 1806. See iJi/ra, p. 27 «.
 
 24 REMINISCENCES 
 
 funeral was in the 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 and listening : Tom pro- 
 posed that he would bear the whole expense as he 
 had been " rather backward during his Life " (the 
 Deceased's : these were his very words) ; 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 Annandale then (this I do 
 not think very likely) ; at all events, the man in 
 honour (the mail) 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, in- 
 domitable : of the toughness and springiness of steel. 
 An old market-brawl, called " the Ecclefechan Dog- 
 fight," in which he was a principal, survives in tradi- 
 tion 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 conveyance but horseback.
 
 JAMES CARLYLE 25 
 
 On arriving at Annan-bridge, the people demanded 
 three -halfpence of toll-money: this the old man 
 would in no wise pay (for tolls then were reckoned 
 pure impositions) ; 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 
 Whinnyrigg, with many others on the same errand 
 (for a " boat had come in " — from Liverpool prob- 
 ably — and the country must hasten to ship) that a 
 lad, of larger size, jeered at the little boy for his 
 ragged coat etc. : whereupon the Father, doubtless 
 provoked too, gave him perinission to fight the wrong- 
 doer, — which he did, and with victory. " Man's in- 
 humanity to man !" — 
 
 I must not dwell on these things : yet will men- 
 tion 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 had on some occasion taken to drinking, and 
 to gaming, "far up in England" (at 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 he went and enlisted himself on board 
 some small-craft man-of-war. A mutiny (as I have
 
 REAIINISCENCES 
 
 heard) took place ; wherein Francis Carlyle, with 
 great daring stood by 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 dig- 
 nity, on half-pay to his native Middlebie before my 
 birth. I never saw him but once, and then rather 
 memorably. My Grandfather and he, owing to some 
 sort of cloud and misunderstanding, had not had any 
 intercourse for long ; in which division the two families 
 had joined : but now when old Thomas was lying 
 on his probable, and as it proved actual Deathbed, 
 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 saluted 
 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
 
 JAMES CARLYLE 27 
 
 long afterwards grew clear to me. Its outward phasis, 
 now after some twenty-eight years, is plain as I have 
 written. Old Francis also died not long afterwards.^ 
 
 One vague tradition I will mention : that our 
 humble forefathers dwelt long as farmers at Burrciis, 
 the old Roman Station in Middlebie. Once in times 
 of Border robbery, some Cumberland cattle had 
 been stolen and were chased ; the trace 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 con- 
 cern with them : he was seized by the people, and 
 despite his own desperate protestations, despite his 
 wife's shriekings and his children's cries, 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 poor widow as some compen- 
 sation. Her children and children's children con- 
 tinued to possess it ; till their title was questioned 
 by "the Duke" (of Queensberry) and they (perhaps 
 in my great-grandfather's time, about 1727) 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 hallucina- 
 tion : further on there is not even a hallucination. 
 I now return : these things are secular and unsatis- 
 factory. 
 
 Bred up in such circumstances, the Boys were 
 accustomed to all manner of hardship ; and must 
 
 ^ This paragraph requires to be corrected by the following dates, 
 viz. : — Francis died 19th August 1803 (aged 77) ; Thomas died lolh 
 January 1806 (aged 84).
 
 28 REMINISCENCES 
 
 trust for upbringing to Nature, to the scanty precepts 
 of their poor Mother, and to what seeds or influences 
 of culture were hanging as it were in the atmosphere 
 of their environment. Poor boys ! They had to 
 scramble (" scraffle !") for their very clothes and food. 
 They knit, they thatched, for hire ; above all they 
 hunted. My Father had tried all these things, 
 almost in boyhood. Every dell and bunigate and 
 eleugJi of that district he had traversed, seeking 
 hares and the like : he used to tell of these pil- 
 grimages : once, I remember, his gun-flint was " tied 
 on with a hatband." He was a real hunter, like a 
 wild Indian, from Necessity. The hares' flesh was 
 food : hare-skins (at some sixpence 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 lis, but 
 as historical merely. On the whole, he never com- 
 plaiiied ; 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, there might 
 be 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
 
 JAMES CARLYLE 29 
 
 early turn for the practical and real, made him more 
 heedless of Macleod and his vagaries. The old Pen- 
 sioner had quaint sayings, not without significance : 
 of a lacrymose complaining man, for example, he 
 said (or perhaps to him) " He might be thankful he 
 was not in Purgatory." The quaint fashion of speak- 
 ing, assumed for humour, and most noticeable in my 
 uncle Frank, least or hardly at all in my Father,— was 
 no doubt partly derived from this old wanderer, who 
 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 out- 
 houses, melting pot-metal, and with rude feuds and 
 warfare, often came upon the scene. These with pass- 
 ing Highland Drovers were perhaps their only visitors. 
 
 Had there not been a natural goodness and inde- 
 structible force in 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 in 
 practice irregular — with drink) ; in my Grandfather 
 also there seems to have been a certain geniality : 
 for instance, he and a neighbour, Thomas Hogg, 
 read "Anson's Voyage ;" also the "Arabian Nights," 
 — for which latter my Father (armed with zealous 
 conviction) scrupled not to censure them openly. — 
 By one means or 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
 
 30 REMINISCENCES 
 
 William Bell (afterwards of Wylie-hole, and a noted 
 Drover), and Jiis Brother, all met in the kiln at 
 Reliefs 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 per- 
 haps often enough, for trifling stakes ; and always 
 parted in good humour: one night they came to some 
 disagreement. My Father spoke out, what was in him, 
 about the folly, the sinfulness of quarrelling over a per- 
 haps 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 father 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 nigJit. My Father is now in his grave ; 
 sleeping by the side of his loved ones : his face to 
 the East, under the Hope of meeting 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 Jiivi I will pause here for the night. God 
 comfort my Mother ; 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 description of that and 
 other antiquarian matters, in one of the pleasantest 
 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 boundless love and natural 
 
 ^ Farm in Middlebie parish.
 
 JAMES CARLYLE 31 
 
 worth, still faintly lives in Annandale. If I mistake 
 not, he worked also as a Shoemaker : he was heartily 
 devout ; 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 ordered a Tombstone 
 for him, and it was lying worked, and I suppose 
 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 hurried 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 up again. 
 The night fell : I think some one found him desper- 
 ately struggling with it near Mein Mill, and assisted 
 him, and got it set in its place. — Should I not go 
 and look whether it is still to be found there : in 
 Pennersaughs Churchyard ?^ 
 
 Though far above all quackery, Orr was actually 
 employed to exorcise a House ; some house or room 
 at Orchard in the parish of Hoddam. He entered 
 the haunted place, was closeted in it for some time, 
 speaking or 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 !— 
 
 ^ A disused churchyard, about half a mile from Ecclefechan, in 
 which many generations of Carlyles lie buried.
 
 32 REMINISCENCES 
 
 Orr, as already said, used to come much about 
 Brownknowe ; being habitually itinerant, and (though 
 Schoolmaster of Hoddam) without settled home. He 
 commonly, my Father said, slept with some of the 
 Boys, in a place 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 problem 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, but must inquire 
 of my now sole surviving Aunt) ^ 1773, that one 
 William Brown, a Mason from Peebles came down 
 into Annandale to do some work ; perhaps boarded 
 in my Grandfather's house; at all events married his 
 eldest daughter and child, my now old and .vehement, 
 then young and spirited " Aunt Fanny " (" Aunt 
 Fann.") This worthy man, whose nephew is still 
 Minister of Eskdalemuir (and Author of a Book on 
 the Jews) proved the greatest blessing to that house- 
 hold ; my Father could in any case have saved 
 
 ^ Carlyle inquired of her on his return from London, but found her 
 "garrulous," and unable to give dates. She died 26th February 1834, 
 aged 82 years. She had married in 1773. Carlyle says of her in his 
 Journal: " She was about 82 ; the last of her family ; a woman of sin- 
 gular vehemence, inflexibility and energy, — all uncultivated, ill directed. 
 Her industry and parsimony were transcendent ; not less her self-help, 
 of which these were forms. She even died refusing help ; unseen ; just 
 as if she had been falling asleep. TAoy."
 
 JAMES CARLYLE 33 
 
 himself; of the other Brothers it may be doubted 
 whether William Brown was not the primary pre- 
 server. They all learned to be Masons from him, or 
 from one another; instead of miscellaneous labourers 
 and hunters, became regular tradesmen ; the best in 
 all their district (the skilfullest and faithfullest) and 
 the best rewarded — 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, 
 before 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 sickness, he used 
 to gasp out : " Bring Jamie ; O 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 to some crony of hers, lifted up the 
 coverlid from off his pale, ghastly -befilleted head 
 to show it her : unheeding of me, who was alone 
 with them there, and to whom the sight gave a new 
 pang of horror. — He was the Father of two sons 
 and a daughter, beside whom our boyhood was 
 passed, none of whom have come to anything but in- 
 significance. 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 
 
 ' Died I2th October iSoi, aged 47. 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 REMINISCENCES 
 
 warm-loving genuine soul, without fear and without 
 guile: of whom it is recorded that he never from the 
 first tones of speech, "told any lie." A true old-Roman 
 soul, yet so marred, so stunted ; who well deserves a 
 chapter to himself, especially from me, who so lov- 
 ingly admired him. He departed 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 openness ; fond 
 of genealogies, old histories, poems, queer sayings 
 and all curious and Jmniane things he could come at. 
 This made him the greatest favourite : the rest were 
 rather feared ; my Father (ultimately at least) uni- 
 versally feared and respected. Frank left two sons, as 
 yet young ; one of whom (my namesake), gone to be 
 a Lawyer, is rather clever, Jiozv clever I have not fully 
 seen. — All these Brothers were men of evidently 
 rather peculiar endowment : they were (censoriously) 
 noted for their brotherly affection, and coherence ; 
 for their hard sayings, and hard sinkings (which 
 only my father ever grew to heartily detest) ; all of 
 them became prosperous, got a name and possessions 
 in their degree. 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. — 
 
 ^ Thomas, born 1776, died 9th June 18 16. Carlyle often said it was 
 his reflections on the death of this uncle, that suggested to him the 
 subject of his chapter on "The Everlasting No," in Sartor Resartus. 
 
 ^ Francis, born 1761, died 1819. His two sons prospered and were 
 good men, much attached to each other, and to their kindred. They 
 both died within the last ten years.
 
 JAMES CARLYLE 35 
 
 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 Planetkin, — the whole 
 round of which is but a sandgrain in the All ; its 
 whole duration but a moment in Eternity ! The 
 poor life or the rich one, are but the larger or smaller 
 {very little smaller) letters in which we write the 
 apophthegm and golden-saying 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 : somewhere about his sixteenth year. 
 Early in the course of the engagement, work grew 
 scarce in Annandale : the two " slung their tools " 
 (mallets and irons hung in two equipoised masses 
 over the shoulders), and crossed the Hills into Niths- 
 dale, 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 (ex- 
 cept when he came to Craigenputtock ^ 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 w/ioie, for the first 
 time. He was a " hewer," and had some iew pence 
 a day. He could describe with the lucidest distinct- 
 ness how the whole work went on ; and " headers " 
 
 ' Commonly spelt Auldgirth, about eight miles from Dumfries. 
 - See infra, p. 80 ».
 
 36 REMINISCENCES 
 
 and " closers " solidly massed together made an im- 
 pregnable pile. He used to hear sermon in Closeburn 
 church ; sometimes too in Dunscore : the men had a 
 refreshment of ale, for which he too used to table his 
 twopence, — but the grown-up men generously for 
 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 cinctures and wood- 
 work : he saw the Master anxiously, tremulously 
 watch through the rain as the waters rose ; when 
 they prevailed, and all went headlong, the poor man, 
 wringing his hands together, spread them out with 
 open palm 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 Craigen- 
 puttock, 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 ; honoured in himself, and in his 
 household. He grew alert (Jamie said) and eagerly 
 observant : eagerly, yet with sadness. The country 
 was all altered ; broomy 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 recognise. On reaching the Bridge itself, he
 
 JAMES CARLYLE yj 
 
 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 dusk 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 Minnyive ; who afterwards became my 
 Uncle John Aitken's father-in-law : him I once saw. 
 My Craigenputtock 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 together, perhaps the last now lies powerless in the 
 sleep of death. O Time ! O Time ! wondrous and 
 fearful art thou ; yet there is in man what is above 
 thee. 
 
 S^Satitrday^ Of my Father's youth and opening 
 manhood, and with what specialties this period was 
 marked, I have but an imperfect notion. I must 
 inquire further what more is yet to be saved. 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 ascertain wherein his own "chief 
 end " in it actually lay. The first impulse of man is
 
 38 REMINISCENCES 
 
 to seek for Enjoyment : he tries 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 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 celestial 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 know 
 well that his life even then was marked by Temper- 
 ance (in all senses) ; that he was abstemious, pru- 
 dent, industrious, as very {q.\\. 
 
 I have a dim picture of him in his little world. 
 In summer season diligently, cheerfully labouring 
 with trowel and hammer ; amused by grave talk, and 
 grave humour, with the elders of the craft : building 
 (zvalling) is an operation that beyond most other 
 manual ones requires incessant consideration, ever- 
 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 
 desolate) ; hunting (but now happily for amusement, 
 not necessity) ; present here and there at such merry 
 meetings and social doings, as poor Annandale, for 
 poor yet God-created men, might then offer. — Con- 
 tentions occur ; in these he was no man to be played 
 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 in- 
 teresting and innocent ; scarcely ever, perhaps never, 
 to be considered as aggressions, but always as defences,
 
 JAMES CARLYLE 39 
 
 manful assertions of man's rights against man that 
 would infringe them, — and victorious ones. I can 
 faintly picture out one scene, which I got from him 
 many years ago : perhaps it was at some " Singing 
 School "; a huge rude peasant was rudely defying 
 and insulting the party my Father belonged to ; the 
 others quailed, and bore it, till he could bear it no 
 longer; but clutches his rough adversary (who had 
 been standing I think at some distance, on some sort 
 of height) by the two flanks, swings him with ireful force 
 round in the air (hitting his feet against some open 
 door), and hurls him to a distance — supine, lamed, 
 vanquished and utterly humbled. The whole busi- 
 ness looks to me to have passed physically in a 
 troublous moonlight ; in the same environment and 
 hue does it now stand in my memory, sad and stern. 
 He would say of such things : " I am wae to think 
 on't " — wae from repentance : Happy who has 
 nothing worse to repent of! — 
 
 In the vanities and gallantries of Life (though 
 such in their way came across him) he seems to have 
 very sparingly mingled. One Robert Henderson, 
 a dashing projector and devotee, with a dashing 
 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 that he never addressed any woman except with 
 views that were honest 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
 
 40 REMINISCENCES 
 
 there still existed in Annandale an influence of Good- 
 ness, pure emblems of a Religion : there were yet 
 men living 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 shone impressively through his 
 stout decisive, 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 learned more from this than from any other 
 individual. From the time when he connected him- 
 self openly with the Religious, — became a " Burgher" 
 (strict, not strictest species of Presbyterian Dissenter) 
 may be dated his spiritual majority ; his earthly Life 
 was now enlightened and overcanopied by a heavenly: 
 he was henceforth a Man. — 
 
 Annandale had long been a lawless " Border " 
 Country : the people had ceased from foray-riding, 
 but not from its effects ; the " gallant man " of those 
 districts was still a wild, natural, 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 priestliest man I ever 
 under any ecclesiastical guise was privileged to look 
 upon. He, in his last years, helped me well in my 
 Latin (as he had done many) ; and otherwise pro- 
 cured me far higher benefits. This peasant union,
 
 JAMES CARLYLE 41 
 
 this little heath-thatched house, this simple Evan- 
 gelist, — 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 me 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 Ecclefechan Churchyard ; 
 the Teacher and the Taught : " Blessed," I again say, 
 " are the Dead that die in the Lord. They do rest 
 from their labours, and their works follow them." 
 
 My Father, I think, was of the second race of 
 religious men in Annandale: old Robert Brand, an 
 ancient herdsman, old John Bretton, and some others 
 that I have seen, were perhaps among the first. 
 Alas, 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 mar- 
 ried : one Janet Carlyle, a very distant kinswoman of 
 his own (her father yet, I believe, lives ; a professor 
 of Religion, but long since 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 Cockermouth •} she left him and this 
 life in little more than a year. A mass of long fair 
 woman's hair, which had belonged to her, lay long in 
 a secret drawer at our house (perhaps still lies) ; the 
 
 1 John emigrated to Canada in 1837, and was a moderately successful 
 farmer ; he died there in 1872. Carlyle knew but little of his half- 
 brother, though he was on kindly terms with him, and was generous in 
 the way of helping him in his old age.
 
 42 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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 escaped. Many ways, I have under- 
 stood he had much to suffer then : yet he never 
 spoke of it ; or only transiently, and with a 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 now fast passing away ; 
 with my Father was quite invariable. Had he occa- 
 sion 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, 
 adding, " that's gane : " " my Brother John that's 
 gane," did so and so. — Ernst ist das Lcben. — 
 
 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 un- 
 weariedly 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 ; and trace deeply in myself the 
 1 5th of March.
 
 JAMES CARLYLE 43 
 
 character of both parents ; also the upbringing and 
 example of both : the inheritance of their natural 
 Jicalth, — had not I and the Time together beat on 
 it too hard. — 
 
 It must have been about the period of the first 
 marriage that my Father and his Brothers, already 
 Master-masons, established themselves in Eccle- 
 fechan. They all henceforth began to take on a 
 civic 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 dis- 
 trict ; and recompensed accordingly. Their gains, 
 the honest wages of Industry, their savings were slow 
 but constant ; and in my Father's case 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 ex- 
 ceed £\OQO ; in real inward worth, their value was 
 greater than that of most kingdoms, — than all Napo- 
 leon's conquests, which did not endure. He saw his 
 children grow up round him to guard him and do 
 him honour ; he had (ultimately) a hearty respect 
 from all; could look forward from the verge of this 
 Earth, rich and increased in goods, into an Everlast- 
 ing 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 com- 
 posure, an earnestness (not without its constraint, 
 then felt as oppressive a little, yet which now yields
 
 44 REMINISCENCES 
 
 its fruit) were the order of our household. We were 
 all practically taught that zvork (temporal or spiritual) 
 was the only thing we had to do ; and incited always 
 by precept and example to do it zvell. An inflexible 
 element of Authority encircled us all ; we felt from 
 the first (a useful thing) that our own wisJi 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 were said, that little had generally a meaning. 
 I cannot be thankful enough for my Parents. 
 
 My early, yet not my earliest recollections of my 
 Father had in them a certain awe ; which only now 
 or very lately has passed into free reverence. I was 
 parted from him in my tenth year ; and never JiahitiL- 
 ally beside 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 of the stream, of the pool 
 spanned by a wooden bow, without railing, 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
 
 JAMES CARLYLE 45 
 
 save me. Directly after, I, light of heart, asked 
 of him what these " little black things " were that 
 I seemed sometimes 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 : " like penny-rows " (rolls) " but far less." He 
 explained it wholly to me : " 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 grand- 
 father's) ; 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 throw- 
 ing it at my brother ; and felt for perhaps the first 
 time, the united pangs of Loss and of Remorse. 
 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 : this seems later (in 1799 ?), and might 
 be ascertained. Backwards beyond all, are dim 
 ruddy images, of deeper and deeper brown shade into 
 the dark beginnings of being. 
 
 I remember, perhaps in my fifth year, his teaching 
 me Arithmetical things : especially how to divide (of 
 my Letters taught me by my Mother, I have no re- 
 collection whatever; of reading scarcely any) : he said,
 
 46 REMINISCENCES 
 
 " This is the divider (divisor), this " etc., and gave me 
 a quite clear notion how to do. My Mother said I 
 would forget it all ; to which he answered : Not 
 so much as they that have never learned 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 him- 
 self"— 
 
 He took me down to Annan Academy on the 
 Whitsunday morning,^ i 806 ; I trotting at his side in 
 the way alluded to in Teufelsdj^ockJi. It was a bright 
 morning, and to me full of moment ; of fluttering 
 boundless Hopes, saddened by parting with Mother, 
 with Home ; and which afterwards were cruelly dis- 
 appointed. He called once or twice in the grand 
 schoolroom, as he chanced to have business at 
 Annan : once sat down by me (as the master was 
 out), and asked whether I was all well. The boys 
 did not laugh (as I feared), perhaps durst not. 
 
 He was ahuays GENEROUS to me in my school 
 expenses ; never by grudging look or word did 
 he give me any pain. With a noble faith he 
 launched 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 counsels 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. 
 1 26th May. Whitsunday is a Scotch term-day.
 
 JAMES CARLYLE 47 
 
 When I declined 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 in- 
 wardly disapproved of the step as imprudent ; and 
 saw me, in successive summers, lingering beside him 
 in sickliness of body and mind, without outlook 
 towards 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, ministered to all my woes, out- 
 ward and inward, and ever against hope kept pro- 
 phesying 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 where he 
 could, where 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 
 I 8 10) 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 re- 
 covering from a fit of sickness (his first severe one), 
 and there welcomed me back. It was a bright 
 April day : ivlicre is it now ? — 
 
 The great world -revolutions send in their dis- 
 turbing billows to the remotest creek ; and the over- 
 throw of thrones more slowly overturns also the
 
 48 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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 arrested him 
 strongly : in the Russian Campaign we bought a 
 London Newspaper, which I read aloud to a little 
 circle thrice weekly. He was struck with Napoleon, 
 and would say and look pregnant things about him : 
 empires won, and empires lost (while Ids little house- 
 hold 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 impress- 
 iveness which all his perceptions carried with them : 
 " that the lot of a poor man was growing worse and 
 worse ; that the world could not and would not last 
 as it was ; but 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 hael 
 foundations." — 
 
 In the "dear years" (1799 and 1800), when the 
 oatmeal was as high as ten shillings a stone, he had 
 noticed the labourers (I have heard him tell) retire 
 each separately to a brook, and there drink instead 
 of dining, — without complaint ; anxious only to 
 hide it. — 
 
 At Langholm he once saw a heap of smuggled 
 Tobacco publicly burnt. Dragoons were ranged 
 round it with drawn swords ; some old women 
 stretched throufrh their old withered arms to snatch
 
 JAMES CARLYLE 49 
 
 a little of it, and the dragoons did not hinder them/ 
 — A natural artist ! 
 
 The largest sum he ever earned in one year, I think, 
 was ;i^ioo ; by the building of Cressfield House. 
 
 He wisely quitted the Mason trade, at the time 
 when the character of it had changed ; when univer- 
 sal Poverty and Vanity made sJiozv and cheapness 
 (here as everywhere) be preferred to Substance ; 
 when as he said emphatically honest trade " was 
 done." He became Farmer (of a wet clayey spot 
 called Mainhill) in 1815 ; that so "he might keep 
 all his family about him ;" struggled with his old 
 valour, 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 braggart but like a practi- 
 cally brave man. It was I that innocently (by my 
 settlement at Hoddam Hill) had involved him in it. 
 I must admire now his silence, while we were all so 
 loud and vituperative : he spoke notJiing on that 
 matter, except only what had practical meaning in 
 it, and in a practical tone. His answers to unjust 
 proposals, meanwhile, were resolute and ever-memo- 
 rable for their emphasis : " I will not do it," said he 
 once ; " I will rather go to Jerusalem, seeking farms, 
 
 ^ It was formerly the common practice of the old Annandale peasant- 
 women to smoke tobacco, and it is even now not very unusual. 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 REMINISCENCES 
 
 and die without finding one," — " We can live without 
 Sharpe,"^ said he once in my hearing (such a thing 
 only ojice) " and the whole Sharpe creation." — On 
 getting to Scotsbrig, the rest of us all triumphed ; 
 not he : he let the matter stand on its own feet ; 
 was there also, not to talk but to work. He even 
 addressed a conciliatory letter to General Sharpe 
 (which I saw right to zurite for him, since he judged 
 prudence better than pride) : but it produced no 
 result, — except indeed the ascertainment that none 
 could be produced ; which itself was one. — 
 
 When he first entered our house at Craigenput- 
 tock he said in his slow emphatic way, with a certain 
 rustic dignity to my wife (I had entered introducing 
 him) : " I am grown an old felloiv " (never can we for- 
 get the pathetic slow earnestness of these two words) 
 " I am grown an old fellow ; and wished to see ye all 
 once more while I had yet opportunity." Jane was 
 greatly struck with him ; and still further opened my 
 eyes to the treasure I possessed in a Father. — 
 
 The last thing I gave him was a cake of Caven- 
 dish 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 wouldst 
 give, give quickly : in the grave thy loved one can 
 receive no kindness. — I had once bought him a pair 
 of silver spectacles ; at receipt of which and the 
 letter that accompanied them (John told me) he was 
 very glad, and nigh weeping. " What I gave I have." 
 He read with these spectacles till his last days ; and 
 no doubt sometimes thought of me in using them. — 
 
 ■' The landlord referred to above.
 
 JAMES CARLYLE 51 
 
 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 surely a pity that thou should 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 (knowing 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 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 three-score- 
 and-ten years of the 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 Eter- 
 nity ? Perhaps my Father, all that essentially u<as 
 my Father is even now near me, with me. Both he 
 and I are with God. Perhaps, if it so please God, 
 
 ^ Fey, fated to die ; said of a person who does some unusually gener- 
 ous act, or who is seen in any mood surprisingly beyond the bounds of 
 his ordinaiy temperament ; it is feared the Fate presiding over human 
 destiny is near, actively influencing him in prospect of his death.
 
 52 REMINISCENCES 
 
 we shall in some higher state of being meet one 
 another, recognise one another : as it is written, " we 
 shall be for ever with God !" The possibility, nay 
 (in some way) the certainty of perennial existence 
 daily grows plainer to me. " The essence of what- 
 ever was, is, or shall be, even now zj." 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 
 Loved. 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 
 longer. 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 I have had in 
 London. One other of the universal 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 honour, 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 
 Father again bring us together in perfect holiness, 
 and perfect love ! Amen ! 
 
 Sunday night, 29th January 1S32.
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 
 
 " In the ancient County-Town of Haddington, July 
 14th, I 801, 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 /auc Baillic Welsh ; and whose 
 subsequent and final name (her own common signa- 
 ture 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 Abbey 
 Kirk of that Town. July 14th, 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 cunctation, 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." 
 
 The preceding passage Mr. Carlyle has labelled 
 " Rudiments of Preface," and he added at its close, 
 as a memorandum, " something more of Preface ; 
 ' Letters mainly,' ' can be left for friends,' not to be 
 published, any way, till long ajter death." 
 
 It is plain that these words were intended to 
 form part of the Preface to the Letters of his Wife,
 
 54 REMINISCENCES 
 
 which in 1868-9 he was putting in order and anno- 
 tating. They do not properly belong to the follow- 
 ing " Bit of Writing." But they are printed here 
 because in the edition of the Reminiscences edited 
 by Mr. Froude they appear in a corresponding posi- 
 tion, prefixed to Miss Jewsbury's anecdotes of Mrs. 
 Carlyle. 
 
 Mr. Froude states that Carlyle " had requested 
 Miss Geraldine Jewsbury, his wife's most intimate 
 friend, to tell him any biographical anecdotes which 
 she could remember to have heard from Mrs. Carlyle's 
 lips." That this statement is incorrect appears from 
 a note addressed by Mr. Carlyle to Miss Jewsbury 
 on returning to her the little note-book in which she 
 had written her narrative. His note was written on 
 the next leaf in the volume, and it is now printed 
 in its place at the end of Miss Jewsbury's pages.^ 
 
 IN MEMORIAM JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 
 Ob. April 21, 1866. 
 
 BY GERALDINE JEWSBURY. 
 
 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 
 came into her mind ' What would be the consequence if I 
 should eat one of them .f" 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 little 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 afterwards. 
 
 ^ See infra, p. 68.
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 55 
 
 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 passed 
 the gate several labourers 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, little Jeannie 
 Welsh ! ' and the Bubbly Jock never molested her again. 
 
 LEARNING LATL\. 
 
 She was very 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 mother 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 went to one 
 of the town scholars in Haddington and made him teach her a 
 noun of the first declension {'■ Fe?ina, 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 conversation, a little voice was heard, 
 *■ Pentia, a pen ; petmce, of a pen ;' etc., and as there was a 
 pause of surprise, she crept out, and went up to her father 
 saying, ' 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 Algebra. Of course she had 
 many devoted slaves among the boys ; one of them especi- 
 ally taught her, and helped her all he knew ; but he was 
 quite a poor boy, whilst Jeannie was one of the gentiy of 
 the place ; but she felt no difficulty, and they were great
 
 56 REMINISCENCES 
 
 friends. She was fond of doing everything 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 outside of the bridge overhanging the 
 water ; the ledge went in an arch, and the height was con- 
 siderable. 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 displease her. She lifted her hand, doubled it, 
 and hit him 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 boys, you know, 
 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 tawse 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 ' \sic\. 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 little deevil,' and had no 
 business there, and to go her ways back to the girls. 
 
 Her friendship with her schoolfellow-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 company. 
 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 imagine 
 it a fit of caprice, and from that day she never spoke a word 
 to him or took the least notice ; she thought a sudden 
 cessation would pain him less than a gradual coldness. 
 Years and years afterwards, going back on a visit to Had- 
 dington, when she was a middle-aged woman, and he was 
 a man married and doing well in the world, she saw him 
 again, and then, for the first time, told him the explanation.
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 57 
 
 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 consciousness 
 of her dream ; but on looking at her slate, there was the prob- 
 lem 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 applied 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 
 insensible. 
 
 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 ashes, 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 beautifully 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 softness, 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 beautiful. 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 ;
 
 58 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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 pre- 
 tentious. 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 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 destruc- 
 tion 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 dress- 
 ing 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 entrusted with a 
 secret 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 scrollwork ; 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 admiration. 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 economised upon herself to be generous to others ; and no 
 one ever served her in the least without experiencing her
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 59 
 
 generosity. She was almost as charming and as much adored 
 as her daughter. 
 
 Of her Father she always spoke with reverence ; he was the 
 only person who had any real influence over her. But, how- 
 ever wilful 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 posses- 
 sion. She loved him with a deep reverence ; 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 favour 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 journey, her father told her he was pleased with 
 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 J 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 [' they,' no ! T. C] left Had- 
 dington, and went to live at l^empland, near Thornhill, in 
 Dumfriesshire. It was a country house, standing in its own
 
 6o REMINISCENCES 
 
 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 \eigJiteen, just gone, T. C], 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 no end of ardent lovers, and she owned that 
 some of them had reason to complain. I think it highly prob- 
 able that if 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 decidedly when he proposed ; 
 but he tried to turn her from her decision, which showed how 
 little he understood her ; for her will was very steadfast 
 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 letter, in which he de- 
 clared 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 re- 
 proached her bitterly. 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 imploring her to say 
 just one word to save the young man's mother from her 
 misery. But though she felt horribly guilty and miserable, 
 she was not going to be forced or frightened into anything. 
 She took up the letter once more, which she 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 another. A man intending anything des- 
 perate would not have stopped to scratch out a word, he would 
 have put his pen through it, or left it !' That was very saga- 
 cious, but the poor young man was very ill, and the doctor
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 6i 
 
 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 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 some- 
 where, 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 hap- 
 pened 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 calling forth 
 the best qualities that were in people. 
 
 I don't know at what period she knew Irving, 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 
 scandal about a Scotch minister who had broken an en- 
 gagement 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 honour, she
 
 62 REMINISCENCES 
 
 did not know herself; but anyhow that is what she did. 
 After Irving's marriage, years afterwards, 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 con- 
 nected with her marriage. I believe that she brought no 
 money or very little at her marriage. 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 hus- 
 band, 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 recognised. 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, 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 neces- 
 sary, and accomplished them as she accomplished everything 
 else she undertook, well and gracefully. 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 
 
 ^ Omitted here, by Mr. Froude, probably as uninteresting, an account 
 of " Captain Baillie," a cousin of Mrs. Carlyle, died 1S73.
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 63 
 
 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 Craigenputtock. 
 
 At first on their marriage they lived in a small pretty house 
 in Edinburgh called Cromlech Bank \sic\. 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 
 learned 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 feelings like 
 Benvenuto Cellini's when he watched his Perseus put into the 
 furnace. She did not feel too sure what it would come out 1 
 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 exactness. Whilst they were in Edinburgh 
 they knew everybody worth knowing ; 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 Craigenputtock — a lonely farmhouse 
 belonging to Mrs. Welsh, her mother. A house was attached 
 to the farm, beside the regular farmhouse. 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 
 garden and outbuildings 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 un- 
 inhabited for miles round, being all moorland, 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
 
 64 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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' just 
 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 un- 
 doubtedly a great strain upon her nerves from which she 
 never entirely recovered ; but she lived in the solitude cheer- 
 fully 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. Carlyle'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 com- 
 panionship ; 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 recognised 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-legged hens, and she used to go 
 into the yard amongst them wdth a long stick and point out 
 those that were to be killed, feeling, she said, like Fouquier 
 Tinville pricking down his victims.
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 65 
 
 One hard winter her servant, Grace, asked leave to go 
 home to see her parents ; there vi^as 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 outhouse 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 prejjared ; 
 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 success- 
 ful ! 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. The 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 like 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 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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 installed him with 
 his pipe to watch her progress. He regarded her beneficently, 
 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 
 upon the fire, and instantly a great black thick stream came down 
 the chimney, pouring like a flood along the floor, taking pre- 
 cisely the lately cleaned portion first in its course, and extin- 
 guishing 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 
 mistress, my dear mistress, I dreamed ye were deed !' 
 
 During their residence at Craigenputtock, 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 receive 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. Carlyle had gone to London, leaving her to finish winding 
 up affairs at Craigenputtock 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,
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 67 
 
 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 storey, she rode up the 
 avenue which led to it. Some women-servants had got up 
 early, or rather late at 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 while she got them to listen 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 Eccle- 
 fechan ; 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 
 proceeded 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 
 themselves. The children were brought up to think of her as 
 a sort of fairy lady. One day, a great many years afterwards.
 
 68 REMINISCENCES 
 
 when I had come to Hve 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 affectionate attendant upon her, and who was now 
 very well married, and an extremely 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 remember 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 saw 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. 
 
 Dear Geraldine, — Few or none of these Narra- 
 tives are correct in all the details ; some of them, in 
 almost all the details, are z;/correct. I have not I'ead 
 carefully beyond a certain point which is marked on 
 the margin.^ Your recognition of the cJiaracter is 
 generally true and faithful ; little of portraiture in 
 
 1 The mark on the margin is near the beginning of a passage 
 omitted by Mr. Froude. See supra, p. 62 n.
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 
 
 it that satisfies me. On the whole, all tends to the 
 mythical ; it is very strange how much of mythical 
 there already here is ! — 
 
 As Lady Lothian set you on writing, it seems 
 hard that she should not see what you have written : 
 but I wish you to take Jier ivord of honour that none 
 else shall ; and my earnest request to you is that, 
 directly />'<?;;/ her Ladyship, you will bring the Book 
 to me, and consign it to my keeping. 
 
 No need that an idle-gazing world should know 
 my lost Darling's History, or mine; — nor ivill they 
 ever, they may depend upon it ! One fit service, 
 and one only, tJiey can do to Her or to Me : cease 
 speaking of us, through all Eternity, as soon as they 
 conveniently can. — Affectionately yours, 
 
 T. Carlyle. 
 Chelsea, May 22, 1866. 
 
 25 May 1866. Geraldine returns me this little 
 Book of Myths, «;^shown to anybody, and to be my 
 own henceforth. I do not yet burn it ; as I have 
 done her kind and respectful Letter (" Narratives long 
 ago, on our first acquaintance " etc. etc. and ferment- 
 ing and agglomerating in my mind ever since !) — in 
 fact, there is a certain mythical truth, in all or most 
 parts of the poor scribble, and it may ivait its doom, 
 or execution. That of young lovers, especially that 
 o[ flirting, is much exaggerated : if " flirt " mean one 
 who tries to inspire love without feeling it, I do not 
 think she ever was a flirt. But she was very charm- 
 ing, full of grace, talent, clear insight, playful humour,
 
 70 REMINISCENCES 
 
 and also of honest dignity and pride ; and not a 
 few young fools, of her own or perhaps a slightly 
 better station, made offers to her, — which, sometimes 
 to their high temporary grief and astonishment, were 
 decisively rejected. The most serious -looking of 
 these affairs, was that of George Rehnie, the Junior 
 (not Heir but Cadet) of Phantassie, Nephew of the 
 first Engineer Rennie ; a clever, decisive, very ambi- 
 tious, but quite ?/«melodious young fellow ; whom we 
 knew afterwards here as sculptor, 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 called), of 
 strict veracity ; who much contemned imbecility, 
 falsity, or nonsense wherever met with ; had swal- 
 lowed 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 always complete. — My poor Jane hurried 
 to his House ; and was there for three days, zeal- 
 ously assisting the Widow. 
 
 The Wooer who would needs die for want of 
 success, was one Fyfe M.D., an extremely conceited, 
 limited, strutting little creature, who well deserved 
 all he got or more. The end of him had some- 
 thing of tragedy in it, but is not worth recording. — 
 Dods is the " Peasant schoolfellow's " name ; about
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 71 
 
 seven or eight years her senior, son of a Nursery- 
 man ; now rich abundantly, Banker, etc. etc. ; and 
 an honest and kindly, though clumsy prosaic man. 
 Never uttered, or could have had the remotest 
 hope or possibility to profit by uttering, his heavy 
 thoughts (age 17-20), of the bright young Fairy (age 
 10-12). 
 
 The Story of her being taken as a child of per- 
 haps seven or eight, 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 for- 
 gotten," etc., 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 or several hours, as a young girl of 
 eighteen, — over some district of her Father's duties ; 
 she waiting in the carnage, 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 to the circle she would live 
 in ; that she must summon her utmost judgment and 
 seriousness to choose her path, and be what he ex- 
 pected of her ; that he did not think she had ever 
 yet seen the Life -Partner that would be worthy 
 of her (Rennie's or anybody's name he did not 
 m.ention, I think) ; — in short that he expected 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 ; com- 
 ing from the man she of all men revered. Often she
 
 72 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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 (who, I think, recovered of it) a 
 typhus fever ; which, under injudicious treatment, 
 killed him in three or four days (September i 8 1 9) : — 
 and drowned the world for her in the very blackness 
 of darkness. In effect, it was her first sorrow ; and 
 her greatest of all. It broke her health, permanently, 
 within 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 what a sweet slow tone !), " my 
 Father : " nay, I have a kind of notion (beautiful to 
 me and sad exceedingly) she was never as happy 
 again after that sunniest youth of hers, as in the 
 last eighteen months, and especially the last tivo 
 ivceks of her life ; zvhcn, after wild rain-deluges and 
 black tempests many, the sun shone out again, for 
 anothc7-s sake, with full mild brightness, taking ' sweet 
 farewell' Oh it is beautiful to me ; and oh it is 
 humbling ; and it is sad ! Where was my Jeannie's 
 peer in this world ? and she fell to me, and I could 
 not screen her from the bitterest distresses ! God 
 pity and forgive me ; my own burden, too, might 
 have broken a stronger back, — had not she been so 
 loyal and loving. [Enough to-day.] 
 
 \_May 26, Saturday. {Gone five weeks, ah me!)]. 
 — The Geraldine accounts of her Childhood are sub- 
 stantially correct ; but without the light melodious 
 clearness, and charm of a Fairy Tale all true, which
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 77, 
 
 my lost One used to give them in talking to me. 
 She was fond of talking about her childhood ; no- 
 where 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 parapets of the Nungate 
 Bridge (John Knox's old suburb), I recollect well ; 
 that of the boy with the bloody nose ; many adven- 
 tures about skating and leaping ; that of " Puma, 
 penncs'' from below the table is already in print, 
 through Mrs. OHphant's Life of Irving^ (a loyal and 
 clear, but feeble kind of Book, popular in late years). 
 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 in- 
 telligence, of veracity, vivacity, and bright curiosity. 
 She went into all manner of shops and workshops 
 that were accessible ; eager to see and understand 
 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 sat down on a bench 
 at the wall, old barber giving her a kind glance, but 
 no word. Presently a customer came in ; was soaped 
 and lathered, in silence mainly or altogether ; was 
 getting diligently scraped and shaved, my Bonny 
 little Bird, as attentive 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 deid " 
 
 ^ Tlie Life of Edward Irving, l)y Mrs. Oliphant (London, 1864), 
 p. 22.
 
 74 REMINISCENCES 
 
 {dead), replied Barber in a rough hollow voice, and 
 instantly pushed on with business again. The bright 
 little child burst into tears, and hurried out. This 
 she told me, not half a year ago. I never saw a 
 picture lovelier than had grown in me of her child- 
 hood. 
 
 Her first school teacher was Edward Irving ; who 
 also gave her private lessons in Latin etc., and became 
 an intimate of the family ; it was from him (probably 
 in 1 8 1 8) 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 away from me, both, and objects of distant 
 reverence and unattainable longing, at that time ! 
 The Father, whom I never saw, died next year 
 (Sept. 1 8 1 9) ; her I must have seen first, I think 
 in June 1821. Sight for ever memorable to me : — 
 I looked up at the windows of the old room, in the 
 desolate moonlight of my last visit to Haddington 
 {five zueeks ago, come Wednesday next) ; and the 
 old summer dusk, and that bright pair of eyes, in- 
 quiringly 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 hither, western, end of the Nungate Bridge ; 
 and grew famed in the neighbourhood by Irving's 
 new methods and managements, — adopted as far as 
 might be by Brown. A short furlong or so along
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 75 
 
 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 ; dressed 
 by her mother (who had a great talent that way) in 
 tasteful simplicity, — neat bit of pelisse (' light blue,' 
 sometimes) fastened with black belt ; dainty little 
 cap, perhaps little bcavcr\C\x\ (' with flap turned up ') 
 and I think once at least with modest ' little plume 
 in it.' Fill that figure with electric intellect, ditto 
 love, and generous vivacity of all kinds ; where in 
 Nature will you find a prettier ? 
 
 At home was opulence {ivitJioiit waste), elegance, 
 good sense, silent practical affection 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 withal, in her charmingly 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 insect) that was dancing on the 
 summer rays in her time. More enviable lot than 
 all this was I cannot imagine to myself in any house 
 high or low, — in the liigJicr and highest still less than 
 the other kind. 
 
 Once, I cannot say in what year, nor for how 
 many months, — but perhaps about six or eight, 
 her age perhaps eight or nine, — her mother think- 
 ing it good, she was sent away to another House 
 of the Town, to board with some kind of Ex- 
 Governess Person, who had married some Ex- 
 Military ditto, and professed to be able to educate
 
 76 REMINISCENCES 
 
 young ladies and form their manners (" better," 
 thought the mother, " than with nothing but men as 
 here at home!") — and in this place, with a Miss 
 Something, a friend and playmate of like age, she 
 was fixed down, for a good (q\m months, and suffered, 
 she and the companion manifold disgust, even hard- 
 ships, even want of proper food ; wholly without 
 complaining (too proud and loyal for that) ; till it 
 was, by some accident, found out, and instantly put 
 an end to. This was the little cup of bitter ; which, 
 I suppose, sweetened into new sweetness all the 
 other happy years of her home. — Two child aneedotes 
 I will mark, as ready at this moment : 
 
 Father and mother returning from some visit 
 (probably to Nithsdale) along with her (age, say four), 
 at the Black Bull, Edinburgh, were ordering dinner. 
 Waiter, rather solemn personage, inquired, " And 
 what will little Missie eat ? " "A roasted bumm 
 bee " (Jiuniniing or field bee), answered little Missie. 
 
 " Mamma, wine makes cosy !" said the little Natu- 
 ralist once at home (year before perhaps), while sip- 
 ping a drop of wine Mamma had given her. 
 
 ^ [One of the prettiest stories was of the child's 
 first Ball, ' Dancing School Ball ;' her first public ap- 
 pearance, as it were, on the theatre of the world. Of 
 this, in the daintiest style of kind mockery, I often 
 heard, and have the general image still vivid ; but 
 have lost the express details, or rather, in my ignor- 
 ance of such things, never completely understood the 
 details. How the evening was so great ; all the 
 
 ^ This passage in brackets is from a loose sheet written in 1868, form- 
 ing part of a proposed introduction to the Letters ami JMeinoriah of 
 lane Welsh Carlyle.
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 77 
 
 higher public there, especially the maternal or paternal 
 sections of it, to see their children dance ; and 
 Jeannie Welsh, probably then about six, had been 
 selected to perform some Pas seiil, beautiful and 
 difficult, the jewel of the evening, and was privately 
 anxious in her little heart to do it well ; how she 
 was dressed to perfection, with elegance, with sim- 
 plicity, and at the due hour was carried over in a 
 clothes-basket (streets being muddy and no carriage), 
 and landed safe, pretty silks and pumps ^ uninjured. 
 Through the Ball everything went well and smoothly, 
 nothing to be noted till the Pas 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 alas, alas, it was the wrong music, im- 
 possible to dance that Pas seul to it ! She shook her 
 little head, looked or made some sign of distress. 
 Music ceased, took counsel, scraped, began again ; 
 again wrong, hopelessly ; the Pas seul flatly impos- 
 sible. 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 curtseying in that veiled manner, withdrew 
 from the adventure amidst general applause and 
 admiration, as I could well believe.] 
 
 The second (properly the third) of my anecdotes 
 is not easily intelligible except to myself : Old Walter 
 Welsh, her maternal Grandfather, was a most pic- 
 turesque, 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 Caplegill (Moffat Water), or 
 
 ^ Dancinir-shoes.
 
 78 REMrmSCENCES 
 
 at Strathmilligan or Durisdeer (Nithsdale, both these; 
 Templand was long after) : old Walter, who was of 
 few words though of very lively thought and insight, 
 had a biu'r in pronouncing his r, and spoke in old- 
 style, generally. He had taken little Jeannie out to 
 ride on a quiet little pony ; very pleasant winding 
 ride ; and at length, when far enough, old Walter 
 said. Now we will go back by So-and-so, " to vary 
 the scene" (to vah-ry, properly 'to wsh-chy' the shano). 
 Home at dinner, the company asked her, " Where 
 did you ride to, Pen ? " {Pen was her little name 
 there, from Paternal Grandfather's house, " Penfillan," 
 to distinguish her from the other Welshes of Walter's 
 household.) We rode to so, then to so, answered 
 she, punctually ; then from so, returned by so " to 
 vah-chy 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 expos/^ inc !" exclaimed she once, 
 not yet got quite the length of speaking, when her 
 mother for some kind purpose was searching under 
 her clothes. — 
 
 I will write of all this no further : the beauty of 
 it is so steeped to me in pain. Why do I write at 
 all, for that matter ? Can / ever forget ? And is 
 not all this appointed by me rigorously to the Jii'e ? 
 Somehow it solaces me to Jiave written it ; — and to- 
 morrow, probably, I shall fill out these two remain- 
 ing pages.^ Ah me. — She had written at one time 
 something of her own early life ; but she gave up, 
 and burnt it. . . . She wrote at various times in 
 Note-books ; refusing all sight of them even to me : 
 
 ^ Of the Note-book in which Miss Jewsbury had written.
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 79 
 
 but she has destroyed nearly every vestige of them ; — 
 one Httle Book, consisting of curious excerpts and 
 jottings not biographic (in which she would often 
 look practically for Addresses, Street and number as 
 one item), is all that remains, — that I do not mean 
 to burn. 
 
 Geraldine's account of Coniley Bank ^ and Life at 
 Edinburgh, is extremely mythic ; we did grow to 
 " know everybody of mark," or might have grown ; 
 but nobody except Jeffrey ^ seemed to either of us a 
 valuable acquisition. Jeffrey much admired her, and 
 was a pleasant phenomenon to both of us. . . . 
 Wilson, a far bigger man, I could have loved, or 
 fancied I could ; but he would not let me try, — being 
 already deep in luhisky-puncJi, poor fellow, and ap- 
 prehensive I might think less of him the better I 
 knew him. — We had a little tea-party (never did I 
 see a smaller or a frugaller, with the tenth part of 
 the human grace and brightness in it) once a week ; — 
 the " brown coffee-pot," the feeble talk of dilettante 
 
 , pretty silly etc. ; ah me, how she knit up 
 
 all that into a shining thing ! . . . Oh she was noble, 
 very noble, in that early as in all other periods ; and 
 made the ugliest and dullest into something beautiful ! 
 I look back on it as if through rainbows, the bit of 
 sunshine hers, the tears my own. 
 
 I was latterly beginning also to get into note and 
 employment. " If I could recover health ! " said I 
 
 ^ 21 Comley Bank, a house in the north-western suburbs of Edinburgh 
 in which Carlyle and his wife lived from the time of their marriage, 
 17th October 1826, till their removal to Craigenputtock in 1828. 
 
 - See the paper on "Jeffrey" in next volume.
 
 8o REMINISCENCES 
 
 always, with which view and for the sake of cheap- 
 ness we moved (in May 1828) to Craigenputtock ; 
 she cheerily assenting, though our plans were surely 
 somewhat helpless.^ 
 
 {^May 29.] We must have gone to Craigenputtock^ 
 early in May 1828: I remember passing our furni- 
 ture carts (my Father's carts from Scotsbrig, conducted 
 by my two farming Brothers) somewhere about 
 Elvanfoot, as the coach brought 7is two along. I 
 don't remember our going up to Craigenputtock (a 
 day or two after), but do well remember what a be- 
 wildering heap it all was for some time after. 
 
 Geraldine's Craigcnpjittock stories are more mythi- 
 cal than any of the rest. Each consists of two 
 or three, in confused exaggerated state, rolled with 
 new confusion into one, and given wholly to Jier, 
 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 morn- 
 ing, etc., that is a fact very visible to me yet ; and 
 how I, coming down for a light to my pipe, found 
 Grace Macdonald (our Edinburgh servant, and a 
 
 ^ An unimportant commentary on the passage in Miss Jewsbury's 
 narrative relating to Mrs. Carlyle's cousin, see supra, p. 62 n., is 
 omitted here. 
 
 - A farm on the moors about sixteen miles north-west of Dumfries. 
 It was purchased from his father by Dr. Welsh, and on his death in 
 1819 became the property of his daughter, afterwards Mrs. Carlyle. 
 Dr. Welsh having died suddenly without making provision for his 
 widow, Miss Welsh made it over in life-rent to her mother. Carlyle 
 added a second story to the house, and, with his wife, removed thither 
 from Edinburgh in May 1828. He built a smaller house, which, 
 together with the farm, was let for ;f 200 a year to his brother Alexander. 
 Mrs. Welsh died in 1S42, and it then again came into Mrs. Carlyle's 
 possession.
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 
 
 most clever and complete one) in tears and despair, 
 with a stupid farm-servant endeavouring vainly by- 
 main force to pull the door to, which, as it had a 
 frame round it, sill and all, for keeping out the wind, 
 could not be shut except by somebody 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 jQe kitchen floor etc. 
 (of which I can remember notling) must have been 
 years distant, under some quile other servant, and 
 was probably as much of a jojous half-frolic as of 
 anything else. I can remember yery well her coming 
 in to me, late at night (eleven \x so), with htr first 
 loaf, looking mere triumph and quizzical gaiety ; 
 " 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 we never wanted excellent bread. In fact, 
 the saving charm of her life at Craigenputtock, 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 wdiich, I think all, she triumphantly 
 mastered. Dairy, poultry-yard, piggery ; I remember 
 one exquisite pig, which we called Fixie {Quintus 
 Fixlein of Jean Paul), and such a little ham of it as 
 could not be equalled. Her cow gave 24 quarts of 
 milk daily in the two or three best months of summer ; 
 and such cream, and such butter (though oh, she had 
 such a problem 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, 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 REMINISCENCES 
 
 could never have been necessary, even by accident 
 (plenty of milkmaids within call), and I conclude 
 must have had a spice of frolic or advenUux in it, 
 for which she had abundant spirit. Perfection of 
 housekeeping 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 moorland 
 home of the poor man ! In my life I have seen no 
 human intelligence that so genuinely pervaded every 
 fibre of the human existence 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 
 Jiers in especial, but mine rather. We read together 
 at night, — one winter, through Doji Quixote in the 
 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 finish- 
 ing 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, 
 
 ' See infra, p. 157.
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 83 
 
 and the pleasantest visits. Stay perhaps three days ; 
 hardly ever more than four ; then back to work and 
 silence. My Father she particularly loved, and re- 
 cognised all the grand rude worth and immense 
 originality that lay in him. Her demeanour at 
 Scotsbrig, throughout in fact, was like herself, un- 
 surpassable ; and took captive all those true souls, 
 from oldest to youngest, who by habit and type 
 might have been so utterly foreign to her. At 
 Templand or there, our presence always made a sun- 
 shiny time. To Templand we sometimes rode on an 
 evening, to return next day early enough for some- 
 thing of work : this was charming generally. Once 
 I remember we had come by Barjarg,^ not by Auld- 
 garth (Bridge) ; and were riding, the Nith then in 
 flood, from Penfillan or Penpont neighbourhood : she 
 was fearlessly following or accompanying 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 Jieaj'd 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. 
 
 \_May 30.] We were not unhappy at Craigen- 
 puttock ; perhaps these were our happiest days. 
 Useful, continual labour, essentially successful ; that 
 
 ^ At Barjarg, some eight miles from Craigenputtock, there was a 
 library ("a handsome Library for a Country Gentleman," Carlyle calls 
 it) which the owner, Mr. Hunter Arundell, had placed at Carlyle's 
 service, and which was a privilege much prized ; but this good fortune 
 did not come until September 1833, within eight months of his leaving 
 Craigenputtock for London, May 1834.
 
 84 REMINISCENCES 
 
 makes even the moor green. I found I could do 
 fully Hvice 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 any stranger, not even a beggar, called at 
 Craigenputtock 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 birthplace as when here (and yet " knew the 
 world " as few of his time did, so well 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 him, and to all his 
 Brothers (and to vie), his emotion, after fifty -five 
 years, was described to me as strong, conspicuous 
 and silent. He delighted us, especially her, at 
 Craigenputtock ; 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 
 the 1 2 th of August (for the grouse's sake) Robert 
 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 12th : 
 and unless " Uncle Robert " came in person, she also 
 would answer, " not at home." 
 
 An interesting relation to Goethe had likewise 
 
 ^ See stipra, p. 8 n. " Lawyers.
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 85 
 
 begun in Comley Bank first, and now went on in- 
 creasing •} " 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 beauti- 
 ful Highland Bonnet (bright blue velvet, with silvered 
 thistle etc.), which gave plenty of pleasure on both 
 hands. The Sketch of Craigenputtock " was taken 
 by G. Moir, Advocate (ultimately Sheriff, Professor,^ 
 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 ele- 
 ment One of the visits, I forget whether first or last, 
 but from Hazlitt,^ in London, there came to Jeffrey a 
 death-bed letter' one. of the days, and instead of ";^io," 
 £$0 went by return : Jeffrey, one of the nights, young 
 Laird of Stroquhan present, was, what with mimicry 
 of speakers, what with other cleverness and sprightli- 
 ness, the most brilliantly amusing creature I have 
 ever chanced to see. One time we went to Craig- 
 
 1 See the Correspondence between Goethe and Carlyle, edited by C. E, 
 Norton {Macmillan, 1887). Carlyle's first letter to Goethe, accom- 
 panying a copy of his translation of Meisters Apprenticeship, is dated 
 24lh June 1824 ; Goethe's reply, 30th October 1824. 
 
 - Two sketches ; — they were sent to Goethe, at his request, and 
 engraved for the translation of Carlyle's Schiller, prepared under 
 Goethe's direction, and for which he wrote an Introductory Preface 
 {Frankfurt atn Main, 1 830). See Carlyle's Life of Schiller (Library 
 ed., 1869), Appendix II. 
 
 ^ Professor of Rhetoric in tlie Edinburgh University ; translator of 
 Wallenstein, etc.; died 1870, aged 71. 
 
 ■* Hazlitt died i8th September 1830.
 
 86 REMINISCENCES 
 
 crook/ 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 Dramatie 
 Genius, say a melodious Goldoni or more, but made 
 into a Scotch Advocate and Whig) ; never a deeply 
 serious man. He discovered here, I think, that I 
 could not be " converted," and that I was of thought- 
 lessly rugged rustic ways, and faultily irreverent of 
 him (which, alas, I was). The Correspondence be- 
 came mainly hers by degrees ; but was, for years 
 after, a cheerful, lively element, — in spite of Reform 
 Bills and Officialities (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 {Jiodie 
 Tenterfield), who were her oldest and dearest friends 
 {hereditarily and otherwise) in that region. I well 
 remember the gloom of our arrival back to Craigen- 
 puttock : 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 smithwork, to small purpose), 
 clink -clinking solitary through the blustering ele- 
 ment. I said nothing, far was she from ever, in 
 the like case, saying anything ! Indeed I think 
 we at once readjusted ourselves ; and went on 
 
 ^ Jeffrey's house, on the eastern slope of Corstorphine Hill, about 
 three miles north-west of Edinburgh, where (from 1815 until his death, 
 26th January 1850) Jeffrey's summers were spent.
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 87 
 
 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 M'George .?) ; but well recal 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's, of Nether Craigenputtock 
 . . .) ; Esther 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. 
 " Misfortune," in the shape ultimately of a solid tall 
 Ditcher, very 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 thriftic}' hut, and silent mode of living, in 
 our moorland 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 stalwart 
 affectionate Son. I remember one frosty kind of fore- 
 noon, while walking meditative to the top of our Hill 
 (now a mass of bare or moorclad whinstonc Crag, once a 
 woody wilderness, with woody mountain in the middle 
 of it, '' CrdUgQnpnttock" or the stone-mountain, "Craig" 
 of the "Puttock," — puttock being a sort of Haivk, both 
 in Galloway Speech, and in Shakspeare's Old English;^ 
 
 ^ ' I chose an eagle, 
 And did avuid a puttock.' — Cymbelinc, Act i. Scene i.
 
 REAIINISCENCES 
 
 " Hill-Forest of the Puttocks "), 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-r/^^/'," at regular intervals, 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, crippling along, — towards our house most 
 probably. Poor old soul, thought I ; what a desola- 
 tion ; but you zvill 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. Sick- 
 ness did not last above a ten days ; my poor Wife 
 zealously assiduous, and with a minimum of fuss or 
 noise. I remember 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 
 riidisJi hands, rude though kind enough, being about), 
 the poor old woman evidently gratified by it and 
 heart-thankful, and almost to the very end giving 
 clear sign of that. Something pathetic in poor old 
 Esther and her exit : — nay, if I rightly bethink me, 
 that "click-clack" pilgrimage had in fact been a 
 last visit to Craigenputtock with some poor bit of 
 crockery (small gray, lettered butter-plate, which I 
 used to see) " as a wee memorandiun o' me, mem, 
 when I am gane ! " ' Memorandum ' was her word ; 
 and I remember the poor little platter for years 
 after. Poor old Esther had awoke, that frosty morn- 
 ing, with a feeling that she would soon die, that " the
 
 JANE WELSH CARL VLB 89 
 
 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 g/iost of a " fine old riding-habit " once 
 her own, which the curious had seen : but this she 
 had judged it more polite to leave to the Parish. 
 Ah me. SiDit lacJirynia; rcrnin ! 
 
 The gallop to Dumfries and back on " Harry," an 
 excellent, well-paced, well-broken loyal little Horse of 
 hers (thirteen hands or so, an exceeding favourite, 
 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 Jier 
 virtually, or properly perhaps) that the Jeffreys, 
 three and a servant, were to be there, day after to- 
 morrow, perhaps morrow itself; I was at Scotsbrig ; 
 nothing ready at all (and such narrow means to 
 get ready anything, my Darling Heroine !). She 
 directly mounted Harry, " who seemed to know 
 that he must gallop, and faithfully did it ; " laid her 
 plans while galloping ; ordered everything at Dum- 
 fries, sent word to me express ; galloped home ; and 
 stood victoriously prepared at all points to receive 
 the Jeffreys, — who, I think, were all there on my 
 arrival. The night of her express is to me very 
 memorable for its own sake : I had been to Burns- 
 wark (visit to good old Graham, 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 medita- 
 tive, gratefully, lovingly, till he had ended ; think- 
 ing to myself, how good and innocently beautiful 
 and manful on the earth, is all this : — and it was the
 
 90 REiMINISCENCES 
 
 last time I was ever to hear it. I must have been 
 there twice or oftener [afterwards] in my Father's 
 time ; but the sound of his pious ColcsJiill (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 ; being 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 Hod- 
 dam Brig, I guessed), darkness (night-time in May), 
 money etc. ; and " terror " enough for a commonplace 
 young lady, but little or nothing of real danger, — and 
 terror not an element at all, I fancy, in her courageous 
 mind. Harry I think cannot have been her Horse 
 (half-killed two years before in an epidemic, through 
 which sJie nursed him fondly, he once " kissing her 
 cheek " in gratitude, she always thought) or Harry 
 would have known the road, for we had often ridden 
 and driven it. I was at that time gone to London, 
 in quest of houses. 
 
 [J/^rj/ 31.] My last considerable bit of Writing 
 at Craigenputtock was Sartor Resartns ;' done, I 
 think, between January and August 1830 (my 
 
 ^ Larry was Carlyle's horse. 
 
 - K\)^&':i.t&(S.\Xi F}-aser''s Magazine 1833-34; firstin book form, under 
 Emerson's auspices, in America in 1S36-37, and was not reprinted in 
 England until 1838.
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 91 
 
 Sister Margaret^ had died while it was going on). 
 I well remember, where 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 
 unintelligible whimsicality of Review Editors not 
 proved so intolerable, we might have lingered longer 
 at Craigenputtock, — " 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 perhaps further advantages. Teufelsdrockh was 
 ready; and (first days of August [1831]) I decided to 
 make for London. Night before going, how I still re- 
 member it ! I was lying on my back on the sofa in the 
 drawing-room ; she sitting by the table (late at night, 
 packing all done I suppose) : her words had a guise 
 of sport but were profoundly plaintive in meaning. 
 " About to part, 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 morn- 
 ing early, Alick driving : embarked at Glencaple 
 Quay ;^ voyage, as far as Liverpool still vivid to me ; 
 the rest, //// arrival in London, gone mostly extinct : 
 let it ! The beggarly history of poor Sartor among 
 the Blockheadisvis is not worth my recording, or re- 
 membering, — least of all here ! — In short, finding 
 that whereas I had got £\qo (if memory serve) for 
 Schiller six or seven years before,^ and for Sartor 
 
 ^ See supra, p. 8 ;/. - Five miles beyond Dumfries. 
 
 ^ It came out first in the London Magazine, 1S23-24. Published in 
 book form in 1825.
 
 92 REMINISCENCES 
 
 " at least thrice as good," I could not only not " get 
 ;^200," but even get no " Murray " or the like to 
 publish it on " half profits " (Murray, a most stupen- 
 dous object to me ; tumbling about, eyeless, with 
 the evidently strong wish to say " Yes c?;/^/ No," — 
 my first signal experience of that sad human predica- 
 ment), — I said, " We will make it No, then ; wrap up 
 our MS.; wait 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, a really pleasant winter here. We 
 lodged in Ampton Street, Gray's Inn Lane, clean and 
 decent pair of rooms, and quiet decent people (the 
 DmigJiter is she whom Geraldine speaks of as having, 
 I might say, " fallen in love " with her, — wanted to be 
 our servant at Craig^|fc)uttock etc.!), — reduced from 
 wealth to keeping lodgings, and prettily resigned to 
 it ; really good people. Visitors etc. she had in 
 plenty ; John Mill one of the most interesting, so 
 modest, ingenuous ingenious, — and so very fond of me 
 at that time. Mrs. Basil Montagu (already a corre- 
 spondent of hers, now accurately sceii) was another 
 of the distinguished. Jeffrey, Lord Advocate, often 
 came on an afternoon ; — never coiild learn his road 
 to and from the end of Piccadilly, though I showed 
 it him again and again. In the evening, miscellany 
 of hers and mine, often dullish, — had it not been for 
 her, and the light she shed on everything. I wrote 
 JoJinson here ; just before going. News of my 
 Father's death came here : oh, how good and tender
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 93 
 
 she was, and consolatory by every kind art, in those 
 black days ! I remember our walk along Holborn 
 forward into the City, and the bleeding mood I was 
 in, she wrapping me like the softest of bandages : — 
 in the City somewhere, two Boys fighting, with a ring 
 of grinning Blackguards round them ; I rushed 
 passionately through, tore the fighters asunder, with 
 some passionate rebuke (" in this world full of 
 death "), she on my arm ; and everybody silently 
 complied. Nothing was luanting in her sympathy, 
 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 Lanfe:; 
 Theatre {Ticket, from Playwright Kenny belil^ along 
 sloppy streets, in a November night (this was befor-e 
 my Father's sudden death) ; and how paltry the 
 equipment looked to me, how perfectly unobjection- 
 able to her, who was far above equipments and outer 
 garnitures. Of the theatricality itself 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 \\'\\^\x\ the last five years, 
 ill-married, plunged amid grand mining speculations, 
 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, illuminated them
 
 94 REMINISCENCES 
 
 a little. Charles Lamb and his Sister came daily 
 once or oftener ; a very sorry pair of phenomena. 
 Insuperable proclivity to gi/i, in poor old Lamb. 
 His talk contemptibly small, indicating wondrous 
 ignorance and shallowness, even when it was serious 
 and good-mannered, which it seldom was ; usually 
 ///-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 any- 
 thing of real jocosity, " humour," or geniality. A 
 most slender fibre of actual worth there was in that 
 poor Charles, abundantly recognisable to me as to 
 others, in his better times and moods ; but he was 
 Cockney to the marrow ; and Cockneydom, 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 leafiest of mankind, tiny black breeches 
 buttoned to the knee-cap and no farther, surmount- 
 ing spindle-legs also in black, face and head fineish, 
 black, bony, lean, and of a Jew type rather ; in the 
 eyes a kind of smoky brightness or confused sharp- 
 ness ; spoke with a stutter ; in walking tottered and 
 shuffled : emblem of imbecility bodily and spiritual 
 (something of real insanity I have understood), and 
 yet something too of humane, ingenuous, pathetic, 
 sportfully much-enduring. Poor Lamb ! He was 
 infinitely astonished at my Wife ; and her quiet 
 encounter of his too ghastly London wit by cheerful 
 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
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 95 
 
 tears : " Pressed down like putty under feet," we 
 heard him murmuring, " and no strength more in me 
 to rise !" We invited him to Craigenputtock, with 
 our best temptations, next Summer ; 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 over- 
 loaded ; and had our adventures, especially on the 
 street in Liverpool, rescuing our luggage after dark. 
 But at Uncle John's,- again, in Maryland Street, all 
 became so bright. At mid-day, somewhere, we dined 
 pleasantly tete-d-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 Mary- 
 land Street I still remember, our days generally as 
 pleasant, — our departure in the Annan Steamer ; a 
 bright sunshiny forenoon. Uncle etc. zealously help- 
 ing 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 
 a water-barrel, for the rain at Craigenputtock !" — 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 Whinnyrigg, 
 
 1 September 1S33. 
 - Mr. John Welsh, Mrs. Carlyle's maternal uncle.
 
 96 REMINISCENCES 
 
 I remember, Brother Alick and others of them were 
 waiting to receive us : there were tears among us 
 (my Father gone, while we returned) ; she wept 
 bitterly, I recollect, — her sympathetic heart girdled 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 Craigenputtock, and were again at peace 
 there. Alick, I think, had by this time left ; a 
 new tenant there (a peaceable but dull stupid 
 fellow) ; and our summers and winters for the future 
 (1832-183 4) were lonelier than ever. Good Servants 
 too were hardly procurable ; difficult anywhere, still 
 more so at Craigenputtock where the choice was so 
 limited. However, we pushed along ; writing still 
 brisk ; Sartor getting published in Eraser^ etc. etc. 
 We had not at first any thought of leaving. And 
 indeed would the Review Editors but have stood 
 steady (instead of for ever changeful), and domestic 
 service gone on comfortably, — perhaps we might 
 have continued still a good while. We went one 
 winter (1833) to Edinburgh ; the Jeffreys absent in 
 official regions. A most dreary contemptible kind 
 of element we found Edinburgh to be (partly by 
 accident, or baddish behaviour of two individuals, 
 Dr. Irving 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 
 London and the frank friends there. To London 
 accordingly, in the course of next winter and its new 
 paltry experiences of house -service etc., we deter- 
 mined to go. Our home-coming I remember ; missed 
 the coach in Princes Street ; waited perdue till follow-
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 97 
 
 ing morning ; bright weather, — but my poor Jeannie 
 so ill by the ride, that she could not drive from 
 Thornhill 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 head- 
 aches I never witnessed in my life ; agony of retch- 
 ing (never anything but phlegm) and of spasmodic 
 writhing, that would last from twenty-four to sixty 
 hours, never the smallest help 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 
 ivJiolly ! 
 
 She was very hearty for London, when I spoke 
 of it, though //// then her voice on the subject had 
 never been heard. "Burn our ships !" she gaily 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 char- 
 acter 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 ; honour 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 Clerkenwell, 
 has measured my time, for forty years ; — and would 
 still guide you to the longitude, could anybody now 
 take the trouble of completely regulating it (but old 
 Whitelaw in Edinburgh, perhaps thirty- five years 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 REMINISCENCES 
 
 ago, was the last that did). Repeatedly have up- 
 holsterers asked, "Who made these chairs, ma'am?" 
 In Cockneydom, nobody in our day ; ' unexampled 
 prosperity ' makes another kind. Abhorrence, quite 
 equal to my own, of cJieap and nasty, I have nowhere 
 seen, certainly nowhere else seen completely accom- 
 plished, 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 anon 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 in- 
 herit all the world and its forces and steel-weapons 
 and culinary and stage properties ? Courage ; and 
 be true to one another ! 
 
 [June 3.] I remember well my departure (middle 
 of May, 1834),^ she staying to superintend packing 
 
 ^ " London, May 14th, 1834. What a word is there ! I left home 
 on Thursday last (five days ago) ; and see myself, still with astonishment, 
 Jiere seeking houses. The parting with my Sister Jean, who had driven 
 down with me to Dumfries, was the first of the partings ; that with my 
 dear Mother next day, with poor Mary at Annan, with my two Brothers 
 Alick and Jamie : all these things were to be done. Shall we meet 
 again ; shall our meeting again be for good ? God grant it ! We are 
 in His hands : this is all the comfort I have. As to my beloved and 
 now aged Mother, it is sore upon me, so sore as I have felt nothing of 
 the kind since boyhood. She paid her last visit to Craigenputtock the 
 week before, and had attached me much (if I could have been more 
 attached) by her quiet way of taking that sore trial : she studied not to 
 sink viy heart, she shed no tear at parting ; — and so I drove off with 
 poor Alick, in quest of new fortunes. May the Father of All, to whom 
 she daily prays for me, be ever near her ! May He, if it be His will, 
 grant us a glad re-meeting ; — and oh ! if there were an everlasting re- 
 meeting, and reunion in a higher country — ! — But no more of this : 
 words are worse than vain. ... At Shillahill Bridge the good Alick
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 99 
 
 and settling ; in gig, I, for the last time ; with many- 
 thoughts (forgotten these) ; Brother Alick voluntarily 
 waiting at Shillahill Bridge with a f^'csh horse for 
 me ; night at Scotsbrig ; ride to Annan (through 
 a kind of May series of slight showers) ; pretty break- 
 fast 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 Annan-water Foot, 
 Ben Nelson and James Stuart ; our lifting hawser, 
 and steaming off, — my two dear Brothers (Alick 
 and Jamie) standing silent, apart, feeling I well knew 
 what ; — self-resolute enough, and striving (not quite 
 honestly) to feel more so ! Ride to London, all night 
 and all day (I think), — Trades- Union people out 
 processioning (" Help us ; what is your sublime 
 Reform Bill else?" thought they, — and I, gravely 
 saluting one body of them, I remember, and getting 
 grave response from the leader of them). At sight 
 of London I remember humming to myself a ballad- 
 stanza of Johnnie d 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 dwarfed 
 population in the distance ; Chelsea ; Leigh Hunt's 
 
 was waiting for me with his fresh horse : that is one httle thin;^ I shall 
 fievef forget, sHght as it looks and was. — They are all good to me ; how 
 good, and over good ! " — Cdix\y\t' sjottrnal.
 
 loo REMINISCENCES 
 
 huggermugger, etc. etc. — What is the use of recollect- 
 ing all that ? 
 
 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 long years of pushing, 
 has made so beautiful and comfortable) in preference 
 to all my other samples : and Jiere 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 deli- 
 berately Jier part in the stern battle, and except my- 
 self none knows how stern, was brighter, and braver 
 than my own. Thanks, Darling, for your shining 
 words and acts, which 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 for- 
 ever ! And I was Thomas the Doubter, the Un- 
 hoping ; till now the only Half-believing, in myself 
 and my priceless opulences ! — At my return from 
 Annandale, after FrencJi 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 humour. My life has 
 not wanted at any time what I used to call ' des- 
 perate hope ' to all lengths ; but of common ' Jiopitig 
 hope ' it has had but little ; and has been shrouded 
 since youthhood (almost since boyhood, for my 
 
 ^ The French Revolution was published in early summer 1S37 ; the 
 Diamond Necklace, Miraheaii, and Parliament a>y History of the French 
 Revolution were also published in that year.
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 
 
 school-years, at Annan, were very 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 perpetual 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 ! 
 
 {Monday^ Jiine 4, 1866. Yesterday all spent 
 against my will in foreign talk : " National Portrait 
 Exhibition " (Tyndall's kindness), American Pike 
 (Belgian Minister), Mazzini (kind and sad) etc. etc. : 
 At midnight, alone upon the streets, I felt only 
 gloomier and sorer than ever, — as if she had been 
 defrauded of my thoughts every instant they had 
 been away from her.] 
 
 We proceeded all through Belgrave Square 
 hither, with our Servant, our looser luggage, our- 
 selves and a little canary bird (" Chico " which she 
 had brought with her from Craigenputtock) ; one 
 hackney 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 effort of striving) : but we 
 " had burnt our ships," and at bottom the case was 
 grave. I don't 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 Hunt was in the next street, sending kind 
 
 ^ "5 Great Cheyne Rou>, Chelsea; Friday, l\s( June 1834. Adven- 
 tures enough, seeking Houses ; ups and downs ; cross-purposes, good- 
 fortunes ; at length a glad meeting with my Wife, a house got, and all 
 well that ends well. We have been here since Tuesday gone a week." — 
 Carlyle'syi3/<;-«a/.
 
 I02 REMINISCENCES 
 
 ?^;/practical messages ; in the evenings, I think, 
 personally coming in ; we 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 a pretty man, in clean cotton 
 nightgown,^ and with the airiest kindly style of 
 sparkling talk, — w^anting 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 " Daughter " of Ampton Street, as escort), 
 to some dim ironmonger'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 Royal One then ! California is dross and dirt 
 to the experiences I have had. — — A tinderbox with 
 steel and flint was part of our outfit (incredible 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. . . . CJiico got a Wife by 
 and by (Oh the wit there was about that and its 
 sequels), produced two bright yellow young ones, 
 who, so soon as they were fledged, got out into the 
 trees of the garden, and vanished towards swift de- 
 struction ; upon which, villain Chico finding his poor 
 wife fallen so tattery and ugly, took to pecking a hole 
 in her head ; pecked it, and killed her : by and by 
 ending his own disreputable life. I had begun The 
 French Revolution (trees at that time before our win- 
 dow — a tale by these too on her part) : infinitesimal 
 
 ^ Nightgo'ivn in its old sense, equivalent to the modern Dressing- 
 gown.
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 103 
 
 little matters of that kind hovered round me like 
 bright fire-flies, irradiated by Jier light ! Breakfast, 
 early, was in the back part of this ground-floor room ; 
 details of gradual intentions etc. as to French Revolii- 
 tioJi, 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 better than mine, which 
 latter was in a strangely painful, and as if confla- 
 grated 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 affec- 
 tionate visit, the first and the last (October^ 1834) J 
 on horseback, just about setting off" for Glasgow, 
 where he died, December following : I watched him 
 till at the corner of Cook's Grounds,^ he vanished, and 
 we never saw him more. Much consulting about 
 him we had already had : a Letter to Henry Drum- 
 mond (about delivering him from the fools and 
 fanatics that were agitating him to death, as I clearly 
 saw) lay on the mantelpiece 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 
 
 ^ Not in October. — "Irving gone on a journey; very unhealthy ; 
 was here one day : but departed, I know not whither, when I called. 
 Another Opfer der Zeit." — Ca.r\y\Q''s Jo urn a/, 8th September 1S34. 
 
 - Street at the top of Cheyne Row, Chelsea.
 
 I04 REMINISCENCES 
 
 had to take leave of poor Irving : but we both knew 
 him well, and all his broi/icrhoods to us first and last, 
 and mourned him in our hearts as a lost Hero. 
 Nobler men I have seen few if any, till the foul gulfs 
 of London Pulpit-Popularity sucked him in, and 
 tragically swallowed 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 
 neatly dressed, was thoroughly courteous, friendly of 
 spirit, and talked — like a singing bird. Good insight, 
 plenty of a kind of humour too ; — I remember little 
 warbles in the turns of his fine voice which were full 
 of fun and charm. We gave him Scotch Porridge to 
 supper (" nothing in nature so interesting and de- 
 lightful ") : she played 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-coloured visions on the subject). 
 An innocent-hearted, but misguided, in fact rather 
 foolish, ^///practical 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 humour took her ; but got taught 
 better (to her lasting memory) before long. Mill
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 105 
 
 was very useful about French Revolution ;^ lent me 
 all his Books, which were quite a Collection on that 
 subject ; gave me, frankly, clearly and with zeal, all 
 his better knowledge than my own (which was pretty 
 frequently of some 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 sensibly agreeable for most part. Talk rather 
 wintry (" sawdust "-ish, as old Sterling once called 
 it) ; but always well-informed and sincere. 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 very 
 pretty still. For several years he came hither, and 
 walked with me every Sunday, — Dialogues fallen all 
 
 ^ ' ' The First Book of that French Revolution is finished some three 
 weeks ago : I, after a pause spent in i^eading etc., have begun the 
 Second. . . . Soul and body both very sick ; yet I have a kind of sacred 
 defiance : t7-btzend das Schicksal, It has become clear to me that I 
 have honestly more force and faculty in me than belongs to the most I 
 see ; also it was always clear that no honestly exerted force can be 
 utterly lost ; were it long years after I am dead, in regions far distant 
 from this, under names far distant from thine, the seed thou sowest 
 will spring. The great difficulty is to keep one's own self in right 
 balance : not despondent, not exasperated, defiant ; free and clear. 
 O for faith ! Food and raiment thou hast never lacked, and shalt not. 
 " Nevertheless it is now some three and twenty months since I have 
 earned one penny by my craft of Literature : be this recorded as a fact 
 and document of the Literary History of this time. I have been ready 
 to work ; I am abler than ever to work ; know no fault I have com- 
 mitted : and yet so it stands. To ask able Editors to employ you will 
 not improve but worsen the matter : you are like a Spinster wailing' to 
 be married ; one knows how she has to behave ! I have some serious 
 thoughts of quitting this Periodical Craft one good time for all : it is 
 not synonymous with a life of wisdom ; when want is approaching one 
 must have done with whims. If Literature will refuse me both bread 
 and a stomach to digest bread with, then surely the case is growing 
 clear." — Carlyle's Journal, 7th February 1835.
 
 io6 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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 kindly, though 
 precisely to the same effect. How well do I still re- 
 member that night when he 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 sympathy my poor Darling then gave me ; 
 
 1 " Last night at tea, Mill's rap was heard at the door : he entered 
 pale unable to speak ; gasped out to my Wife to go down and speak 
 with Mrs. Taylor ; and came forward (led by my hand, and astonished 
 looks) the very picture of desperation. After various inarticulate and 
 articulate utterances to merely the same effect, he informs me that my 
 First Volume (left out by him in too careless a manner, after or while 
 reading it) was except four or five bits of leaves irrevocably annihi- 
 lated ! I remember and can still remember less of it than of anything 
 I ever wrote with such toil : it is gone ; the whole world and myself 
 backed by it could not bring that back : nay the old spirit too is fled. 
 I find it took five months of steadfast, occasionally excessive, and 
 always sickly and painful toil. — Mill very injudiciously staid with us till 
 late ; and I had to make an effort and speak, as if indifferent, about 
 other common matters ; he left us however in a relapsed state ; one 
 of the pitiablest. — My dear Wife has been very kind and become 
 dearer to me. The night has been full of emotion ; occasionally sharp 
 pain (something cutting or hard-grasping me round the heart), occa- 
 sionally with sweet consolations. I dreamed of my Father and Sister 
 Margaret; alive, yet all defaced with the sleepy stagnancy, swollen 
 hebetude of the Grave, — and again dying in some strange rude country : 
 a horrid dream ! The painfullest too is when you first wake. But, 
 on the whole, should I not thank the Unseen ? for I was not driven out 
 of composure, hardly for moments. 'Walk humbly with thy God.' 
 How I longed for some Psalm or Prayer that I could have uttered ; 
 that my loved ones would have joined me in ! But there was none : 
 silence had to be my language." — Carlyle's fournal, 7th March 1835.
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 107 
 
 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 fairly 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 i^2 8o 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 ii^200 (in a day or two), 
 of which I kept ;€^ioo (actual cost of house while I 
 had written burnt volume) ; upon which he bought 
 me Biographie Universelle, which I got bound, and 
 still have. Wish I could find a way of getting the 
 now much macerated, changed, and fanaticised "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
 
 io8 REMINISCENCES 
 
 a misgiving about success. There would be some 
 trifling increments from Eraser'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 burning marie. Some 
 conviction I had that the Book was worth something, 
 — a 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 yoti 
 could do what I am at !" But generally my feeling 
 was, " I will finish this Book, throw it at your feet ; 
 buy a rifle and spade, and withdraw to the Trans- 
 atlantic Wildernesses, — far from human 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 dreadfully 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 : upstairs in the 
 drawing-room that now is, which was then my 
 writing-room ; beside her there, in a gray evening 
 (summer I suppose), soon after tea perhaps ; — and 
 thereupon, with her dear blessing on me, going out 
 to walk. I had said before going out, " What they
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 109 
 
 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 wilderness 
 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. 
 
 ^ Carlyle, after a long interval in which he wrote nothing in his 
 Journal, says — "Not a word written here till now. Jane fell sick 
 (to the degree of terrifying me) in the saddest circumstances every 
 way, directly after" the last entry in ihe Journal, 21st March 1837. 
 "Ah me, ever since, it has been unpleasant for me to speak. Lectures 
 on ' German Literature ' (save the mark !) in the first weeks of May : 
 horrid misery of that, in my then state of nerves ! Book French 
 Revolution out about the 1st of June. Jane's mother here : I off to 
 Scotland by Hull, Leeds, etc., on the 20th of that month ; where I lay 
 like one buried alive till the middle of September, when I returned 
 hither, in a kind of dead-alive state, for which there was no name, — of 
 which there was no writing. Why chronicle it ? The late long effort 
 has really almost killed me. Not the writing of the Book ; but the 
 writing of it amid such sickness, poverty and despair. The ' recep- 
 tion ' of it, every one says, is good and so good : it may be so ; but to 
 me the blessing of blessings is that /am free of it." — Carlyle's Journal, 
 15th November 1837. 
 
 ^ Author of Pliilip van Artevelde, etc. , afterwards Sir Henry T.aylor. 
 He died March 1886. See Paper on Wordsworth, infra, vol. ii., for 
 notice of him.
 
 REMINISCENCES 
 
 Sprinklings of Foreigners, " Political Refugees," 
 had already begun to come about us ; to me seldom 
 of any interest, except for the foreign instruction to 
 be gathered from them (if any), and the curiosity 
 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) tJieii Husband, an innocent dull good 
 man, brought in to me one evening ; and Godefroi 
 Cavaignac, whom my Jane had met somewhere, and 
 thought worth inviting. Mazzini I once or twice 
 talked with ; recognisably 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, 
 Mazzini and I ; and he fell mainly to ]icr share ; 
 off and on, for a good many years, yielding her the 
 charm of a sincere mutual esteem, and withal a 
 good deal of occasional amusement from his 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 escaped the 
 fine (as he hoped), " there came to pass a Sweep," 
 
 ' "Yesterday took leave of Mazzini, who is just about returning 
 jsermanently to Rome, to publish a Newspaper there. I had not seen 
 him for a long time : we talked for about an hour, in a cordial and 
 sincere way, with real emotion (I do believe) on both sides ; and parted, 
 hardly expecting, either of us, to meet again in this world. Mournfully 
 tender, mournfully sublime even, I might call the event to me in the 
 days that now are. Mazzini is the most//^//j' living man I now know." 
 — Ca.i:lyle's yourual, 8th February 1871.
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 
 
 with finer nose in the solitary street, who involved 
 him again. Or, " Ma, inio caro, iion v'e ci im niorto /" 
 which, I see, she has copied into her poor little 
 book of notabilia} Her reports of these things to 
 me, as we sat 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, ivJiitJicr fled ? 
 
 Cavaignac was considerably more interesting to 
 both of us. A fine Bayard soul (with figure to 
 correspond), a man full of seriousness and of genial 
 gaiety withal ; of really fine faculties, and of a polite- 
 ness (especially towards women) which was curiously 
 elaborated into punctiliousness, yet sprang every- 
 where from frank nature. A man very pleasant to 
 converse with, walk with, or see drop in on an even- 
 ing, and lead you or follow you far and wide over 
 the world of intellect and humanly recorded fact. 
 A Republican to the bone, but a " Bayard " in that 
 vesture (if only Bayard had wit and fancy at com- 
 mand). We had many dialogues while French Re- 
 volution struggled through its last two volumes ; 
 Cavaignac freely discussing with me, accepting 
 kindly my innumerable dissents from him, and on 
 the whole elucidating many little points to me. 
 Punctually on the jour dc I'an, came some little 
 gift to her, frugal yet elegant ; and I have heard 
 him say with a mantling joyous humour overspread- 
 ing that sternly sad French face, " Vous n'etes pas 
 
 1 An undertaker applying to the wrong house, explained to Mazzini, 
 who had opened the door to him, that he had come with "the coffin." 
 To which Mazzini answered, with animation, "But, my dear, there is 
 not here a Dead!"
 
 REMINISCENCES 
 
 EcossaisCy Madame ; desonnais voiis 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 three 
 years he still lived : but I was from home the last 
 time, both of us the first (at Newby Cottage, 
 Annan, oh dear !) — and I saw him no more. The 
 younger Brother (" President " in 1 849 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 Gode/roi probably, with 
 less gift of social utterance, but with a soldier's 
 breeding in return. 
 
 One autumn, and perhaps another, I recollect her 
 making a tour with the elder Sterlings (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. 
 Sterling really loved her, and viee versa ; a luminous 
 household circle that to us : — as may be seen in Li/e 
 of Sterling, more at large. 
 
 Of money from FreneJi Revolution I had Jiere as 
 yet got absolutely nothing ; Emerson in America, 
 by an edition of his there, sent me ;^i 50^ (" pathetic !" 
 
 ^ "Yesterday came a Letter from Emerson at Concord, New England, 
 informing me that the vohunes of Miscellanies will be ready by and by ;
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 113 
 
 was her fine word about it ; " but never mind, Dear ") ; 
 after some three years grateful England (through 
 poor scrubby but correctly arithmetical Fraser) 
 ^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 sJie called it, " a great 
 success" and greatish of its kind. Money I did get 
 somewhere honestly. Articles in Fraser, in poor 
 Mill's (considerably hidebound) London Review ; 
 EdinbiirgJi I think was ont for me before this time. 
 London Review was at last due to the charitable 
 faith of young Sir William Molesworth, a poorish 
 narrow creature, 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 
 cheque for that amount, rejoined the other. My 
 private (altogether private) feeling, I remember, was, 
 that they could, with profit, have employed me much 
 
 and — enclosing me a draft for ^100, the produce of my French Revolu- 
 tion there ! Already ;^5o had come ; this is ;^ 150 in all ; not. a farthing 
 having yet been realised here by our English bibliopoly. It is very 
 strange this American occurrence ; very gratifying : nothing more so 
 has occurred in the history of my economics. Thanks to the kind 
 friends across the salt waters yonder ! . . . This American cash is so 
 welcome because I am so poor. Had I been rich, I could not have 
 had that pleasure. Sic de 7nultis ; I must own it, bitterly as I often 
 grumble over my poverty. On the whole I shall rejoice to have been 
 poor, if in my old days I be not still prosecuted and dogged by the 
 spectre of absolute indigence: that, surely, is ill to bear. — I find too, 
 had this ;[Cioo been ^1000, it would at bottom have made little 
 difference. What if Fate, as thrifty mothers do, were reserving her 
 sweet condiment till towards the latter pa7-t of the repast, and giving 
 it out always more liberally the nearer we get to the end ! It were the 
 kindest way of all perhaps." — Cs.r\y\QS Journal, 6th February 1839. 
 VOL. I. I
 
 1 14 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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 {sazvdust to the masthead, 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 
 opposite hemisphere (which never was wanting 
 either, nor will be, as it miserably is in Mill and Co.) 
 had not yet found itself summoned by the trumpet 
 of Time and his Events (1848: study of Oliver 
 etc.) into practical emergence, and emphasis and 
 prominence as now. " 111 luck," take it quietly ; you 
 never are sure but it may be good and the best} 
 
 Our main revenue for perhaps three, or four 
 years (?) now was Lcetures ;'^ in Edward Street, Port- 
 man Square, the only free room there was ; earnestly 
 
 ^ " Mill, I discern, has given Fox the Editorship of that Molesworth 
 Periodical ; seems rather ashamed of it. A la bonne heiire : is it not 
 probably deffer so ? Trust in God and in thyself ! O could I but ; all 
 else were so light, so trivial." — Ca.r\y\e's Journal, I2th August 1834. 
 
 ^ There were Four Courses of Lectures, the dates of which are as 
 follows, viz. — 
 
 I. In 1837, vSix Lectures on German Literature. 
 
 II. In 1838, Twelve Lectures on the History of Literature, or the 
 Successive Periods of European Culture. 
 
 III. In 1839, Six Lectures on the Revolutions of Modern Europe. 
 
 IV. In 1840, Six Lectures on Heroes and Hero-worship. 
 Only the Last Course, Heroes, was ever published.
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 115 
 
 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 in, on the average, perhaps ;^2 00, for 
 a month's labour : first of them must have been in 
 1838, I think, — Willis's Rooms, this. "Detestable 
 mixture of Prophecy and Play-actorism," as I sorrow- 
 fully 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, 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 don't I con- 
 tinue it still with others ? Fools, fools ; we forget 
 that it Jias to end ; lo this Jias ended, and it is such 
 an astonishment 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 satisfaction especi- 
 ally of Mrs. Welsh, who I doubt not bought some- 
 thing pretty and symbolic with it. She came per- 
 haps three times : on 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 l"^ Like a stroke of lightning this 
 ' 11 was in September 1835. - See infra, p. 255.
 
 Ii6 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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 Roman sense, in the British she 
 was much more so : but starry flashes of this kind 
 she had not, — from her education etc., could not. 
 
 [Jinie 6. Surely this is very idle work, — the rather 
 if it is all to be burnt ! But nothing else yields me 
 any solace at all, in those days. I will continue it 
 to-morrow. Poor Tablet^ or memorial due to me 
 from the lapidary, this day fortnight, at farthest, 
 surely.] 
 
 [June 7.] By this time we were getting noticed by 
 select individuals of the Aristocracy ; and were what 
 is called " rather rising in society." Ambition that 
 way my Jane never had ; but she took it always as 
 a something of honour done to ifie, and had her 
 various bits of satisfaction in it. The Spring-Rices 
 (Lords Monteagle afterwards) were probably the first 
 of their class that ever asked me out as a distin- 
 guished thing. I remember their flunkey arriving 
 here with an express while we were at dinner ; I 
 remember, too, their Soiree itself in Downing Street, 
 and the KaXol and Kokal (as I called them) with 
 their state and their effulgences, as something new 
 and entertaining to me. The Stanleys (of Alderley), 
 through the Bullers, we had long since known, and 
 still know ; but that I suppose was still mostly 
 theoretic, — or perhaps I had dined there, and seen the 
 Hollands (Lord and Lady), the etc. (as I certainly 
 did ultimately), but not been judged eligible, or both 
 
 ^ See infia, p. 184 u.
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 117 
 
 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 witch," looking over at me with merely 
 carnivorous views (and always questioning 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, and once 
 gave me a horse for health's sake) we had ample 
 assemblages, shining enough in their kind ; — but 
 sJie, I somehow think, probably for saving the cost 
 of " fly " (oh my Queen, viine and a true one !), was 
 not so often there as L 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 and 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 elimination 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 Aris- 
 tocracy (with its perfection of human politeness, its )' 
 continual grace of bearing and of acting, steadfast ,' 
 " honour," light address and cheery stoicism, if you \
 
 n8 REMINISCENCES 
 
 see well into 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 far (I think) in that 
 direction, — in fact was not at the pains to form 
 much " theory ;" but no eye in the world was 
 quicker than 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 
 Russell, Dowager Lady Sandwich, Lady etc. etc. 
 (and not in over-quantity). I remember, at first 
 sight of ihe first Lady Ashburton" (who was far from 
 
 ^ "At Alverstoke" (Bay House, The Hon. H. B. Baring's), "in 
 January last, — for the third time now, — and very full of suffering in all 
 ways there. Have seen a good deal of the higher ranks, plenty of 
 lords, politicians, fine ladies, etc. etc. — certainly a ntyj top-dressing for 
 me that ; nor attainable either without peril : let me see if any grotuth 
 will come of it, and what. — The most striking conclusion to me is. How 
 like all men of all ranks in England (and doubtless in every land) intrin- 
 sically are to one another. Our Aristocracy, I rather take it, are the 
 best, or as good as any class we have ; but their position is fatally awry, 
 — their whole breeding and way of life, ' To go gracefully idle ' (most 
 tragically so), and which of them can mend it?" — Ca.x\y\e's Journal, 
 8th February 1848. 
 
 - Properly, the second Lady Ashburton, first Wife of the second 
 Lord Ashburton. — For a good many years the friendship of Lord and 
 Lady Ashburton was Carlyle's best social resource. He held both in 
 highest regard. At the time of Lady Ashburton's death he made the 
 following entry in his /ournal : — 
 
 "Monday, 4th May, 4J p.m., at Paris, died Lady Ashburton: a 
 great and irreparable sorrow to me ; yet with some beautiful consola- 
 tions in it too. A thing that fills all my mind, since yesterday afternoon 
 that Milnes came to me with the sad news, — which I had never once 
 anticipated, though warned sometimes vaguely to do so. God ' sanctify 
 my sorrow,' as the pious old phrase went ! To her I believe it is a 
 great gain, and the exit has in it much of noble beauty as well as pure 
 sadness, — worthy of such a woman. Adieu, adieu ! " — 6th May 1857.
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 119 
 
 regularly beautiful, but was probably the chief of all 
 these great ladies), she said of her to me, " Some- 
 thing in her like a Heathen Goddess !" — 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 daresay, ah 
 me !) from the near Railway Station ; and my poor 
 Jeannie grew very tired and disheartened, though 
 nothing ill came ; 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, ingenuousness, gracefully sup- 
 pressed timidity, and radiancy of native cleverness, 
 intelligence, and dignity, towards the great ladies 
 and great gentlemen ; it seems to me at this 
 moment, I have never seen a more beautiful expres- 
 sion 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 terrestrial 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 sea-sickness (miser- 
 
 On the same day, Lord Ashburton wrote to Carlyle : "She has left 
 me an inheritance of great price, the love of those who loved her. I 
 claim that of you, in her name ; and I am sure it will be rendered to 
 me."
 
 REMINISCENCES 
 
 able always at sea, but had taken it as cheapest 
 doubtless) — and been brought up almost speechless, 
 and set down at the Queensberry Arms Inn, Annan. 
 Having no maid, no sign but of trouble and (unpro- 
 fitable) ladyhood, they took her to a remote bedroom, 
 and left her to her solitary shifts there. Very pain- 
 ful 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 hardly get ad- 
 mittance 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 1 840 ; Mary's husband (now Farmer at the 
 Gill, not a clever man, but a 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 Craigen- 
 puttock figures. . . . She loved Mary for her kind- 
 heartedness ; admired and respected her skill and 
 industry in Domestic management of all kinds ; and 
 often contrasted to me her perfect talent in that 
 way, compared to Sister Jean's, who intellectually 
 was far the superior (and had once been her 
 own Pupil and Protegee, about the time we left 
 Comley Bank ; always very kind and grateful to her 
 since, too, but never such a favourite as the other). 
 Mary's Cottage was well known to me too, as I came 
 home by the Steamer, on my visits, and was often
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 121 
 
 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 unpleasantly 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 per- 
 sisted in them to the last, as did my Woman ; but I 
 think they comprised for both of us (such skinless 
 creatures), in respect of outward 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 resolution, 
 affection and prophetic woe, while she sat in the 
 railway carriage and rolled away from me into the 
 dark. " Poor, poor Jeannie " 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 I 842. 
 
 [I ought to have copied my Mother-in-law's
 
 122 REMINISCENCES 
 
 epitaph at least, or to send for it now to the Minister 
 of Crawford in Clydesdale. Stop to-day ; or even 
 altogether ? No ; can't.] 
 
 I find it was in i 842 (20th February) that my poor 
 Mother-in-law died,^ Wild night for me from Liver- 
 pool, through Dumfries (Sister Jean out with tea, 
 etc.), arrival at waste Templand (only John Welsh 
 etc. there ; funeral quite over) : all this and the lone- 
 some, sad, but not unblessed three months almost 
 which I spent there, is still vividly in my mind. I 
 was for trying to keep Templand once, as a summer 
 refuge for us, — one of the most picturesque of loca- 
 tions ; but Jicv filial heart abhorred the notion ; and 
 I have never seen more than the chimney-tops of 
 Templand since. Her grief, at my return and for 
 months afterwards, was still poignant, constant: — and 
 oh how inferior my sympathy with her, to what hers 
 would have been with me ; woe on my dull hard 
 ways in comparison ! To her Mother she had been 
 the kindest of Daughters ; life-rent of Craigenputtock 
 
 ^ " In February last my good Mother-in-law suddenly died. That 
 will be an unforgettable February, March and April. INIy poor Wife 
 hurrying off by the first mail-tiain the evening the Letter came ; in an 
 agony of hope and terror towards Templand, — too late, as she found at 
 Liverpool : my following in two days, by night outside the Coach (from 
 Lancaster to Carlisle), and like a kind of ghost, through Annan, Dum- 
 fries, in that strange mood : my solitary abode in Templand till the 
 spring storms went by, and the pale Sun had grown hot and strong 
 when I returned. All this makes, in several ways, a new chapter in 
 our history here. My poor Wife has been in deep distress, and is yet, 
 though thank Heaven recovering now. I went to Crawford Church- 
 yard, the wild spring tempests, the wild hills, Dalveen Pass and the 
 lone Resting-place of her whose grave I went to see ! How much that 
 is Heaven-high blended with the lowest things of Earth, lay in all 
 that business for me. But there are no words. "—Carlyle's Journal, 
 25th October 1842.
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 123 
 
 settled frankly on her (and such effort to make it 
 practically good to the letter when needful) ; — I re- 
 collect one gallop of hers, which Geraldine has not 
 mentioned, gallop from Craigenputtock to Dumfries 
 Bank, and thence to Templand 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 Darling 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 always a Beauty, too, and had whims and 
 thin-skinned ways, distasteful 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, staid. — 
 Craigenputtock lapsed to her, in 1842, therefore; — 
 to me she had left the fee-simple of it by will (in 
 1824, two years before our marriage), — as I remember 
 she once told me ^'/^r/^abouts, 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 wJiat 
 were best ?j after my poor interest in it is over. Con- 
 
 ^ "Alick has written tliat he cannot keep his farm Craigenputtock 
 longer than Whitsunday, finding it a ruinous concern. ... I often 
 calculate that the land is all let some thirty per cent too high ; and that 
 before it can Le reduced the whole existing race of farmers must be 
 ruined." — Carlyle to his Brother John, 21st August 1S30.
 
 1 24 REMINISCENCES 
 
 siderably a problem ; — and what her wish in it would 
 have actually been ? " Bursaries " had come into 
 my own head, when we heard that "poor final young 
 Welsh was in consumption ; but to her I never men- 
 tioned 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 queenlike woman : I did admire her com- 
 plete 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 abso- 
 lutely ignored 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 by a look, and certainly without word, 
 except perhaps " Tut !" 
 
 Thus, from this date onward, we were a little 
 richer, easier in circumstances ; and the pinch of 
 Poverty, which had been relaxing latterly, changed 
 itself into a gentle pressure, or into a ///;/// 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 
 will be " popular," productive of money to any but a 
 contemptible degree : I had lost by the death of 
 
 ^ Carlyle bequeathed Craigenputtock to the University of Edinburgh ; 
 the income derived from it to be expended in Scholarships, called " The 
 John Welsh Bursaries." The "Deed of Mortification" (such is the 
 Scotch name for it) is mostly of Carlyle's writing ; it is characteristic 
 and interesting, — the literary and the legal style made one by very 
 slight touches. See Appendix to this Volume.
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 125 
 
 Bookseller Fraser and change to Chapman and Hall ; 
 — in short, to judge by the running after me by oivls 
 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 ;^2 00 a year in those 
 decades, — in spite of my continual diligence day by 
 day. Croimvcll I must have zvritten, I think, in 
 1844 ;^ but for four years prior it had been a con- 
 tinual toil and misery to me. I forget what was the 
 price of Croimvell, greater considerably than in any 
 previous case ; — but the annual income was still some- 
 what as above. I had always i^2 00 or ;:^300 in 
 bank, and continually forgot all about money. My 
 Darling rolled it all over upon we ; cared not one 
 straw about it ; only asked for assurance or pro- 
 missory engagement from me, " Hozv little, then ? " 
 and never failed to make it liberally and handsomely 
 do. Honour to her (beyond the ownership of Cali- 
 fornia, I say now) ; and thanks to Poverty that 
 showed me how noble, worshipful and dear she was. 
 In 1850, after an interval of deep gloom and 
 bottomless dubitation, came Latter- Day Pamphlets, 
 which unpleasantly astonished everybody ; set the 
 world upon the strangest suppositions (" Carlyle got 
 deep into whisky ! " said some), ruined my " reputa- 
 tion " (according to the friendliest voices), and, in 
 effect, divided me altogether from the mob of 
 " Progress-of-the-Species " and other vulgar, — but 
 were a great relief to my own conscience as a faith- 
 ful citizen, and have been ever since. My Darling 
 gaily approved ; and we left the thing to take its 
 
 ^ rublished in December 1S45.
 
 126 REMINISCENCES 
 
 own sweet will, with great indifferency and loyalty 
 on our part. This did not help our incomings ; in 
 fact I suppose it effectually 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 
 be. Chapman (hard-fisted cautious Bibliopole) would 
 not, for about ten years farther, go into any edition 
 of my "Collected Works;" I did once transiently 
 propose it, once only ; — and remember being some- 
 times 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 con- 
 dition 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 Prurient 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 Jwsannahs heaven -high for the 
 rest of my life, — who noiv would there be to get the 
 
 ^ Inaugural Address, on his being installed as Lord Rector of the 
 University there ; was delivered on the 2d of April 1866. See Miscel- 
 lanies, vi. 297.
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 127 
 
 smallest joy or profit from it ? To me I feel as if it 
 would be a silent sorrow 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 begin 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 running athwart me 
 on their own errand) ; — and as for the speaking and 
 criticising multitude, who regulate the paying ditto, 
 I perceive that their labours on me have had a two- 
 fold result : i°. That, after so much nonsense said, in 
 all dialects, and so very little sense or real understand- 
 ing 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 botJi 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 com- 
 plete, 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 to blaming England or the world on my 
 behalf ; rather to quizzing my despondencies (if any)
 
 128 REMINISCENCES 
 
 on that head, and the grotesque stupidities of Eng- 
 land 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 bystanders. Her 
 opinion of me, it was curiously unalterable from the 
 first! In Edinburgh for example, in 1826 still, 
 Bookseller Tait (a foolish goosey, innocent but very 
 vulgar kind of mortal), " Oh Mrs. Carlyle, fine 
 criticism in TJie Scotsman ; you will find it at, I 
 
 think you will find it at r." " But what good will 
 
 it do me?" answered Mrs. Carlyle, with great good 
 humour ; to the miraculous collapse of Tait, who 
 stood (I dare say) with eyes staring ! 
 
 In I 844, late Autumn, I was first at the Grange 
 for a few days (doing d'Ewes's Election to the Long 
 Parliament^ I recollect) ; she with me next year, I 
 think ; and there, or at Addiscombe, Alverstoke, 
 Bath House,^ saw on frequent enough occasions, for 
 twelve years coming, or indeed for nineteen (till the 
 second Lord Ashburton's death), the choicest speci- 
 mens of English Aristocracy ; and had no difficulty 
 in living with them on free and altogether human 
 terms, and learning from them by degrees whatever 
 tJiey had to teach us. Something- actually, though 
 perhaps not very much, and surely not the best. To 
 me, I should say, more than to her, came w^hat 
 lessons there were ; human friendships we also had ; 
 and she too was a favourite with the better kind, — 
 
 ^ The Grange and Bath House were residences of Lord Ashburton ; 
 Addiscombe Farm and Alverstoke (Bay House), of his son, the Hon, 
 H. B. Baring, who succeeded to the title in 1848, and died in 1863.
 
 JANE WELSH CARLVLE 129 
 
 Lord Lansdowne, 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 dc mi : it is a mingled yarn, all that 
 of our " Aristocratic " History ; and I need not enter 
 on it here. One evening, at Bath House, I saw her, 
 in a grand soiree, 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-wciw," which per- 
 haps had little real meaning in it : he had on his 
 Garter -order, his gold -buckle stock, and was very 
 clean and trim ; but except making appearance in 
 
 1 "By far the most interesting figure present was the old Duke of 
 Welhngton, who appeared between twelve and one, and slowly glided 
 through the rooms. Truly a beautiful old man ; I had never seen till 
 now how beautiful, and what an expression of graceful simplicity, 
 veracity and nobleness there is about the old hero, when you see him 
 close at hand. His very size had hitherto deceived me : he is a 
 shortish, slightish figure, about five feet eight ; of good breadth how- 
 ever, and all muscle or bone ; — his legs I think must be the short part of 
 him, for certainly on horseback at least, I have always taken him to be 
 tall. Eyes beautiful light-blue, full of mild valour, with infinitely more 
 faculty and geniality than I had fancied before. The face wholly 
 gentle, wise, valiant and venerable ; the voice too, as I again heard, is 
 aquiline^ a clear, perfectly equable (««cracked, that is), and perhaps 
 almost musical, but essentially tenor or even almost treble voice. 
 Eighty-two, I understand. He glided slowly along, slightly saluting 
 this and the other ; clean, clear, fresh as the June evening itself ; till 
 the silver-buckle of his stock vanished into the door of the next room 
 (to make, I suppose, one round of the place), and I saw him no more. 
 Except Dr. Chalmers I have not for many years seen so beautiful an 
 old man." — Carlyle's /i?w«a/, 25th June 1850. 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 I30 REMINISCENCES 
 
 certain evening parties, half an hour in each, perhaps 
 hardly knew what he was doing. From Bath House, 
 we saw his Funeral Procession,^ a while after ; and, to 
 our disgust, in one of the Mourning Coaches, some 
 Official or Dignitary reading a Newspaper. The 
 hearse (seventeen tons of bronze), the arrangements 
 generally, w^ere vulgar and disgusting : but the fa-ct 
 itself impressed everybody ; the street rows all 
 silently doffed hat as the Body passed ; — and Lon- 
 don, 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 w-ays of thinking, and 
 of his articulate endowments, was not among my 
 longings. I went once to the House of Lords, 
 expressly to hear the sound of his voice, and so com- 
 plete my little private Physiognomic Portrait of him : 
 a fine aqiiilbic voice, I found it, quite like the face of 
 him ; — and got a great instruction and lesson, which 
 has staid with me, out of his little speech itself (Lord 
 Ellenborough's " Gates of Somnauth " the subject, 
 about which I cared nothing) ; speech of the most 
 haggly, hawky, pinched and meagre kind, so far as 
 utterance and " eloquence " went ; but potent for con- 
 viction beyond any other, nay, I may say, quite ex- 
 clusively of all the others that night, which were mere 
 
 ' 1 8th November 1852.
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 131 
 
 " melodious wind " to me (Brougham's, Derby's, etc, 
 etc.), while tJiis hitching, stunted, haggling discourse 
 of ten or fifteen minutes had made the Duke's opinion 
 completely mine too. I thought of O. Cromwell 
 withal. And have often since, oftener than ever 
 before, said to myself, " Is not this (to make your 
 opinion mine) the aim of all ' eloquence,' rhetoric, 
 and Demosthenic artillery practice?" And what is 
 it good for ? Fools : get a ti'iie insight and belief 
 of your own as to the matter ; that is the way to get 
 }'our belief into me, and it is the only way ! — 
 
 One of the days while I was first at The Grange 
 (in 1844) was John Sterling's death-d^y •} I had 
 well marked it, with a sad almost remorseful con- 
 trast ; — we were at St. Cross and Winchester Cathe- 
 dral that day. — I think my Wife's latest favourites, 
 and in a sense friends and intimates, among the Aris- 
 tocracy were the old Dowager Lady Sandwich (died 
 about four years ago, or three) ; yoting Lady Lothian 
 (recent acquaintance) ; and the (Dowager) Lady 
 
 1 " My beloved friend John Sterling died at Ventnor, in the Isle of 
 Wight, on Wednesday, i8th September 1844, about eleven at night. . . . 
 
 "For a long while I refused to believe in Sterling's danger ; of late 
 weeks it became sternly apparent to me. ... I had two notes from 
 him, very affecting to me, and sent him two. He refused to see me, 
 though I think there were few living he loved better. Four days before 
 his death he composed some stanzas of verse addressed to me ; not to 
 be delivered till he were gone. I received them the day before yester- 
 day ; keep them among my precious things. I have had a great loss ; 
 which will gradually become more sensible to me in all its details. He 
 was a noble character, full of brilliancy, of rapid light-flashes in every 
 kind ; and loved me heartily well. Ah me ! These verses were written 
 on Friday the 14th September, that day I was at Winchester. He sat 
 writing at Ventnor in those hours ; such words, in such a mood I . . . 
 I shall never see John Sterling more, then ; my noble Sterling !" — 
 Cd,x\y\(i s Journal, ist October 1844.
 
 132 REMINISCENCES 
 
 William Russell, whom I think she had something 
 of real love to, and in a growing condition for the last 
 two or three years. This a clever, high-mannered, 
 massive-minded old lady, now seventy-two. . . . 
 
 \_SuHday, loth June ; weather fiercely hot ; health 
 suffering visibly last week ; must take new courses ; 
 form new resolutely definite plans, — which requires 
 (or ivoiild require) a great deal more of strength and 
 calmness than I have at present ! Quiet I am, 
 avoiding almost everybody, and far preferring silence 
 to most words I can hear : but clear of vision, calm 
 of judgment I am far from being! — Ought I to quit 
 .this " work " here, which I feel to be very idleness ? 
 I sit in great gloom of heart, but it is gloom all 
 drenched in soft pity (as if she were to be " pitied !") 
 in benign affection : really it is like a kind of 
 religious course of worship to me, this of " Sitting by 
 her Grave," as I daily do. Oh my Loved one, must 
 I quit even that, then ? Dost t/ion, as if it were thon, 
 bid me Rise, go hence, and work at something ? 
 Patience; yet a little, yet a little! — At least I will 
 quit these vague provinces ; and try to write some- 
 thing more specifically kistorical, on this Paper of 
 her providing ! — Stop to-day. 
 
 iith June; Very mournful little hour: "Parting 
 of her raiment " (I somehow call it), sad sanction of 
 what Maggie Welsh had done in it ! Have read the 
 (Dumfries) Copy of her Will, too ; a beautiful Letter 
 to her Mother, and other Z>r^(^^ ("of Life-rent"), — all 
 gone, gone into the vacant Past : — and have reposited 
 both Documents. Intend to put down something about 
 
 ^ Conveying Craigenputtock in life-rent to Mrs. Welsh. See supra, 
 p. 80 II.
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE • v-vsa, 
 
 her Parentage etc., now ; — and what of reminiscence 
 most Hves with me on that head. Little Tablet is 
 not due for ten days yet ; feel it too sad to quit my 
 daily companionship, idle though it be, and almost 
 blamable — no, it is not blavtablc, no !] 
 
 John Welsh, Farmer of Penfillan, near Thornhill, 
 Nithsdale, for the greater part of his life, was born, I 
 believe at Craigenputtock, 9th December 1757 ; and 
 was sole Heir of that place, and of many ancestors 
 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 candour, and with arch re- 
 cognition 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 of Ayr, etc. : a better probability 
 perhaps is the topographical one that Craigenputtock, 
 which, by site and watershed would belong to Gallo- 
 way, is still part of Dumfriesshire, and did apparently 
 form part of ColHeston, fertile little farm still extant, 
 which probably was an important estate when the 
 antique " John Welsh's Father " had it in Knox's day : 
 (see the Biographies ^), — to which Collieston, Craigen- 
 puttock, as moorland, extending from the head of 
 
 ^ John Welsh married (about 1595) Elizabeth, third and youngest 
 daughter of Knox. He was not, however, heir of Collieston (as appears 
 from his Father's Will) ; the eldest son being David. — Life of John 
 Welsh, by the Rev. J. Young. Edinburgh, 1866.
 
 134 REMINISCENCES 
 
 the Glenessland Valley, and a two miles farther south- 
 ward (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 gene- 
 alogies, but seeing them interest uic, took some in- 
 terest in them. Within the last three months {a 
 propos of a new Life of the famed John Welsh), she 
 mentioned to me some to me new, and still livelier 
 spark of likelihood, which her " Uncle Robert " (an 
 expert Edinburgh lawyer) had derived from reading 
 the old Craigenputtock law-papers : what this new 
 " spark " of light on the matter was (quite forgotten 
 by me at that time, and looking " new ") I in vain 
 strive to recal ; and have again forgotten it 
 (swallowed in the sad Edinburgh hurlyburlies 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 certainty attained or perhaps 
 ever attainable. That ' famed John Welsh ' lies 
 buried (since the end of James I.'s reign) in some 
 churchyard 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 Claver'se'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 further said to be descended from " Sir 
 William Wallace " (the great) ; but this seemed to 
 rest on nothing but air and vague fireside rumour of 
 obsolete date ; and she herself, I think, except perhaps 
 
 ^ Buried at St. Botolph's, Bishopgate, 4th April 1662. — Young's Life 
 of folin Welsh, p. 407.
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 135 
 
 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 Pedi- 
 gree for you !" The good Irving : so guileless, loyal 
 always, and so hoping and so generous ! 
 
 My wife's Grandfather, I can still recollect, died 
 20th September 1823, aged near sixty-six; — I was 
 at Kinnaird (Buller's in Perthshire), and had it in a 
 Letter from Jier : Letters from her were almost the 
 sole light-points in my dreary miseries there (fruit of 
 miserable Jiealth mainly, and of a future blank and 
 barred to me, as I felt). Trustfully she gave me 
 details : how he was sixty-three, near sixty-six (in 
 fact) ; hair still raven-black, only within a year eye- 
 broivs had grown quite white ; which had so softened 
 and sweetened the look of his bright glancing 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 thresh- 
 old of our own grave. My bonnie Darling,y« ; I shall 
 follow thee very soon, and then — ! — 
 
 Grandfather's youngest years had been passed at 
 Craigenputtock ; mother had been left a widow there, 
 and could not bear to part with him ; elder sisters 
 there were, he the only boy. Jane always 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 some- 
 times spoke of his (and her) ulterior ancestors ;
 
 136 RE.UJNISCENCES 
 
 " several blackguards among them," her old Grand- 
 father used to say ; " but not one blockhead that I 
 heard of!" Of one, flourishing in 1745, there is a 
 story still current among the country people there- 
 abouts : how, though this Laird of Craigenputtock 
 had not himself gone at all into the Rebellion, 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 Scot- 
 land ; — heard timefully that Dragoons were coming 
 for them ; 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 ehasc 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 mounting 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 cheerily 
 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 pre- 
 tended lamentation, seeing them provided with work 
 that would last till darkness had fallen, rode his 
 ways again. I believe this was true in substance ;
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 137 
 
 but never heard any of the saved rebels named. 
 •Maxwells etc., who are of Roman-Catholic Jacobite 
 type, abound in those parts : a Maxwell, I think, is 
 feudal superior of Craigenputtock. This Welsh, I 
 gather, must have been graiidfatJicr of my wife's 
 grandfather : she had strange stories of his 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, i)i- 
 visible 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." Hivi his 
 Grandson doubtless ranked among the " blackguard " 
 section of ancestry : I suppose his immediate heir 
 may have died shortly after him and been an unex- 
 ceptionable man. 
 
 In or about 1773, friends persuaded the widow of 
 this latter that she absolutely must send her Boy 
 away for some kind of schoolmg, his age now four- 
 teen : to which she sorrowfully consenting, he was 
 despatched to Tynron school (notable at that time) 
 about twelve miles over the hills Nithsdale way, and 
 consigned to a farmer named Hunter, whose kin are 
 now well risen in the world thereabouts, and who 
 was thought to be a safe person for boarding and 
 supervising the young moorland 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, i6th February 1774) 
 these Hunters had married him to their eldest 
 Girl (about sixteen, three months younger than him-
 
 138 REMINISCENCES 
 
 self), and his school-days were suddenly completed !^ 
 This young girl was my Jeannie's Grandmother ; 
 had fourteen children, mostly men (of whom, or of 
 whose male posterity, none now survive, except the 
 three Edinburgh Aunts, youngest of them a month 
 younger than my Jane was) ; and thus held the 
 poor 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 oftenest (not always though) in 
 their very physiognomy and complexion. They are 
 now all gone ; the kindred as good as out, only their 
 works following them, talia qualia I — 
 
 This imprudent marriage reduced the poor young 
 man to pecuniary straits (had to sell first Nether 
 Craigenputtock, a minor part, in order to pay his 
 Sisters' portions ; then long years afterwards, in the 
 multitude of his children, fT/^/rr Craigenputtock, or 
 Craigenputtock Proper, to my Wife's Father- this 
 latter sale) ; and though, being a thrifty vigorous 
 
 ^ The whole of the above paragraph requires correction. Carlyle 
 would seem to have written without exact knowledge. There is good 
 reason for believing that the marriage was a runaway match, regretted 
 by the lady's family as much as by the Welshes. Mrs. Carlyle was 
 on intimate terms with these relations, whom she visited, and it is 
 certain, from the way in which she writes to them, that she would not 
 willingly have given them pain.
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 139 
 
 and solid manager, he prospered handsomely in his 
 farming, first of Milton, then ditto of Penfillan, the 
 best thing he could try in the circumstances, and 
 got completely above all money - difficulties ; the 
 same " circumstances " kept him all his days a mere 
 " Terrce 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 vigour of faculty and accidental contraction 
 of arena, a singular and even interesting man, a 
 Scottish Nithsdale Son of Nature. Highly interest- 
 ing to his bright young Grand-daughter, with the 
 clear eyesight and valiant true heart like his own, 
 when she came to look into him in her childhood 
 and girlhood. 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 honourable 
 soul (reverent of talent, honesty, and sound sense, 
 beyond all things) ; and was silently a good deal re- 
 spected and honourably esteemed (though with a 
 grin here and there) in the district where he lived. 
 For chief or almost sole intimate he had the neigh- 
 bouring (biggish) Laird, " old Hogan of Waterside," 
 almost close by Penfillan, whose peremptory ways 
 and regularities of mind and conduct, are still re- 
 membered in that region, — sorrowfully and strangely 
 as his sons, grandsons, and now great-grandson, 
 have distinguished themselves in the other direction 
 there. It was delightful to hear my Bright One 
 talk of this old Grandfather ; so kindly yet so play- 
 fully, with a vein of fond affection, yet with the 
 justest insight. In his Last Will (owing to Hun-
 
 I40 REMINISCENCES 
 
 terian artifices and unkind whisperings, as she 
 thought) he had omitted Jicr, though her Father 
 liad 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 world could have 
 had ; but the neglect had sensibly grieved her ; 
 though she never at all blamed the old man him- 
 self, 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 tJiey have ! or 
 perhaps it was some whim of the old man himself? 
 Never mind, never mind !" And so, as I could 
 perceive, it actually zvas 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 the loved old Grandfather ; — with which surely I 
 may end : 
 
 1°. " Never hire as servant a very poor person's 
 daughter or son : t/iey have seen nothing but con- 
 fusion, waste, and huggermugger, mere want of thrift 
 or method." This was a very wise opinion surel}-. 
 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, supported by such observa- 
 tion as the arena of Keir Parish and neighbouring 
 localities afforded, the astonishing opinion — 
 
 2°. That small people, especially short people,
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 141 
 
 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 mea- 
 sured, 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 pleader 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. 
 
 [Ju?ic I 3.] John Welsh, my Wife's Father, was born 
 at Craigenputtock (I now find, which gives the place a 
 new interest to me), '4th April 1776,' — little more 
 than eighteen years younger than his father, or than 
 his mother. His first three years or so (probably till 
 26th May 1779, when 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 Mother's tears about her, I can 
 vividly remember ; the strangely silent white-sheeted 
 room ; white-sheeted linen-curtained bed, and small 
 piece of elevation there, which the joiner was about 
 measuring ; 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,
 
 142 REMINISCENCES 
 
 no doubt, he had been for three or four years at 
 school there (Tynron School, vvc may well guess) 
 when (1785 or 6) the family shifted with him to 
 Penfillan. There probably he spent some four or 
 three years more ; Tynron 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 reflec- 
 tions and inspirations had " educated " him. Better 
 than one of many thousands, as I do perceive ! 
 Closcbnrn (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 en- 
 tered the University, I do not know ; — I think he 
 was first a kind of apprentice to a famous Joseph or 
 Charles Bell . . . and with this famed Bell he was 
 a favourite ; — 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 neces- 
 sary 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 recommendation, — I know not in what year 
 (say about 1796, his twentieth year, my first in this 
 world). [Went first, I clearly find, as Regimental 
 Surgeon, loth August 1796, into the "Perthshire 
 Fencible Cavalry," and served there some three
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 143 
 
 years. Carefully tied up and reposited by pious 
 hands (seemingly in 1819), I find three old "Com- 
 missions " on parchment, with their stamps, seals, 
 signatures, etc. (Surgeon, loth August 1796 ; Cornet, 
 15th September 1796; and Lieutenant, 5th April 
 1799) which testify to this; — after which there 
 could have been no " assistantship " with Somers, 
 hwt purchase and full practice at once ; — marriage 
 itself having followed in 1 800, the next year after 
 that " Lieutenancy " promotion.] ^ The old Doctor's 
 name, if I mistake not, was Somers. 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 of his ; piously 
 preserved by his Daughter ever since his death. 
 
 Dr. Welsh's success appears to have been, hence- 
 forth and formerly, swift and constant ; till, before 
 long, the whole sphere, or section 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 quarters have. A " very valiant man," Edward 
 
 ^ This passage in brackets is pasted on to the leaf of the Note Book, 
 Carlylc niarkini; in the text that the paragraph was to be corrected by it.
 
 144 REMINISCENCES 
 
 Irving once called him in my hearing. His medical 
 sagacity was reckoned at a higher and higher rate, 
 medical and other hoiiesty as well ; for it was by no 
 means as a wise Physician only, but as an honour- 
 able exact and quietly dignified man, punctual, 
 faithful in all points, that he was esteemed over the 
 County. 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 higher or more unanimous, among 
 all ranks of men. The brave man himself I never 
 saw : but my poor Jeannie, in her best moments, often 
 said to me, about this or that, " Yes, Jie would have 
 done it so!" "Ah, Jie 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 interested parties, high or low. 
 Gravely inflexible, wherever right was concerned ; 
 and " very independent " where mere rank etc. 
 attempted to avail upon him. Story of some old 
 valetudinarian Nabal of eminence (Nisbet of Dirle- 
 ton, immensely rich, continually cockering himself, 
 and suffering) ; grudging audibly once at the many 
 fees he had to pay (from his annual i^ 3 0,000) : — 
 "Daresay I have to pay you [^160] 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
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 145 
 
 understanding that his Dirleton practice and connec- 
 tion had ended. My Jeannie recollected his quiet 
 report of it to Mamma and her, with that corollary : 
 — however, after some short experience (or re-ex- 
 perience of London Doctors) Nabal Nisbet (who had 
 " butter churned daily for breakfast," as one item of 
 expenditure) came back, with the necessary Pcccavi 
 expressed or understood. 
 
 One anecdote I always remember, of the per 
 contra kind. Riding along one day, on his multi- 
 farious business, he noticed a poor wounded part- 
 ridge, fluttering and struggling about, wing or leg, 
 or both, broken by some sportman'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 splint and salve and other treatment, had 
 it soon on wing again, and sent it forth healed. 
 This, in so grave and practical a man, had always 
 in it a fine expressiveness to me : — sJie 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 i ph July (" Bastille-day," as we 
 often called it) 1801 ; — sixty-four and a half years old 
 when she died. The Bride was Grace Welsh of Caple- 
 gill (head of Moffat Water in Annandale) ; her Father 
 an opulent store-farmer up there, native of Nithsdale ; 
 her Mother, a Baillie from Biggar region, already 
 deceased. Grace was beautiful, — must have been ; 
 she continued what might be called beautiful till 
 the very end, in or beyond her sixtieth year. Her 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 REMINISCENCES 
 
 Welshes were Nithsdale people of good condition, 
 though beyond her grandfather and uncles, big 
 farmers in Thornhill Parish (the " Welshes of Morton- 
 Mains " for I know not what 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 Had- 
 dington 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 ; " 
 and, I believe, were and continued deeply attached 
 to one another. Sadder widow than my Mother-in- 
 law, modestly, delicately, 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. 
 
 {^Jiine 15.] Mrs. Welsh when I first saw her 
 (1821) must have been in the [second] 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 her, and on everybody, except on poor dying 
 Benjamin, who affected to be very sprightly, though 
 overwhelmed as he must have felt himself His 
 
 ^ Dr. Welsh's youngest Brother"; he died at Leghorn, in 1S22 ; 
 aged 26.
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 147 
 
 spirit, as I afterwards learned from his Niece, who 
 did not love him, or feel grateful to him, was extra- 
 ordinary, in the worldly-wise kind. Mrs. Welsh, 
 though beautiful, a tall aquiline figure, of elegant 
 carriage and air, was not of intellectual or specially 
 distinguished physiognomy ; and, in her severe cos- 
 tume 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 Drawing-room, with 
 her Daughter and her, both very humane to me, 
 especially the former, which I noticed with true joy 
 for the moment. I was miserably ill in health ; 
 miserable every way more than enough, in my lonely 
 imprisonment, sucJi it was, which lasted many years. 
 The Drawing-room seemed to me the finest apart- 
 ment I had ever sat or stood in : — in fact it was a 
 room of large and fine proportions, looking out on 
 a garden, on mere 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 everywhere bearing stamp of the 
 late owner's solid temper. Clean, all of it, as spring 
 water ; solid and correct as well as pertinently orna- 
 mented : in the Drawing-room, on the tables there, 
 perhaps rather 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 Joioiv of its former 
 tenants when I went to the house again in April last. 
 T remember our all sitting, another evening, in a 
 little parlour off the dining-room (downstairs), and
 
 148 REMINISCENCES 
 
 talking a long time ; Irving mainly, and bringing 
 out me, the two ladies benevolently listening with 
 not much of speech, but the younger with lively 
 apprehension of all meanings and shades of mean- 
 ing. Above this parlour 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 w^ith me ;^ went to Templand, 
 Nithsdale, to her Father ; — and turned out to have 
 decided never to behold Haddington more. 
 
 She was of a most generous, honourable, affection- 
 ate turn of mind ; had consummate skill in admin- 
 istering a household ; a goodish 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 Jmmoiir, which 
 illuminated her perceptions and discoursings so often 
 to a singular degree, like pure soft 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. Welsh, as above said, was far too sensitive ; her 
 beauty, too, had brought flatteries, conceits perhaps ; 
 she was very variable of humour, 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 
 
 ^ It was at the beginning of August that Mrs. and Miss Welsh left 
 Haddington. They staid at Comley Bank for a few weeks, furnishing 
 the house there, and by September were settled at Templand. The 
 marriage was on the 17th October 1S26.
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 149 
 
 and perfect assentation 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 evening 
 in fifteen different humours " as the night wore on. 
 This, probably, 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 w^eak patient 
 gets himself shaken and secures exercise), she herself, 
 day after day, doing the part of trampler ; — which 
 perhaps was judged useful, or as good as necessary, 
 for her own health. William 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 husband 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 in- 
 flammation or other disorder of the liver ; liver dis- 
 order was cured, but power of digestion had ceased ;
 
 I50 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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 being 
 out, you tried s/iop 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," 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 noble soul ! How sadly 
 I remember now, and often before now, the time 
 when she vanished from her kind Jane's sight and 
 mine, never 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 to Scotsbrig that night, and 
 on the morrow or so, thence for London. Mrs. Welsh 
 was unusually beautiful, but strangely sad too, — eyes 
 bright, and as if with many tears behind 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 feehng what would now be the kindest, 
 heroically rose (still not weeping), and said Adieu 
 there. We watched her, sorrowful both of us, from 
 the end window ; stepping, tall and graceful, feather 
 in bonnet, etc., down Lochmaben Gate, casting no
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 151 
 
 glance back ; then vanishing to rightward, into High 
 Street (bonnet feather perhaps, the last thing), and 
 she was gone for ever. Ay dc mi. Ay dc 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 Grand- 
 father, I had seen twice or thrice, at Templand, 
 before our marriage ; and for the next six or seven 
 years, especially after our removal to Craigenputtock, 
 he was naturally a principal figure in our small circle. 
 He liked his Granddaughter cordially 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 
 Grandfather. " Pen " {Pcnfilhni Jeannie, for there 
 was another) he used to call her to the last ; Mother's 
 name in the family was " Grizzle " (Grace). A per- 
 fect true affection ran through all branches, my poor 
 little " Pen " well included and returning it well. 
 She was very fond of old Walter (as he privately 
 was of her) ; and got a great deal of affectionate 
 amusement out of him. 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, whisky punch, or other liquid 
 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
 
 1 5 2 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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 heartily ; and he was a con- 
 tinual genial study to me over and above : microcosm 
 of old Scottish Life as it had been ; and man of much 
 singularity, originality 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 ; breaking out into fierce 
 flashes as 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 un- 
 commonly fine : serious, yet laughing eyes, as if 
 inviting you /;/ ; bushy eyebrows, face which you 
 might have called picturesquely shaggy, under its 
 plenty of gray hair, beard itself imperfectly shaved 
 here and there ; features massive 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 cJieiving kind of way with his 
 words, which, rapid and few, seemed to be forcing 
 their way through laziness or phlegm, and were not 
 extremely distinct till you attended a little (and then,
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 153 
 
 aided by the face etc., they zvere 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 attempted to say ; nor wise things either in any 
 sphere beyond that of sincerely accepted common- 
 place ; 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 serious, pen- 
 sive, not morose or sad, in these old times. He had 
 the prettiest laugh (once or at most twice, in my 
 presence) that I can remember to have heard, — not 
 the loudest, my own Father's still rarer laugh was 
 louder far, though perhaps not more complete ; but 
 his was all of artillery-thunder, foil de joic from all 
 guns as the main element ; while in Walter's there 
 was audible something as of infinite flutes and harps, 
 as if the vanquished themselves were invited (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. " Radiant 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 gaiety in his com- 
 position, a truly fine sense of the ridiculous (excellent 
 sense in a man, especially if he never cultivate it, or 
 be conscious of it, as was W^altcr's case) : and it 
 must have been from him, then, that my Jane 
 
 ' Sartor Resarttts (Library edition, 1869), p. 32.
 
 1 5 4 REMINISCENCES 
 
 derived that beautiful light of humour {never going 
 into folly, yet full of tacit fun) which spontaneously 
 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 vein (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 joyfuller. " 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 ^wzlyqualities of theirs, per- 
 haps 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 buckskins, pipe hair-dressings, grand 
 equipments ; riding 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 Caplegill, in the Moffat region ; where 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
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 155 
 
 after a good few years, when she took to signing 
 " Jane Welsh Carlyle," in which I never hindered 
 her, dropped the " BaiUie," I suppose as too long. 
 I have heard her quiz about the " unfortunate Miss 
 BaiUie " of the song at a still earlier time. Whether 
 Grace Welsh was married from Caplegill I do not 
 know. Walter had been altogether prosperous in 
 Caplegill ; and all of the Family that I knew (John 
 a merchant in Liverpool, the one remaining of the 
 sons, and Jeannie the one other daughter, a beautiful 
 " Aunt Jeannie " of whom a word by and by) con- 
 tinued 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 
 neighbouring farmer perhaps, but with an inferior 
 farm, came to advise with Walter about rents, prob- 
 ably his own rent first, in this general time of leas- 
 ing : "I am thinking to offer so-and-so, what say 
 you? what are you going to offer by the bye?" 
 Walter, the very soul of fidelity himself, made no 
 scruple to answer ; — found by and by that this 
 precious individual had thereupon himself gone and 
 offered for Caplegill the requisite few pounds more, 
 and that, according to fixed customs of the Estate, 
 he and not Walter, was declared tenant of Caplegill 
 henceforth. Disdain of such scandalous conduct, 
 astonishment and quasi horror at it, could have been 
 stronger in {q-^n men than in Walter ; a feeling shared 
 in heartily and irrevocably by all the Family ; who, 
 for the rest, seldom spoke of it, or hardly 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 un-
 
 156 REMINISCENCES 
 
 mentioned thenceforth. Perhaps 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 way. 
 
 After Caplegill, Walter had no more farming 
 prosperity : I believe 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 Duris- 
 deer, Strathmilligan in Tynron, ultimately Templand), 
 and had gradually 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 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 further ! A most munificent, 
 affectionate, and nobly honourable kind of man ; 
 'much esteemed by both my Jane and me, foreign 
 as his way of life was to us.
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 157 
 
 Besides these there was the youngest Daughter, 
 now a woman of thirty or so, the excellent " Aunt 
 Jeannie," so lovable to both of us ; who was said to 
 resemble her Mother (" nearly as beautiful, all but 
 the golden hair," — Jcannie's was fine flaxen, com- 
 plexion 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 beauti- 
 fully 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 Mother-in-law, the little Farm of 
 Templand (Oueensberry 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 civilised 
 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 beautiful and useful garden 
 in front, with trellises, flower-work, and strip of the 
 cleanest river shingle between porch and it : House 
 all clean and complete like a new coin ; steadily kept 
 dry (by industry), bedroom, and every part ; old fur- 
 niture (of Caplegill) really interesting to the eye, as 
 well as perfect for its duties. Dairy, kitchen etc. : 
 nothing that was fairly needful or useful could you
 
 1 5 8 REMIAUSCENCES 
 
 find to be wanting : — the whole matter 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 Housekeepers 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 honour and con- 
 science (Brother's Partner he was, if I recollect 
 rightly, and fled with all the funds, leaving ;{^i 2,000 
 of vii?iHs)) which annihilated 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, recognised 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, wJiere is now that 
 summer Evening, so beautiful, so infinitely sad and 
 strange ! The train rolled off with her to Thornhill, 
 Holm Hill, and that too, with its setting sun, is 
 gone). — I almost think Durisdeer (Castlehill) must 
 have been last before Templand ; I remember pass- 
 ing that quaint old Kirk (with village hidden) on my 
 left, one April Evening, on the top of a Dumfries
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 159 
 
 Coach from Edinburgh, with reveries and pensive re- 
 flections, 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 
 Oueensberry Tomb through a gap in the old kirk 
 wall. Again a pensive Evening, now so beautiful 
 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, 
 likely 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 innnditiis nowhere more descriptive both for 
 men and things. To myself, summing 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, well nigh poetical. 
 The old Norse Kings, the Homeric gra:::icr sovereigns 
 of men : I have felt in reading of them, as if their 
 w^ays had a kinship with these (////sung) 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 interest to fix 
 her lynx-eyed scrutiny upon, discovered just before 
 our leaving, that her dear Aunt was dangerously ill,
 
 i6o REMINISCENCES 
 
 and indeed had long been, — -- a tumour, now evi- 
 dently cancerous, growing on her breast for twelve 
 }'ears past ; which, after effort, she at last made the 
 poor Aunt confess to ! We were all (I myself by 
 sympathy, 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 command (had moved thither, 
 quitting Haddington for good, directly on our mar- 
 riage) •} she at once took measures ; having indeed a 
 turn herself for inedicining, and some skill withal. That 
 autumn Aunt Jeannie and she came to Edinburgh, 
 had a furnished house close by us, in Comley Bank ; 
 and then the dismal operation ; successfully, the 
 Doctors all said, — but alas ! Dim sorrow 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 London, 
 clearly, if I could, — if they would give me the Pro- 
 fessorship there ! " (Some Professorship in Gower 
 Street, perhaps of " Literature," which I had hoped 
 vaguely [for], 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 othcrzuise). My own poor little 
 Jeannie ; my ^oor pair of kind little Jeannies ! Poor 
 
 ^ See supra, p. 148 ;;.
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE i6i 
 
 Templand Jeannie went home again, striving to hope; 
 but sickened in winter ; worsened when the spring 
 came; and summer 1828 was still some weeks off 
 when she had departed. Or were we at Craigen- 
 puttock by that time ? I cannot think so. No it 
 must have been in April or March of 1828. The 
 Funeral, at Crawfurd, I remember sadly well ; old 
 Walter, John and two Sons (Walter of Auchtertool,^ 
 and Alick now successor in Liverpool), with various 
 old Moffat people etc. etc. at the Inn of 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 parlour after getting home. " Hah, 
 we'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 Daughter, an excellent 
 housewife too, and had money enough to support 
 herself and him in their quiet, neat and frugal way. 
 Templand continued, in all points, as trim and beauti- 
 ful as ever ; the old man made no kind of complaint, 
 and in economics there was even an improvement : 
 but the old cheery patience of Daughter " Jeannie," 
 magnanimously effacing herself, and returning all 
 his little spurts 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 
 
 ^ Rev. Walter Welsh of AuclUcitool, l*'ilc, who tlictl boinc six years ago. 
 VOL. I. M
 
 i62 REMINISCENCES 
 
 to be found in the world. Nith valley (river half a 
 mile off, winding through green holms, now in its 
 borders of clean shingle, now lost in pleasant woods 
 and bushes) lay patent to the south, the country 
 sinking perhaps a hundred feet, rather suddenly, just 
 beyond Templand ; Keir, Penpont, Tynron lying 
 spread, across the river, all as in a map, full of cheer- 
 ful habitations, gentlemen'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 Doon, a grand 
 massive lowland mountain (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 Clone 
 ("cloven?") of Maxwellton, into Glencairn valley, 
 and over the Black Craig of Dunscore {Dun-scoir-=. 
 Black hill) and to Craigenputtock 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 Lowthers, Leadhills, and 
 other lofty mountains, watershed and boundary of 
 Lanarkshire and Dumfriesshire : rugged, beautifully 
 piled sierra^ winding round into the eastern heights 
 (very pretty too) which part Annandale from Niths- 
 dale. [Alas, what is the use of all this, here and 
 now ?] Closeburn, mansion, woods and greeneries, 
 backed by brown steep masses, was on the south- 
 eastern side, house etc. hiding it from Walter's walk. 
 Walk where you liked, the view you could reckon
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 163 
 
 unsurpassable, — not the least needing to be " sur- 
 passed." 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 that part, and 
 mildly reaping his poor bit of harvest from it without 
 needing to pay rent ! 
 
 We went over often ; 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 oicr chief pleasures, I think 
 almost our chief, during those moorland years. Oh 
 those pleasant gig-drives, in fine leafy twilight, or 
 deep in the night sometimes, ourselves two alone in 
 the world, the good " Harry " 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 ! 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 {Lozver CairnySNdXox " road, as all was 
 mist and pitch-darkness, on our return, road unknown
 
 1 64 REMINISCENCES 
 
 to me except in general, — and drive like no other in 
 my memory. Cairn hoarsely roaring on the left (my 
 Darling's side) ; Harry, 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 hope- 
 fully ; my Darling so full of trust in me, really Jiappy 
 and opulently interested in these equipments, in 
 these poor and dangerous circumstances, — how 
 opulent is a nobly royal heart. vShe had the worth- 
 less " Portrait" (pencil-sketch by a wandering German, 
 announced to us by poor and hospitable Mrs. Richard- 
 son, once a " Novelist " of mark, much a gentle- 
 woman and well loved by us both) safe in her reti- 
 cule ; " better far than none," she cheerfully said ot 
 it, and the price, I think, had been 5 s., fruit of her 
 thrift too : — well, could California have made me 
 and her so rich, had / known it (sorry gloomy mortal) 
 just as she did ? To noble hearts such wealth is 
 there in Poverty itself, and impossible without 
 Poverty ! I saw ahead, high in the mist, the min- 
 arets of Dunscore Kirk, at last, glad sight ; at Mrs. 
 Broatch's cosy rough inn, we got Harry fed, our- 
 selves 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 thirty-five 
 miles for poor Harry and us ; very beautiful, that too, 
 and very strange ; past the base of towering New 
 Abbey,^ huge ruins, piercing grandly into the silent 
 
 1 Sweetheart Abbey {,Cor Duke) is a magnificent ruin seven miles
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 165 
 
 frosty sunset, on this hand, despicable cowhouse of 
 Presbyterian Kirk on that hand (sad new contrast to 
 Devorgilla's old bounty) etc. etc. : — of our drive home 
 again I recollect only her invincible contentment, 
 and the poor old Cowar-woman ^ offering to warm 
 us with a flame of dry broom, " A'U licht a bruim 
 couw, if ye'U 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 
 shockingly wet and muddy ; saw various notabilities 
 there. Sir James Grahame (baddish, proud man, we 
 both thought by physiognomy, and did not after- 
 wards alter our opinion much), Ramsay Macculloch 
 (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 
 we heard the news, or at least the full particulars 
 there, — • the tragedy (spectacular mostly, but not 
 
 from Dumfries ; it was built in the thirteenth centui-y by Devorgilla, 
 widow of John Baliol, whose heart, enclosed in an ivory casket, was 
 buried in the High Altar. It is generally called New Abbey to distin- 
 guish it from the older abbey in the neighbourhood (Dundrennan), 
 which this beneficent lady had also founded. 
 
 ^ Cozvar-tvoinan, a maker of broom "couws" or besoms. A wisp 
 of broom, also called a Cow ox Couzo, is sometimes used for a Icmiiornry 
 blaze on poor hearths in Scotland.
 
 1 66 REMINISCENCES 
 
 quite, or inhumanly in any sense) of our bright glad 
 evening there. But I must quit these things. 
 
 {June I 8; day wet and muddy. . . . Sad; quiet and 
 sad ; " droiviicd in soft regrets and loving sorrow," so 
 I define my common mood at present, — and some- 
 times estimate it as a kind of religious worship 
 (course of devotional exercises) I have got into, — 
 driven by Fate, at the long last !] 
 
 The Liverpool children first, then " Uncle John " 
 himself for a fortnight or so, used to come every 
 summer ; and stir up Templand's quietude, — to us 
 bystanders, in a purely agreeable way. Of the children 
 I recollect nothing almost ; nothing that was not 
 cheerful and auroral or 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 everybody had forgotten to announce 
 it to them. We ran across to Templand rather 
 oftener than usual on these occasions, and I suppose 
 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 dishonourable behaviour ; 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 quali- 
 ties now and then. He was cheerful, musical,
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 167 
 
 politely conversible ; truly a genial harmonious, 
 loving nature ; but there was a roar in him too like 
 a lion's. He had had great misfortunes and provo- 
 cations ; his way of life, in dusty, sooty, ever noisy 
 Liverpool, with its dinnerings, wine-drinkings, dull 
 evening parties issuing in whist, was not Jiis element, 
 few men's less, though he made not the least com- 
 plaint of it (even to himself, I think) : but his heart, 
 and all his pleasant memories and thoughts, were in 
 the breezy Hills of Moffatdale, with the rustic natives 
 there, and their shepherdings, huntings (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, punctual as fate) ; and 
 had a few days' fishing as one item. He had got his 
 schooling at Closeburn ; was, if no 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 brevity, but with memorable emphasis and 
 fury. He was studiously polite in general, always so 
 to those who deserved it, not quite always to those 
 who didn't. 
 
 His demeanour in his bankruptcy, his and his 
 Wife's . . . when the villain of a partner eloped, and
 
 1 68 REMINISCENCES 
 
 left him possessor of a viimis £i 2,000, with other still 
 painfuller items (Sister Jeannie's incurable heart, for 
 example), was admitted to be beautiful. 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 ; — then, after per- 
 haps 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 com- 
 plete to every creditor, " Pocket your cheques. Gentle- 
 men, with our poor warmest thanks ; — and let us drink 
 Better Luck for time coming !" He prospered 
 always afterwards ; but never saved much money ; 
 too hospitable, far too open-handed, for that ; all his 
 dinners, ever since I knew him, were giveji (never 
 dined out, he) ; and in more than one instance, to 
 our knowledge, ruined people were lifted up by him 
 (one widow Cousin, one orphan, young daughter of an 
 acquaintance e.g.) as if they had been his own ; sank 
 possibly enough mainly or altogether 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 difficulty 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 i i ,000 souls in
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 169 
 
 it, far away to the right ; descended then by Cairn, 
 by the Clone of Maxwellton (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, peeling 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 whole- 
 somely wandering about, in rational talk on indif- 
 ferent matters. — Another time, long after, new from 
 London then, I had wandered 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 Closeburn) ; 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 my own little Woman who was there 
 among them all. No wink could I sleep ; at length 
 about three A.M., reflecting how miserable I should be 
 all day, and cause only misery to the others — I (with 
 leave had) rose, yoked my gig, and drove awaj- the 
 road I had come. Morning cold and surly, all 
 mortals still quiet, except unhappy self ; I remember 
 seeing towards Auldgarth, within few yards of my 
 road, a vigilant industrious heron, mid-leg deep in
 
 I70 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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 desimt ; of Dumfries, of the day 
 there, and its sequences, all trace is gone. It must 
 have been soon after French Revolution Book ; 
 nerves all inflamed and torn up, body and mind in a 
 hag-ridden condition (too much their normal one 
 those many London years). 
 
 Of visits from Templand there were not so many ; 
 but my Darling (hampered and gyved as we were by 
 the gcnins loci and its difficulties) always triumphantly 
 made them do. She had the genius of a Field- 
 marshal, not to be taken by surprise, or weight of 
 odds, ill 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 attending 
 without rod, to fish. Tramping about on the mossy 
 brink, Uncle and I awoke an adder ; we had just 
 passed its underground hole ; alarm rose, — looking 
 round, we saw the vile sooty-looking fatal 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 {C/iaractcristics,\v3.s it ?),and could
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 171 
 
 not attend the sports ; 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 
 thoughtkin stands in some of my Books : I recollect 
 being thankful (scraggily thankful) for the day of 
 small things. 
 
 [Oh my Darling, how dark and sad am I, and 
 seem to have been defrauding TJiec all this while, 
 and speaking only about others ! I will stop ; and 
 go out.] 
 
 \22d Jnne . . . ] The London bits oi memora- 
 bilia do not disengage themselves from the general 
 mass, as the earlier Craigenputtock ones did ; the 
 years here, / still struggling m them, lie as a con- 
 fused heap, //^beautiful in comparison. Let me pick 
 out (and be speedier) what comes to hand. 
 
 She liked London constantly ; and stood in 
 defence 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 corner of the 
 Green Park, I found something for her to sit on ; 
 " Hah, there is John Mill coming ! " I said ; and her 
 joyful ingenuous blush is still very beautiful to mc. 
 The good Child ! It did not prove to be John Mill 
 (whom she knew since 1831, and liked for my sake) :
 
 172 REMINISCENCES 
 
 but probably I showed her the Duke of Wellington, 
 whom one often used to see there, striding de- 
 liberately 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 notoriety. 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 Ironmongery, 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 (Trans- 
 lations from the German, rather poorly done, and 
 of original nothing that rose far above the rank 
 of twaddle) : '' femme alors celebre" as we used to 
 term the phenomenon, parodying some phrase I had 
 found in Thiers: Mrs. Austin affected much sisterhood 
 with us {affected mainly, though in kind wise) ; and 
 was a cheery, sanguine, and generally acceptable 
 member of society, — already ?// to the Marquis of 
 Lansdowne^ (in a slight sense), much more to all the 
 Radical Officials and notables : Charles Buller, Sir W, 
 Molesworth, etc. etc. of " alors!' She still lives, 
 this Mrs. Austin, in quiet though eclipsed condition : 
 spring last she was in Town for a couple of weeks ; 
 
 ^ "Yesterday Marquis of Lansdowne at Mrs. Austin's. Gray- 
 haired, fine-headed, very polite, intelligent -whiggish looking man. 
 Did not know or catch his name, as I was named to him : thought it 
 'Lord Anser' (and inwardly grinned over the English of Anser): 
 'entertained angels unawares.'" — Carlyle's Journal, 27th Novem- 
 ber 1834.
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 173 
 
 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 con- 
 tinues ever since to be a quiet house-friend, honestly 
 attached ; though his visits latterly have been rarer 
 and rarer, health so poor, I so occupied, etc. etc. 
 He has something of original and sarcastically in- 
 genious in him ; one of the sincerest, naturally truest, 
 and most modest of men. Elder brother of Charles 
 Darwin (the famed Darivin 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 firsty??;//^^' Erasmus 
 (" Botanic Garden " etc.), who also seems to have 
 gone upon " species " questions ; " Ovinia 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 before 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. Erasmus Darwin it was 
 who named the late Whewell, seeing him sit, all ear 
 (not all assoit) at some of my Lectures, "The Har- 
 monious Blacksmith ; " a really descriptive title. My 
 Dear One had a great favour for this honest Darwin 
 always ; many a road, to shops and the like, he drove 
 her in his Cab (" Darzvingium Cabbiim',' comparable 
 to Georgium Sidus), in those early days, when even 
 the charge of Omnibuses was a consideration ; and his 
 sparse utterances, sardonic often, were a great amuse- 
 
 ^ Erasmus Darwin died in 18S1.
 
 174 REMINISCENCES 
 
 ment to her. " A perfect gentlcvian" she at once 
 discerned him to be ; and of sound worth, and kind- 
 liness, 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 winding up 
 with a frugal morsel of Scotch Porridge (endlessly 
 admirable to Hunt) ^ — I think I spoke of this above ? 
 Hunt was always 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 
 faculty he at once recognised, 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, were almost 
 pathetic to us both. Long before this, he had gone 
 to live in Kensington ; — and we scarcely saw him 
 except by accident. His Household, while in " 4 
 
 ^ " Hunt himself seems almost scared off by my Puritanic Stoicism ; 
 talks in a quite tremulous way when he does come. A mind shattered 
 by long misery into a kind of unnatural quivering eagerness, which 
 before and instead of all things covets agreement with it ? A good 
 man." — Caxlylt's Journal, 8th September 1834.
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 175 
 
 Upper Cheyne Row," within few steps of us here, 
 almost at once disclosed itself to be huggermugger, 
 ///^thrift, and sordid collapse, once for all ; and had 
 to be associated with on cautious terms ; — while he 
 himself emerged out of it in the chivalrous figure I 
 describe. Dark complexion (a trace of the African, 
 I believe), copious clean strong black hair, beauti- 
 fully-shaped head, fine beaming serious hazel eyes ; 
 seriousness and intellect the main expression of the 
 face (to our surprise at first), — he would lean on his 
 elbow against the mantelpiece (fine 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 
 Ariel-Xx^Q 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 sulphurous and penal fire " — as the last 
 thing before vanishing. Poor Hunt ! no more of him. 
 She, I remember, was almost in tears, during some 
 last visit of his, and kind and pitying as a Daughter 
 to the now weak and time-worn old man. 
 
 \2'}jd June 1866, Saturday; Jiot, and weary of 
 heart.] 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, infor-
 
 176 REMLYISCENCES 
 
 mation, 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 
 habitually to dzvell there) ; and had not much of in- 
 struction either to give or receive. His resort seemed 
 to be much among Scotch City people ; who presented 
 him with punchbowls etc. ; and in his own house that 
 was chiefly the (unprofitable) people to be met. We 
 admired always his shrewd sense for managing him- 
 self 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 (especially 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 intercourse here ; — introduced by Darwin 
 possibly, I forget by whom ; on her return from 
 America, her Book upon which was now in progress. 
 Harriet had started into lionhood since our first 
 visit to London ; and was still much run 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 solidity of common sense, was never possible for 
 either of us : but she had a sharp eye, an imper- 
 
 ^ Allan Cunningham died 29th October 1S42. Colonel Francis 
 Cunningham and his sister are now also dead.
 
 J AXE WELSH CARLYLE 177 
 
 turbable self-possession, and in all things a swiftness 
 of positive decision, which, joined to her evident 
 loyalty of intention, and her frank, guileless, easy 
 ways, we both liked. Her adorers, principally, not 
 exclusively, "poor ivJiinncriiig^ old moneyed women 
 in their well-hung broughams, otherwise idle," did 
 her a great deal of mischief, and indeed as it proved 
 were gradually turning her fine clear head (so to 
 speak), and leading to sad issues for her. Her talent, 
 which in that sense was very considerable, 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-y/frx/" 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 circumstances, and gratefully ac- 
 knowledged by us. For the rest, she was full of 
 Nigger fanaticisms ; admirations (e.g.) for her Brother 
 James (a Socinian preacher of due quality). The 
 " exchange of ideas " with her was seldom of behoof 
 in our poor sphere. But she was practically very 
 good. I remember her coming 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 frequent and crowded (small house 
 
 ' Whiutiering, having a falsetto tone of voice suggesting hypocrisy. 
 V(.)L. I. N
 
 178 REMINISCENCES 
 
 in Fludyer Street ^ full to the door) ; and we, for 
 sake of the notabilities or notorieties wandering 
 about there, were willing to attend. Gradually learn- 
 ing how ///significant 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 understood and heard confirmed) ; but 
 the expense of los. 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 Regent Street and our goal 
 in Fludyer Street, 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, possibly 
 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 (probably in some handy little rain- 
 pool in the Park, with diligent wiping) ; sJie entered 
 faultless into the illumination (I need not doubt) : 
 and all still went well enough. 
 
 ^ Fludyer Street is no longer in the London Directory. It was in 
 Westminster, the third turning on the right hand from Charing-cross 
 towards the Abbey, and led to St. James's Park. 
 
 - Overshoes.
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 179 
 
 \2AftJi June . . .] 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 
 tumour, or I know not what ; removed from London 
 (never has resided there since, except for temporary 
 periods) ; took shelter at Tynemouth, " 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 
 personal visits and continual correspondings), and 
 had, in sad effect, so far as could be managed, the 
 whole world, along with self and company, for a 
 theatre to gaze upon her. Life in the Sickroom, 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, till the 
 Atheism etc. etc., which I heard described (by the 
 first Lady Ashburton once) as " a stripping of your- 
 self 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 Scot- 
 land 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 sur- 
 mise). We had our lodging in the principal street 
 (rather noisy by night) ; and staid about a week, — 
 
 ^ October 1 841 ; Carlyle and his Wife then returning from sea- 
 bathing quarters near Annan.
 
 i8o REMINISCENCES 
 
 not with much profit I think, either to her or our- 
 selves ; I at least with none. 
 
 \2^t]i Junc7\ There had been, before this, some 
 small note or two of correspondence ; 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 " sawdustish ") 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 generations," 
 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 evi- 
 dently grow no flozvcrs 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 some 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 ingeniously 
 made a nightcap for himself of his pocket-handker- 
 chief, and looked really strange (an improvised
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 
 
 ' Camus crowned with sedge '), — but was very good- 
 humoured too. During the week, I also recollect read- 
 ing one Play (never any since or before) of Knight's 
 Edition of Shakespeare ; and making my reflections 
 on that fatal brood of people, and the nature of 
 " fame " etc : Sweet friends, for Jesus' sake forbear ! 
 
 \26tl1 Jtme . . .] In those first years, probably 
 from about 1839, we had got acquainted with the 
 Leeds Marshall family ; especially with old Mr 
 (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 every- 
 body), by skilful, faithful and altogether human 
 conduct in his flax or linen manufactory at Leeds ; 
 and was now settled in opulently shining circum- 
 stances in London ; endeavouring 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 suc- 
 cessful style ; the eldest was in Parliament, "a landed 
 gentleman " etc. etc. : wife and daughters were the 
 old man's London household, wdth sons often 
 incidentally present there. None of them was enter- 
 taining to speak with, though all were honest whole- 
 some people. The old man himself, a pale, sorrow- 
 stricken, modest, yet dignified-looking person, full of 
 respect for intellect, wisdom and worth (as he under- 
 stood the terms) ; low voiced, almost 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 
 amiable, humane and thoroughly respectable pheno-
 
 1 82 REMINISCENCES 
 
 menon 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 dis- 
 tinction (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 
 illmninatcd in all senses ; but generally not enter- 
 taining. My astonishment at the " Reform " M.P.'s 
 whom I met there, and the notions they seemed to 
 have of " reforming " (and radicalX\x\^^ and quarrel- 
 ling 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 7iot to participate in my lionings ; but 
 behaving like the royal soul she was, — I, dullard 
 egoist, taking no special recognition of such noble- 
 ness, till the bar was quite passed, or even not fully 
 then ! Alas, I see it nozv, perhaps 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 Hallsteads " 
 (grand Mansion and Establishment, 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 world's resources even when he had victory 
 
 ^ On the occasion of their visit to Tynemoulh, October 1S41.
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 183 
 
 over it to the full, were so exiguous, and perhaps to 
 himself almost contemptible ! I remember well 
 always, he gave me the first Hoi'se 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 knoiv /" And in this way it 
 continued two summers (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 struggling in the shallows) as I urged, but 
 insisted on handing over to me. And so it ended. 
 I was at Headingley (by Leeds) with James Mar- 
 shall, just 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 my share in the Marshall adventure. It 
 is well known the Marshall daughters were all married 
 off (each of them had iJ^ 5 0,000) and what intricate 
 intermarrying with the Spring-Rices there was, . . . 
 My Jeannie quarrelled with nothing in Marshalldom ; 
 quite the contrary ; formed a kind of friendship 
 (conquest I believe it was on her side, generously 
 converted into something of friendship) with Cordelia 
 Marshall, . . . who became, shortly after, wife, first 
 wife of the late big Whewell, and aided his position 
 and advancement towards Mastership of Trinity, etc. 
 I recollect seeing them both here, and Cordelia'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.
 
 1 84 REMINISCENCES 
 
 She soon ceased to write hither ; we transiently 
 heard . . . that she was very unhappy (Poor inno- 
 cent CordeHa !) and transiently, 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, 
 unbeautiful they still seem to me in comparison ; 
 and my poor Jeannie'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 con- 
 fusing intricacies to me that I cannot sort it out into 
 clear articulation at all, or give the features of it, as 
 before. The general type of it is shiningly clear to me : 
 A noble fight at my side ; a valiant strangling of 
 serpents day after day — done gaily by her (for most 
 part), as I had to do it angrily and gloomily ; thus 
 we went on together : Ay dc mi, Ay de mi ! — 
 
 \Jnne 27. Note from Dods yesterday that the 
 Tablet'^ was not come, nor indeed had been expected ; 
 
 ^ The Tablet is imbedded in tlie Tomlistone, at Haddington, already 
 there to mark her Father's resting place, which had now become hers 
 also. It bears the following inscription :— 
 
 " Here likewise now rests 
 
 "Jane Welsh Carlvle, 
 
 "Spouse of Thomas Carlyle, Chelsea, London. 
 
 "She was bom at Haddington, 14th July 1801 : only child of the above John Welsh, 
 and of Grace Welsh, Caplegill, Dumfriesshire, his Wife. In her bright existence she 
 had more sorrows than are common : but also a soft invincibility, a clearness of dis- 
 cernment, and a noble loj'alty of heart, which are rare. For forty years she was the 
 true and ever-loving Helpmate of her Husband ; and, by act and word, unweariedly 
 forwarded him, as none else could, in all of worthy that he did or attempted. 
 
 " She died at London, 21st April 1S66 ; suddenly snatched away from him, and the 
 light of his life as if gone out."
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 185 
 
 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 !] 
 
 [June 28.] By much the tenderest and beautifullest 
 reminiscence to me out of those years is that of the 
 Lecture times. The vilest welter of odious confu- 
 sions, horrors and repugnancies ; to which, meanwhile, 
 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 practi- 
 cality of help : was not I rich, after all ? She had 
 a steady hope in me, too, while I myself had habit- 
 ually 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 wriggling in my agony of incipi- 
 ency, " people like it ; the more of that, the better 
 does the Lecture prove !" Which was a truth ; 
 though the poor Sympathiser might, at the moment, 
 feel it harsh. This Miss Wilson and her brother 
 still live ; opulent, fine, Church of England people 
 (scrupulously orthodox to the secularities 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 afterwards ; very 
 desirous to help us, if that could have much done
 
 1 86 REMINISCENCES 
 
 it (for indeed, to me, it was always mainly an indiges- 
 tion 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 Monteagle), " and talks as if he were 
 dictating a Colonial Despatch " (most true ; — " teach- 
 ing you How Not to do it," as Dickens defined after- 
 wards) : one of the pattest things I ever heard from 
 Spring- Rice, who had rather a turn for such. 
 Stephen, ultimately, when on half-pay and a Cam- 
 bridge Professor, used to come down hither pretty 
 often on an evening ; and we heard a great deal of 
 talk from him, recognisably serious and able, though 
 always in that Colonial-Office style, more or less. 
 Colonial -Office beijig 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 
 1844 when John died). To my Jeannie, I think, 
 this was clearly the sunniest and wholesomest ele- 
 ment in her then outer life. All the Household 
 loved her ; and she had virtually, by her sense, by 
 her felt loyalty, expressed oftenest in a gay mildly 
 quizzing manner, a real influence, a kind of light 
 conuimnd one might almost call it, willingly yielded 
 her among them. Details of this are in print (as 
 
 ^ See supra, p. 114 n.
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 187 
 
 I said above). — In the same years, Mrs. Buller 
 (Charles's mother) was a very cheerful item to her. 
 Mrs. Buller (a whilom Indian Beauty, Wit and finest 
 Fine Lady), who had, at all times a very recognising 
 eye for talent, and a real reverence for it, very soon 
 made out something of my little woman ; and took 
 more and more to her, all the time she lived after. 
 Mrs. Buller'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 consent 
 to. I remember being at Leatherhead too ; — and, 
 after that, a pleasant rustic week at Troston Parson- 
 age (in Suffolk, where Mrs. Buller's youngest son 
 " served," and serves) ; which Mrs. Buller 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 regretted never to have seen the place again. 
 This must have been in September or October i 842 ; 
 Mrs. Welsh's death in early Spring past. I remem- 
 ber 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, 
 and come down, Sir!"^ was almost as if audible to 
 me. Sleepless night, owing to Cathedral bells ; 
 and strange ride next day to St. Ives, to Hinchin- 
 brook, etc., and thence to Cambridge, with thunder- 
 cloud and lightning dogging me to rear, and burst- 
 
 ^ Cromweir 5 Letters ami Sj>eeckes iX'^hxaxy tCiiiion, 1869),!. 1S5.
 
 1 88 REMINISCENCES 
 
 ing into torrents few minutes after I got into The 
 Hoop Inn. — 
 
 My poor Darling had, for constant accompani- 
 ment 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 exhausting sort. Wonderful to 
 me how she, so sensitive a creature, maintained her 
 hoping cheerful humour to such a degree, amidst all 
 that ; and, except the pain of inevitable sympathy, 
 and vague flitting 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 tentations, futile wrestling, and misery, 
 I used to count it had cost me, before I took to 
 editing the Lettej's and Speeches (" to have them out 
 of my way ") ; which rapidly drained off the sour 
 swamp water bodily, and left me, beyond all first 
 expectations, quite free of the matter. Often I have 
 thought how miserable my Books must have been to 
 her ; and how, though they were none of her choos- 
 ing, and had come 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 behaviour 
 (often bad, or at least thoughtless and weak) under 
 them ! Always some quizzing little lesson, the pur- 
 port and effect of which was to encourage me ; 
 never once anything zvorse. Oh it was noble ; — and 
 I see it so well now, when it is gone from me, and 
 no return possible !
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 189 
 
 ' Ct'omzvcll was by much the worst Book-time ; 
 till this of Fricdrich ; which indeed was infinitely 
 worse ; in the dregs of our strength too; — and lasted 
 for about thirteen years. She was generally in quite 
 weak health, too ; and was often for long weeks or 
 months, miserably ill. 
 
 \2%tJi June. Interruption here yesterday; to-day 
 likewise, the whole morning gone, in extraneous 
 fiddle-faddle, and not so much as one word here ! 
 Shame on me ; for (though " the world " is a most 
 intrusive, useless, nay plunderous and obstructive 
 affair to me at present), the blame is not chiefly 
 " the world's " but my own ! Froude is now coming ; 
 and with remorse, I must put this away. News of 
 Craik's death, at Belfast, 27th ult., came last 
 night] 
 
 \2(^tJi JHnc^^ It was strange how she contrived to 
 sift out of such a troublous forlorn day as hers, in 
 such case, was, all the available little items ; as she 
 was sure to do, — and 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 rain- 
 bow of my poor dripping day, — and reminded me that 
 there otherwise %vas 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 all the better sort respected my seclusion, 
 especially during that last FriedricJi time), whom 
 I needed to 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
 
 igo REMINISCENCES 
 
 very best ; all of her own people, whom I might be 
 apt to feel wearisome (dislike any of them I never 
 did, or his or her discharge from service would have 
 swiftly followed), she kept beautifully out of my 
 way, saving my " politeness " withal : a very perfect 
 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 PampJilct time, and especially the 
 time that preceded 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 News- 
 paper was one (alert, airy, rather vacant editorial 
 gentleman I remember going to once, in Printing 
 House Square) ; but this way, 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 Sunday). About half of the 
 ultimately printed might be in Chapman'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 everybody. Not she at any 
 moment ; much amused by the outside pother, she ; 
 and glad to see me getting delivered of my black 
 electricities and consuming fires, in that way. Strange 
 
 ^ John Forster was for forty years a devoted friend of Carlyle's. 
 His kindness and helpfulness to him, especially after Mrs. Carlyle's 
 death, is sufficiently evident from the pages which follow. He was 
 appointed one of the Executors of Carlyle's Will ; hut he predeceased 
 Carlyle, having died in 1876,
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 191 
 
 letters came to us, during those nine months of 
 pamphleteering ; strange visitors (of moonstruck 
 unprofitable type for most part), who had, for one 
 reason or another, been each of them wearing him- 
 self half-mad on some one of the public scandals I 
 was recognising and denouncing. I still remember 
 some of their faces, and the look their paper bundles 
 had. She got a considerable entertainment out of 
 all that ; went along with me in everything (prob- 
 ably coimselling a little here and there ; a censor- 
 ship well worth my regarding, and generally adaptable, 
 here as everywhere) ; and minded no whit any 
 results that might follow this evident speaking of 
 the truth. Somebody, 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 inno- 
 cent laughter, — ignorant till then what " The Press's " 
 feelings were, and leaving " The Press " very welcome 
 to them then. Neuberg ^ helped me zealously, as 
 
 ^ Joseph Neuberg (born near Wlirzburg 1806 ; died at Hampstead 
 1867) was, when Carlyle became acquainted with him in 1840, a merchant 
 in Nottingham ; some eight or nine years afterwards, having quitted 
 his business, he generously offered his services as Amanuensis to 
 Carlyle. He was a man " of perfect integrity, of serious reflective 
 temper, of fine and strong faculties (able to understand anything pre- 
 sented to him, and of many high aspirations). For the last twenty or 
 twenty-five years, he had been my most attached adherent, ever-loyal, 
 ever-patient, ardent, ever-willing to do me service in every kind : — we 
 were twice in Germany together, where I defined him to be worth ' ten 
 Couriers ' ; in regard to the Book Friedrich (especially till he took to 
 translating it, and /had not the face to apply so often) his help was 
 truly valuable (or zwvaluable ; sat three months in the State-Paper 
 Office, for example, excerpting there, with a skill and rapid felicity not 
 to be rivalled) ; he did all kinds of excerpting aad abstracting etc. etc. as
 
 192 REMINISCENCES 
 
 volunteer amanuensis etc., through all this business ; 
 but I know- not that even he approved it all, or any 
 of it to tJic 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 Sterling ;^ a very quiet thing ; but consider- 
 ably disapproved of too, as I learned ; and utterly 
 revolting to the Religions people in particular (to my 
 surprise rather than otherwise): "Doesn't believe in 
 us^ then, either?" Not he, for certain ; caiit, if you 
 will know ! Others urged disdainfully, " What has 
 Sterling done that he should have a Life ?" " Ln- 
 diiced Carlyle somehoiv to write him one I" answered 
 she once (to the Ferguses, I think) in an arch airy 
 way, which I can well fancy; and which shut up the 
 question there. The book was afterwards greatly 
 praised, — again, on rather weak terms, I doubt. 
 What now will please me best in it, and alone ivill, 
 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 ! 
 
 if I myself had done it ; — and, in brief, was an alter ego in all the deeper 
 parts of that horrible immensity of drudgery, which I believe would 
 have been impossible to me without him. Got no shadow of reward, 
 nor sought any; stood all my spurts of ill-temper, etc., without once 
 wincing ; worked like a patient hero for me, as if he had been nothing, 
 I something, and as if it ennobled his poor existence so to do ! Perhaps 
 no man of my day had such a sei-vaut and subject (in the noblest sense 
 of these words), — acquired to me without the least effort too ; rather 
 permitted to give himself, than in any way asked for." — Carlyle's 
 loiu-nal, 3d April 1867. Carlyle had collected materials for a Memoir 
 of Neuberg ; but was unable to carry out his intention of writing it. 
 ^ Latter- Day Pamphlets, publislied 1850; Life of Sterling, 1851.
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 193 
 
 Lonelier creature there is not henceforth in this 
 world ; neither person, work, or thing going on in it 
 that is of any value, in comparison, 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 canst ; if not, follow ! There is no baseness, 
 and no misery Jiere. Courage, courage to the last !" 
 — that, sometimes, as in this moment, is inexpress- 
 ibly beautiful to me, and comes nearer to bringing 
 teai's than it once did. [Stop for to-day.] 
 
 [June 30.] 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 archi- 
 tect, 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 
 ivisdom altogether in fact; for that was it ! A human 
 intellect shining luminous in every direction, the 
 highest and the lowest (as I remarked above) ; in 
 childhood she used to be sent to seek when things 
 fell lost ; " the best seeker of us all," her Father 
 
 VOL. I. O
 
 194 REMINISCENCES 
 
 would say, or look (as she thought) : for me also she 
 sought everything, with such success as I never saw 
 elswhere. It was she who widened our poor draw- 
 ing-room (as if by a stroke of genius) and made it 
 (zealously, at the partial expense of three feet from 
 her ozvn bedroom) into what it now 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, 
 shrieking roosters (from a bad or misled neighbour, 
 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 
 continued to deliver me from hundreds of such things 
 (Oh my beautiful little A/cidcs, in these 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 Diust extinguish those Demon- 
 Fowls, or they will extinguish us ! Rent 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 Lcrna Hydra ; at far less ex- 
 pense than taking the house, nay almost at no
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 195 
 
 expense at all, except by her fine intellect, tact, just 
 discernment, swiftness of decision, and general noble- 
 ness 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 
 before, 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 up- 
 wards, under all scenes and circumstances, I knew 
 to be emphatically a Mother's. I walked from the 
 Kirtlebridge (" Galls ") 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 continual dis- 
 tresses ; once she entirely forgot me ; then, in a 
 minute or two, asked my pardon — ah me, ah me ! 
 It was my Mother, and not my Mother ; the last 
 pale rim or sickle of the moon, which had once been 
 full, now sinking in the dark seas. This lasted only 
 three days. Saturday night she had her full facul- 
 ties, but was in nearly unendurable misery ; not 
 breath sufficient etc., etc. : John tried various 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 
 equably but heavily, — her face grand and solemn, 
 almost severe, like a marble statue ; about four P.M. 
 the breathing suddenly halted ; recommenced for
 
 196 REMINISCENCES 
 
 half an instant, then fluttered, — ceased.^ " All the 
 days of my appointed time," she had often said, " will 
 I wait, //// viy change came." The most beautifully 
 religions soul I ever knew. Proud enough she was, 
 too, though piously humble'; and full of native in- 
 tellect, humour, etc., though all undeveloped. On 
 the religions 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 ex- 
 emplars 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 pathetic 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 nightmare ^\.vSi ?iDovA. sox^o. funeral 
 and her ; not hers, nor obviously my Jane's, seem- 
 ingly my Father's rather, and she sending me on it, — 
 the saddest bewildered stuff. What a dismal de- 
 basing and confusing element is that of a sick body 
 on the human soul or thinking 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 
 
 ^ Carlyle's Mother died at .Scotsbrig, Ecclefechan, 25th December 
 1853-
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 197 
 
 years afterwards ; this time it was to inquire (of 
 Preuss and Co.) ; to look about me, search for books, 
 portraits, etc. etc. I went from Scotsbrig (my dear 
 old Mother painfully weak, though I had no thought 
 it would be the last time I should see her afoot) ; — 
 from Scotsbrig by Leith for 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 \vas under carpenters, painters ; till 
 those disappeared, no work possible, scarcely any 
 livijig 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 downstairs : the painters had proved treach- 
 erous 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. 
 
 \_Sunday, ist July.'] " 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, gaily 
 sipping, getting its new bits of insight into natural 
 philosophy ! What " pictures " has my Beautiful 
 One left me ; — what joys can surround every well- 
 ordered human hearth. I said long since, I never 
 knew 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 ;
 
 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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 
 DarHng. I have no Book thousandth-part so beautiful 
 as Thou ; but these were our only " Children," — and, in 
 a true sense, these were verily OURS ; and will per- 
 haps 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 began 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 sublime garret-room, lighted 
 from above, thirty feet by thirty say, and at least 
 eleven feet high ; double-doored, double-windowed ; 
 impervious 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 
 
 ^ John R. Chorley, Author of Catdlogo de Comedias y Autos de Frey 
 Lope Felix de Vega Carpio (i860), "which in Spain itself, I under- 
 stand," writes Carlyle, "has been considered supreme in that kind. 
 For these thirty years past a warm and faithful friend of mine. ... A 
 man of clear sharp intellect, and fine practical faculties and habits ; of 
 extensive accurate scholarship, and ditto inquiry ; one of the best- 
 informed men to be met with, — decidedly the hesi-read man I knew in 
 London, or indeed elsewhere in these last years. He has left no ' fame ' or 
 general recognition in any kind, behind him, — while so many thousands 
 of far less worth are sounding on the ' popular gale ' (if that could at all 
 help them !) Poor Chorley read constantly for reading's sake, and had 
 not the least regard to ' sounding ' on anybody's tongue or mind. He
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 199 
 
 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 executing, in all 
 its details, was mere work of Belial, i.e. of the Father . 
 of LIES ; such " work " as I had not conceived 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, endeavoured to be silent as to my 
 own little failure. My new illustrious " Study " was 
 definable as the least inhabitable, and most entirely 
 detestable and despicable bit of human workman- 
 ship 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 
 
 knew Classic Languages like a Scholar, with great accuracy : modern 
 too and their Literatures, German, especially French, and Spanish most 
 of all, with an accuracy and completeness quite peculiar to him here. 
 . . . Ay de mi, no more will he rise up, pen joyfully flung down, 
 sharp wiry face relapsing into a sunny smile, and kind right-hand held 
 out, on my entrance at any time ! Friends are falling fast about me ; 
 sign after sign, ' Thy own turn must be soon ! ' — To-morrow is his 
 Funeral ; half-past eight a.m. ; at which, in spite of the bad hour, I of 
 course resolve to be." — Carlyle'sybwvw/, 3d July 1S67,
 
 REMINISCENCES 
 
 the now printed Friedrich was written there (or in 
 summer in the back court and garden, when driven 
 down by baking heat) ; much rawer matter, I think, 
 was tentatively on paper, before this subhme new 
 " Study." Friedrich once done, I quitted the place for 
 ever; 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 in a mere 
 "Mother of Dead Dogs" (ultimately did become 
 bankrupt) ; his men of all types, Irish hodmen and 
 upwards, for real mendacity of hand, for drunkenness, 
 greediness, mutinous nomadism, and anarchic mal- 
 feasance throughout, excelled all experience or con- 
 ception. Shut the lid on their " unexampled pros- 
 perity " and them, for evermore. 
 
 The sufferings of my poor little woman, through- 
 out all this, must have been great, though she 
 whispered nothing of them, — the rather, as this was 
 my enterprise (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 example, that went silently 
 to Bramah's smith people, and got me a fireplace, 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 at that time; 
 
 ^ Sooterkin : Hitdibras, part iii. canto ii. 
 
 - The following are the dates of publication of the Friedrich 
 Volumes: I. and II., 1858; III., 1862; IV., 1864; V. and VI., 1865.
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 201 
 
 my whole strength devoted to it ; alone, withdrawn 
 from all the world (except 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 
 through (not to speak of "succeeding"); left solitary 
 " with the nightmares " (as I sometimes expressed it), 
 "hugging unclean creatures "(Prussian Blockheadisms) 
 " to my bosom, trying to caress and flatter their secret 
 out of them ! " Why do I speak of all this ? It is 
 now become coprolitJi 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 ob- 
 livion for ever. But what I do still, and shall more 
 and more, remember with loving admiration is her 
 behaviour in it. She was habitually in the feeblest 
 health ; often, for long whiles, grievously ill. Yet by 
 an alchemy all her own, she had extracted grains as 
 of gold out of every day, and seldom or never failed 
 to have something bright and pleasant to tell me, 
 when I reached home after my evening ride, the 
 most foredone of men. In all, I rode, during that 
 book, some 30,000 miles, much of it (all the winter 
 part of it) under cloud of night, sun just setting 
 when I mounted. All the rest of the day, I sat 
 silent aloft ; insisting upon work, and siicJi work, in- 
 vitissimd 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, dietetic, altogether simple, 
 simple) bit of dinner ; but first akoays, came up for 
 half an hour to the drawing-room and Her ; where a 
 bright kindly fire was sure to be burning (candles
 
 REMINISCENCES 
 
 hardly lit, all in trustful chiaroscuro), and a spoonful 
 of brandy in water, with a pipe of tobacco (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 weeks! 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, 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 occa- 
 sions, 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 wriggling through what inextricable labyrinth and 
 Sloughs-of-despond, I still well 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 my poor bit of joy, night after night. I recol- 
 lect she answered little, though kindly always. Pri- 
 vately, she at that time felt convinced she was 
 dying : — dark winter, and such the weight of misery, 
 and utter decay of strength ; — and, night after night, 
 my theme to her, Molhvitz ! This she owned to me, 
 within the last year or two ; — which how could I 
 listen to without shame and abasement ? Never in
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 203 
 
 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 blessed- 
 ness too. — She read the first two volumes of Friedrieh, 
 much of it in printer's sheets (while on visit to the 
 aged Misses Donaldson at Haddington); 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, and unerringly 
 straight upon the blot, 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 beauti- 
 ful 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 past " (as poor Irving used to 
 give for toast, long ago), — worst of them past, though 
 we did not yet quite know it. 
 
 \_July 3.] Volumes One, Two of Friedrieh 
 were published, I find, in 1858. Probably about 
 two years before that was the nadir of my poor 
 Wife's sufferings ; — internal sufferings and dispirit- 
 ments ; for outward fortunes etc. had now, for about 
 ten years, been on a quite tolerable footing, and 
 indeed evidently fast on the improving hand : nor had 
 they, at any worst time, ever disheartened her, or 
 darkened her feelings. But in 1856, owing to many 
 circumstances, — my engrossment otherwise (sunk in
 
 204 REMINISCENCES 
 
 Fried^'icJi, in etc. etc. ; far less exclusively, very far 
 less, than she supposed, poor soul !) ; — and owing 
 eJiiefly, one may fancy, to the deeper downbreak of 
 her own poor health, which from this time, as I now 
 see better, continued its advance upon the citadel, or 
 nervous system, and intrinsically grew worse and 
 worse: — in 1856, 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 she would never show to me or to mortal 
 any word of them), at different times, various bits ot 
 diary ; and was even, at one time, upon a kind of auto- 
 biography (had not 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 anything so sore, downhearted, 
 harshly distressed and sad as this (right sure am I!) — 
 which alone remains as specimen ! The rest are all 
 burnt ; no trace of them, seek where I may. 
 
 [Here followed Mrs. Carlyle's private diary above 
 referred to ; at the end of which Carlyle has written : 
 " A very sad record ! We went to Scotland soon 
 after;" {i.e. after the date of the last entry in it, 5th 
 July 1856) "she to Auchtertool (cousin Walter's), I 
 to the Gill (sister Mary's)."] 
 
 In July 1856, as marked in her sad record, may 
 have been about middle of month, we went to Edin-
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 205 
 
 burgh ; 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 nc-plus-?iltra 
 of railway carriages (made for the Queen some time 
 before) costing no end of money; Lady sat, or lay, in 
 the " saloon ; " a common six-seat carriage, immedi- 
 ately 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 disappoint- 
 ments with an admirable equanimity and magna- 
 nimity : but it was physically almost the uncomfort- 
 ablest journey I ever made. At Peterborough, the 
 Nc-plus-iiltra was found to have its axletree on fire ; 
 at every station afterwards buckets were copiously 
 dashed and poured (the magnanimous Lady saying 
 never a syllable to it) ; and at Newcastle-on-Tyne, 
 they flung the humbug Ne-plus 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 and shoulders 
 stretched out backward, into the wind. This had 
 alarmed my poor Woman, 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 Ashburton'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 remem- 
 ber of the base and dirty hurlyburly. Lord Ashburton 
 had preceded by some days ; and was waiting for our
 
 2o6 REMINISCENCES 
 
 train, at Edinburgh, 9.30 P.M. — hurlyburly greater 
 and dirtier than ever. They went for Barry's Hotel 
 at once, servants and all, — no time to inform us 
 (officially), that zvc too were their guests. But that, 
 too, passed well. We ordered apartments, refresh- 
 ments of our own there (first of all baths, inside of 
 my shirt-collar was as black as ink !) — and before the 
 refreshments were ready, we had a gay and cordial 
 invitation etc. etc.; found the "Old Bear" (Ellice)^ in 
 their rooms, I remember, and Lord Ashburton 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 Ross-shire) ; 
 and my dear little Woman to her Cousins at Auchter- 
 tool ; 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 FriedricJi, and reading in Plato (Transla- 
 tion, 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 generally much riding on the (Priest- 
 side) Solway Sands, and plenty of sombre occupation 
 to my thoughts. 
 
 Late on in Autumn, I met my Jeannie at Kirk- 
 
 - Edward Ellice (M.P. for Coventiy) died in 1S63, aged 74: — 
 "called ''Bear Ellice' in society here ; but rather for his oiliness than 
 for any trace of ferocity ever seen in him." — Carlyle, in a^^Letter of 1852.
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 207 
 
 caldy again ; uncomfortably lodged, both of us, and 
 did not loiter (though the people very kind . . .); I was 
 bound for Ross-shire and the Ashburtons (miserable 
 journey thither, sombre, miserable stay there, wet 
 weather, 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 Donaldsons (eldest of these old ladies, now 
 well above eighty, and gone stone-blind, was her 
 " godmother," had been at Craigenputtock 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 length, each time, 
 Happy to her, and heart-interesting to a high degree, 
 though sorrowfully 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 herself 
 (generous soul !) as if she were not worth money 
 spent, — though money was in no scarcity with us 
 now ! I was printing Friedrich, volumes 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 nozv give me of 
 her endless bodily distresses and even torments, now 
 when I read them again, after nine years, and what 
 has befallen me eleven weeks ago ! 
 
 \_S2iiiday^ July 8, Began writing again at the
 
 2o8 REMINISCENCES 
 
 second line of this 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, — 
 1842-3 the earliest found (though surely there ought to 
 be others, of i 8 3 7 etc. ?), and some of almost every year 
 onward to the last. They are exceedingly difficult 
 to arrange ; not having in general any date ; so that 
 place often enough, and day and even year through- 
 out, 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 reading 
 as I perhaps never had in my life before. What a 
 piercing radiancy of meaning to me in those dear 
 records, hastily 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 ! Oh, I 
 was blind not to see how brittle was that 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 an hospital fever-ward, as she 
 painfully drags herself about ; and yet constantly 
 there is such an electric shower of all-illuminating 
 brilliancy, penetration, recognition, wise discernment, 
 just enthusiasm, humour, 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 
 Die ? Can nothing of it be saved, then, for the
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 209 
 
 worthy that still remain among these roaring myriads 
 of profane unworthy ? I really must consider it 
 further ; and already I feel it to have become uncer- 
 tain to me whether at least this poor Notebook 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 whatever we may call it, what 
 an evidence, if my little woman needed that to me ! 
 Not all the Samis and Eliots and babbling coJiue of 
 " celebrated scribbling women " that have strutted 
 over the world, in 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 in 
 this circle, but perfectly dark and void in all others : 
 " Cotcrie-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- 
 speech," shining innocently, with a perpetual express- 
 iveness and twinkle generally of quiz and real humour 
 about it, than in ours. She mainly was the creatress 
 of all this ; unmatchable for quickness (and trueness) 
 in regard to it ; — and in her letters it is continually 
 recurring ; shedding such a lambency of " own fire- 
 side " over everything, if you are in the secret. Ah 
 me, ah me ! — At least, I have tied up that bundle 
 VOL. I. P
 
 2IO REMINISCENCES 
 
 (the tiuo letters touching on FvicdricJi have a paper 
 round them ; the first written in Edinburgh, it appears 
 Jlozu /) [Enter Froude ; ahnost the only man I care 
 to speak with, in these weeks. Out with him to 
 Battersea Park ; day gray, temperate and windy.] 
 
 [July 9. Day again all spent in searching and 
 sorting : a box of hers, full of strange and sad me- 
 morials of her Mother, with a few of Father and 
 infant Self (put up in 1842) — full of poignant mean- 
 ings 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. . . . ] 
 
 [fitly 13. . . . On the whole two days of absence 
 from my little " Shrine of pious Memory " here, where 
 alone it is best for me to be, at present ! — I will 
 wa'ite down my reminiscence of the " Accident in 
 Cheapside" (1863) ; the opening of what has proved 
 to be the last act of all. Hand sadly shaky, weather 
 extremely hot.] 
 
 It must have been near the end of October 1863, 
 when I returned home from my ride, weather soft 
 and muddy, humour dreary and oppressed 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 Edin- 
 burgh, where he had wedded this cousin, and died
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 211 
 
 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 
 (Binnie had been her Scotch name ; she is now Mrs. 
 Something-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 here (as often as, 
 for my convenience, seemed to the loyal heart permis- 
 sible) ; and was herself, on calls and little tea-visits, 
 perhaps still oftener there. A perfectly harmless Scotch 
 cousin, polite and prudent ; almost prettyish . . . ; 
 with good wise instincts ; but no developed intelli- 
 gence in the articulate kind. Her mother, I think, 
 was my mother-in-law's cousin or connection ; and 
 the young widow and her London friend were always 
 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 the matter ! 
 
 We had been at The Grange for perhaps four or 
 five weeks that autumn ; utterly quiet, nobody there 
 besides ourselves ; Lord Ashburton being in the 
 weakest state, health and life visibly decaying ; — I 
 was permitted to keep perdu till three o'clock daily ; 
 and sat writing about Poland I remember. Mourn- 
 ful, 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 Jiair her-
 
 REMINISCENCES 
 
 self," 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 mornings with my in- 
 quiries ; " No sleep," too often the response ; and 
 this lameness, though little was said of it, a most 
 discouraging thing. Oh, what discouragements, con- 
 tinual distresses, pains and miseries my poor little 
 Darling had to bear, remedy for them nowhere, 
 speech about them useless, best to be avoided, — as, 
 except on pressure from myself, it always 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 realise, 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 rheu- 
 matism," 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 lame- 
 ness not ; — and I remember 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 worsen- 
 ing after we returned. Alas, I suppose it was the 
 Siege of the Citadel that was now going on ; disease 
 and pain had for thirty or more years been trampling 
 down the ontivorks ; were now got to the nerves, to 
 the citadel, and were bent on storming that. 
 
 [ I A^tJi July, twelfth Saturday sineel] I was dis-
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 213 
 
 appointed, but not sorry at the miss of my " twenty 
 minutes ; " that my httle Woman, in her weak 
 languid state, had gone out for exercise, was glad 
 news ; and I considered that the " twenty minutes " 
 was only postponed, not lost, but u^ould 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 sleeping, quietly waiting, perhaps 
 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 
 induced, persuaded and commanded, to take two 
 drives weekly in a hired brougham (" more difficulty 
 in persuading yo2t to go into expense, than other men 
 have to persuade their wives to keep out of it ! ") : 
 on these terms she had agreed to the two drives 
 weekly, and found a great benefit in them ; — but, on 
 no terms, could I get her 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 absolute want of time on my part. She could 
 have done it, too, employed 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 delicacy 
 which would have perpetually prevented Jicr ; — and 
 my " time," literally, was rjcro ; I believe, for the last 
 seven years of that nightmare Friedrich, I did not 
 write the smallest message to friends, or undertake 
 the least business, except upon plain conipnhion of 
 necessity. How lucky that, next autumn, I did
 
 2 1 4 REMINISCENCES 
 
 actually, in spite of Friedrich, undertake this of the 
 brougham : it is a mercy of Heaven to me for the 
 rest of my life ! And oh why was it not undertaken, 
 in spite of all Friedrichs and nightmares, years 
 before ! That had been still luckier ; perhaps end- 
 lessly so ? But this 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. 
 Godby sent one of her maids as escort ; at the corner 
 of Cheapside, the omnibus was waited for (some exca- 
 vations 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 exca- 
 vation, seemed as if it would drive over her, such 
 her frailty, and want of speed. She desperately 
 determined to get on the flag pavement again ; 
 desperately leaped, and did get upon the curbstone ; 
 but found she was falling over upon the flags, and 
 that she would alight on her right or neuralgic 
 arm, which would be ruin ; spasmodically struggled 
 against this for an instant or two (maid nor nobody 
 assisting), and ]iad to fall on the neuralgic arm, — 
 ruined otherwise far worse. For, as afterwards ap- 
 peared, the muscles of the thigh-bone or sinews 
 attaching them had been torn in that spasmodic 
 instant or two ; and, for three days coming, the tor- 
 ment 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
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 215 
 
 that condition, my poor Darling-, " put into a cab " 
 by the humane people, as her one request to them, 
 arrived 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 : thereupon my 
 rushing down ; finding her in the hands of Larkin 
 and them ; in the greatest agony of pain and help- 
 lessness 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 stand- 
 ing helpless ; he and I carried her upstairs 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 fearing 
 of sinezvs being still a secret to him. 
 
 For fifty hours the pain was excruciating ; after 
 that it rapidly abated ; and soon altogether ceased, ex- 
 cept 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-machincrics, leverages; and could 
 not only pull her bell, but lift and shift herself
 
 2i6 REMINISCENCES 
 
 about, by means of her arms, into any coveted pos- 
 ture ; and was, as it were, mistress of the mischance. 
 She had her poor Httlc room arranged, under her 
 eye, to a perfection of beauty and convenience ; 
 nothing that was possible to her had been omitted 
 (I remember one Httlc thing the apothecary had 
 furnished ; an artificial cJiainpagnc-cork ; 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 many 
 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 Jiope ; — the bright side of the cloud always 
 assiduously turned out for i}ie, in my dreary labours ! 
 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 inextinguish- 
 able loyalty and hope that dwelt in her. But I 
 merely thought, "How lucky beyond all my calcula- 
 tions ! " 
 
 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 childlike 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
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 217 
 
 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- 
 tempered 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, candidly, 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 and idle dissonances of the moment ; and all 
 be at last so mournfully clear and beautiful, when 
 it is too late ! 
 
 We thought all was now come or fast coming 
 right again ; and that, in spite of that fearful mis- 
 chance, w^e should have a good winter, and get our 
 dismal " misery of a book " done, or almost done. 
 My own hope and prayer was and had long been 
 continually that ; Jiers too, I could not doubt, though 
 hint never came from Jier 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 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 prac- 
 tical conclusion 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 the
 
 2i8 REMINISCENCES 
 
 dismal task with all my time and all my means ; 
 day and night, wrestling with it, as with the ugliest 
 dragon, which 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 rt'^merit. Well, well ; I could do no better. 
 Sitting smoking upstairs, on nights when sleep was 
 impossible, I had thoughts enough ; not permitted to 
 rustle amid my rugs and wrappages lest I awoke hcr^ 
 and startled all cJimicc 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, but for some other 
 reason ! — 
 
 My poor Woman was what we called " getting 
 well " for several weeks still ; she could walk very 
 little, indeed she never more walked much in this 
 world : — but it seems she was out driving, and again 
 out, hopefully for some time (I cannot now remember 
 at all how long) ; considered to be steadily mending 
 of her accident. [Interruption from Ruskin, July 
 1 6, must stop again for this day.] 
 
 Towards the end of November (perhaps it was 
 in December), she caught some whiff 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 " neu- 
 ralgia," under which, it seemed as if no force of 
 human vitality would be able long to stand. 
 " Disease of the nerves " (poisoning of the very 
 cJiannels of sensation) : such was the name the
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 219 
 
 doctors gave it ; and for the rest, could do nothing 
 further with it ; well had they only attempted 
 nothing ! I used to compute that they, poor souls, 
 had at least reinforced the disease to tioiee its natural 
 amount ; such the pernicious effect of all their 
 " remedies " and appliances, opiates, etc. etc. ; which 
 every new one of them (and there came many) 
 applied anew, — and always with the like inverse 
 result. Oh, what a sea of agony my Darling was 
 immersed in ; and had to plunge and toss and 
 desperately struggle in, month after month ! Sleep 
 had fled. A hideous pain of which she used to 
 say that " common honest pain, were it cutting of 
 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 
 mad-house, however this go. Do you promise me, 
 now ?" I solemnly 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 
 \h& poor sort she had chosen, old indigent Haddington 
 figures), — what employment in the solitary night 
 watches, on her bed of pain : ah me, ah me ! 
 
 The house, by day especially, was full of con- 
 fusion : Maggie Welsh had come at my solicitation ;
 
 220 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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 endeavouring to be sunk, in %vork ; 
 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 
 " working ;" 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 con- 
 viction, 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 
 heVy 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, knoivs anything 
 about it. There is still what appetite there was ; 
 that I can myself understand :" — and generally, 
 before the day was done, I had decided to Jiope 
 again, to keep hoping and working. The after-cdLSt 
 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 trying 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 !
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 
 
 One scene with a Catholic sick-nurse I also re- 
 member well. A year or two before this time, she 
 had gone with some acquaintance who was in quest 
 of sick-nurses to an establishment under Catholic 
 auspices, in Brompton somewhere (the acquaintance, 
 a Protestant herself, expressing her " certain know- 
 ledge " 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 favourable impression, 
 that I recollect my little Woman saying, " If I need 
 a sick-nurse, that is the place I will apply at." Ap- 
 pliance now was made ; a nun duly sent, in con- 
 sequence: — this was in the early weeks of the illness; 
 household sick -nursing (Maggie's and that of the 
 maids alternately) having sufficed till now. The 
 nurse was a good-natured 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 after- 
 wards it was the common usage, there appeared a 
 new Nun ; new and very different, — an elderly 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 ?///r«-secular. An unfavourable change; — though 
 the poor lady seemed intelligent, well-intentioned ; 
 and her heart-broken aspect inspired pity and 
 good-wishes, if no attraction. She commenced by 
 rather ostentatious performance of her nocturnal 
 Prayers, '' Beata Maria','' or I know not what other
 
 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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 was 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 moment of them, 
 with its misery, the Nun had gradually come forward 
 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 been : " Hold your 
 tongue, I tell you ; or I will ring the bell !" Upon 
 which the Nun had rushed forward with her dread-
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 223 
 
 fullest supernal admonitions, " /wpenitent 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 polite 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 French- 
 woman, — though we could perceive she was under 
 the foul tutelage and guidance, probably, of some 
 dirty muddy-minded serm-felojiious Proselytising Irish 
 Priest : — but there was no help for her, in this 
 instance ; probably, in all England, she could not 
 have found an agonised human soul more nobly and 
 hopelessly superior to her and her poisoned-ginger- 
 bread " consolations." — This incident threw suddenly 
 a glare of strange and far from pleasant light over 
 the sublime Popish "Sisters of Charity" move- 
 ment ; — 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, express, one time; — speak- 
 ing hope, always, both of these, and most industrious 
 to help ; — with many more, whom I did not even see. 
 When any new miraculous kind of Doctor was re- 
 commended 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)
 
 224 REMINISCENCES 
 
 a trial of " Animal Magnetism ; " two magnetisers, 
 first a man, then a quack woman (evidently a conscious 
 quack I perceived her to be), — who at least did no 
 ill, except entirely disappoint (if that were much an 
 exception). By everybody it had been agreed that 
 a " change of scene " (as usual, when all else has 
 failed) was the thing to be looked to : " St. Leonard's 
 so soon as the weather will permit ! " said Dr. Ouain 
 and everybody, — especially Dr. Blakiston, who gener- 
 ously offered his house withal, " Infinitely more room 
 than we need ! " said the sanguine Blakiston 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 mis- 
 take. . . . Money for the use of two rooms in his 
 house, we might have anticipated, but did not 
 altogether, he would regard with sovereign supe- 
 riority. 
 
 It was early in March, perhaps 2d March 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 
 zvJiich, they contrived to hide from me here) so 
 miserable ; for she at least was now suffering 
 nothing, but safe in victorious rest for evermore — 
 though then beyond expression suffering. There 
 was a railway " invalid carriage," 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
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 225 
 
 recollect her look as they bore her downstairs : full 
 of nameless sorrow, yet of clearness, practical manage- 
 ment, steady resolution ; in a low small voice she 
 gave her direction, once or twice, as the process went 
 on, and practically it was under her wise manage- 
 ment. The " invalid carriage " was hideous to look 
 upon ; black, low, base-looking, — and you entered it 
 by window, as if it zvere a hearse : I knew well what 
 she was thinking ; but her eye never quailed, she 
 gave her directions as heretofore ; and, in a minute 
 or two, we were all away. Twice or oftener 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 
 catch-penny humbug ; and she freely admitted after- 
 wards that she would never enter it again, and that 
 in a " coupe 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 
 all of us {She silent as a child) ; the arrival, the dis- 
 mounting, 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-provided (thanks to the skilful Mrs. Blakiston) ; 
 excellent drawing-room, and sitting-room, with bed 
 for Jier ; bedroom upstairs 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 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 REMINISCENCES 
 
 of deep misery frozen torpid ; singularly dark and 
 stony, — strange to me now ; due in part to the 
 FriedricJi incubus then. I had to be home again 
 that night, by the last train ; — miscalculated the dis- 
 tance, found no vehicle ; and never in my life saved 
 a train by so infinitesimally small a miss. I had 
 taken mournfully tender leave of my poor much- 
 suffering Heroine (speaking hope to her, when I could 
 more readily have " lifted up my voice and wept "). 
 I was to return in so many days, if nothing 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. Wac's me, 
 wae's me ! [ Wae is the Scotch adjective, too : " wae, 
 wae" — there is no word in English that will express 
 what is my habitual mood in these months.] 
 
 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 being taken by Forster, 
 who was going on a kind of birthday Holiday with 
 his Wife. Blakiston spoke always in a swaggering 
 tone of hope, and there really was some improve- 
 ment ; 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 further ; I shall be able 
 to shift down to you in May !" My little Darling 
 looked sweet gratitude upon me (so thankful always 
 for "the day of small things!") — but heaviness,
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 227 
 
 sorrow, and loant of hope was written on her face ; 
 the sight filling me with sadness, though I always 
 strove to be of Blakiston's opinion. One of my 
 volumes (fourth, I conclude) was coming out at that 
 time ; — during the Forster visit, I remember there 
 was some revieiv of this volume, seemingly of a 
 shallow impudent description, concerning which I 
 privately applauded Forster's silent demeanour, and 
 not Blakiston's vocal, one evening at Forster's inn. 
 The dates, or even the number, of these sad pre- 
 liminary 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, though 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 some- 
 thing 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 April, some 
 weeks before my arrival in May. Brother John, 
 before this, had come to visit me here ; ran down to 
 St. Leonard's one day, and, I could perceive, was 
 silently intending to pass the summer with 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 suffice !) — and occasion- 
 ally 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 L'ishman, named Fitz-something) ;
 
 228 REMINISCENCES 
 
 looked out on the old JVilhelnius Conquestor localities ; 
 on Lewes, for one thing (de " Le Oiise," — Ouse the 
 dirty river there is still named) ; on Pevensey, Bex- 
 hill etc., with no unmixed feeling, yet not with 
 absolute misery, 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 
 already 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 return thither, — 
 Mary Craik succeeding, who was very gentle, quiet, 
 prudent, and did well in her post. . . . Miss Jews- 
 bury had offered " for aj fortnight," — " say No, 
 and write to Mary Craik," was my poor Jane's direc- 
 tion to me (more practical sense in her sick head, 
 than in all the sound ones together ! — So it was with 
 her throiigJiouf) . . . 
 
 I had settled all my Book affairs the best I could : 
 I got at once installed into a 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 thei^e bidden zvoi-k. But I really did 
 it withal, to a respectable degree. Printer never paus- 
 ing for me, work daily going on ; and this doubtless
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 229 
 
 was my real anchorage in that sea of trouble, sadness 
 and confusion, 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 
 (" daily, one of your drives, is with mel^ — and I saw 
 her gratitude, poor soul, looking out through her 
 despair ; and sometimes she would tiy 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 venture into the haggard, 
 parched lanes, and their vile whirlwinds : Oh my 
 Darling, I would have cut the Universe in two for 
 thee, — and tJiis 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, — two hours and a 
 half daily my lowest stint ; bathed also, and re- 
 member the bright morning air, bright Beachy Head 
 and everlasting Sea, as things of blessing to me ; the 
 old lanes of Sussex too, old cottages, peasants, old 
 vanishing ways of life, were abundantly touching : 
 but the 71C1V part, and it was all getting " new," was 
 uniformly detestable and even horrible to me. 
 Nothing but dust, noise, squalor, and the universal 
 tearing and digging as if of gigantic human sivine, 
 not finding any worms 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,
 
 230 REMINISCENCES 
 
 not for men. The " moneys " to be realised, the etc. 
 etc. : does or can God's blessing rest on all that ? 
 My dialogues with the dusty sceneries there (Fair- 
 light, 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 it to be a good post of 
 fence for King Harold, and wondered if the Bastard 
 did " land at Pevensey," or not near Hastings some- 
 where (Bexhill or so ?) and what the marchings and 
 preliminaries had really been. (Faithful study, con- 
 tinued for long years or decades, upon the old 
 Norman romances etc., and upon the ground, would 
 still tell some fit person, I believe.) But there 
 shrieks 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 " dialogues " with 
 Nature and Art we could each get up for himself I 
 usually got home towards nine P.M. (half-past eight 
 the rigorous rule) ; and in a gray dusty evening, 
 from some windy hill-top, or in the intricate old 
 narrow lanes of a thousand years ago, one's reflec- 
 tions 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 
 
 ^ Carlyle's horse (named after Newman Noggs, in iVicholas Nickleby).
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 231 
 
 weary as she was ; but always very soon withdrew 
 after that ; quite worn down, and longing for solitary 
 siloice, 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 was it borne, and conquered in a sort) ; 
 and I would not have it altered now, after what has 
 come, if I even could. 
 
 {Siuiday, 2 2 d July ^ 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 owners just gone from it) ; and for the rest, 
 decidedly the %vorst-\i\x\\t 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 zV, — except our farewell 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 ; second 
 floor, fronting the s£a ; darkened and ventilated, 
 made the tidiest we could ; Miss Craik slept close 
 by. I remember our settlings for the night ; my last 
 journey up, to sit a few minutes, and see that the 
 adjustments zvere complete, — a " Nun's lamp " was 
 left glimmering within reach ; my poor little woman 
 strove to look as contented as she could, and to ex- 
 change a few friendly words with me as our last for 
 the ''night. Then in the morning, there sometimes 
 liad been an hour or two of sleep ; what news for us
 
 232 REMINISCENCES 
 
 all ! And even brother John, for a while, was ad- 
 mitted 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 steadily glimmering hope ! 
 Dante's Purgatory ; not his Hell, for there was a 
 sacred blessedness in it withal ; not wholly the 
 society of devils, but among their hootings and tor- 
 mentings something still pointing afar off towards 
 Heaven withal. Thank God ! 
 
 At the beginning of June, she still had the feeling 
 we were better here than elsewhere ; by her direction, 
 I warned the people we would not quit at " the end 
 of June," as had been bargained, but " of July," as 
 was also within our option, on due notice given. 
 End of Jnne 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 wind, kept her entirely awake : I ex- 
 changed bedrooms 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 rearward, as I till then had done. Rearward we 
 looked over a Mews (from this room) ; from her now 
 room, into the paltry little "garden;" overhead of
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 233 
 
 both were clay cliffs, multifarious dog and cock 
 establishments (unquenchable by bribes paid), now 
 and then stray troops of asses, etc. etc. : what a 
 lodging for my poor sufferer ! Sleep became worse 
 and worse ; we spoke of shifting to Bexhill ; " fine 
 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 Jiome bedroom 
 and drawing-room, where she had endured such tor- 
 ments latterly. "We will new-/«/c7' them, rearrange 
 them," said Miss Bromley ; and this was actually 
 done in August following (not by Miss Bromley). 
 That '^ x\Q\\ -papering'^ was somehow to me the sad- 
 dest of speculations : " Alas, Darling, is that all we 
 can do for thee?" The weak zueakest 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. 
 
 June 29, after nine nights totally without sleep, 
 she announced to us, with a fixity and with a clear- 
 ness 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
 
 234 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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 ice- 
 bergs); and painfully somehow sinking into icy or 
 stony rest, worthy of oblivion. 
 
 At Forster's there could hardly be a more dubi- 
 ous 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 further resolu- 
 tion 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 
 end: tJicj-e; — and Nithsdale too is that way !" John 
 failed not, I dare say, in representations, counter- 
 considerations ; but she was coldly positive ; — and 
 go they did, express of about 330 miles. Poor 
 Mary was loyal kindness itself; poor means made 
 noble 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 my Darling's 
 own hand, narrating the heads of the adventure, 
 briefly, with a kind of defiant satisfaction, and in- 
 forming me that she Jiad slept, that first Gill night, 
 for almost nine hours ! Whose joy like ours, durst 
 we have hoped it would last, or even though we 
 durst 7iot ! She staid 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
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 235 
 
 went on to Nithsdalc, to Dr. and Mrs. Russell, and 
 there slowly improving continued. Improvement 
 pretty constant ; fresh air, driving, silence, kindness ; 
 by the time Mary Craik had got me flitted home to 
 Chelsea, and 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 alle- 
 viation of spirits as had long been a stranger to 
 me. In August (rooms all " now-papered',' poor little 
 Jeannie) she came back to mc ; actually there in the 
 cab (John settling) when I ran downstairs ; 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 Fifth, though there lay Death in it, was nothing 
 like so unhappy. 
 
 \_July 23.] 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 was 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, and 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 constantly hoped this 
 too was slowly recovering ; and that there would 
 remain to us a " sweet farewell " of sunshine after 
 such a day of rains and storms, that would still last 
 a blessed while, all iny time at least, before the
 
 236 REMINISCENCES 
 
 end came. And, alas, it lasted only about twenty- 
 months ; and ended as I have seen. It is beautiful 
 still, all that period, the death very beautiful to me, 
 and will continue so : let me not repine, but patiently 
 bear what I have got ! — While the autumn weather 
 continued good, she kept improving ; I remember 
 mornings when I found her quite wonderfully cheer- 
 ful, 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 remaining 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 regard for her, — ah me, she never knew fully, 
 nor could I show her in my heavy-laden miserable 
 life, how niHch I had, at all times, regarded, 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. 
 
 FriedricJi ended in January 1865, as above 
 written ; and we went to Devonshire together ; still 
 prospering and happy, she chiefly, though she was so 
 weak. And her talk with me, and with others there; 
 nobody had such a charming tongue, for truth, dis- 
 cernment, graceful humour and ingenuity ; ever 
 patient too, and smiling over her many pains and
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE lyj 
 
 sorrows. In May, while I had gone to Scotland, 
 she took to refitting my room here (in the ground 
 floor, and shifting me down from the garret) ; which 
 she has done, how admirably, and with what labour, 
 the noble loving unwearied little soul ! Bad days, 
 especially bad nights overtook her ; and she fled, 
 out of the paint etc. (I could guess, though all 
 remonstrances of mine were useless, about paint 
 or whatever difficulty) ; and for a month I had her 
 within reach of me, she in Nithsdale, I at The Gill 
 in Annandale (my Sister Mary's poor little rustic 
 farm-place) ; within an hour or so of her, by train ; 
 and we met (in spite of some disappointments) about 
 weekly ; I some three visits which I recollect ; met 
 twice at Dumfries at least, — and the last time I rode 
 with her in the railway carriage to Annan ; express 
 for London she, with a new Maid she had acquired ; 
 I not to follow till the " room " were ready. She 
 was the charm of everybody, my poor weak Darling ; 
 especially good to me unworthy. Oh my own, my 
 own, now lost for ever ! The stir and eager curiosities 
 of the poor ignorant people about " T. Carlyle," in 
 our old native land, I could see, were interesting 
 and amusing to her, though she knew their folly 
 and inanity as well as I. Thanks to fate for that 
 too. There has been a great deal more of that 
 since, and far too much of it on any ground it had ; 
 but except as pleasure to her, which it really was, as 
 nothing else could have been (my own little Jeannic, 
 loyal to me when there was none else loyal), it had 
 as good as no value to me; — and has now absolutely 
 none, or almost the reverse of one. 
 
 She was surely very feeble in the Devonshire
 
 238 REMINISCENCES 
 
 time (March, etc., 1865) ; but I remember her as 
 wonderfully happy ; she had long dialogues with Lady 
 Ashburton ; used to talk so prettily with me, when I 
 called, in passing up to bed and down from it ; she 
 made no complaint ; when driving daily through the 
 lanes — sometimes regretted her own poor Brougham 
 and " Bellona " (as " still more one's own "), and con- 
 trasted her situation as to carriage convenience, with 
 that of far richer ladies. "They have ;^3 0,000 a 
 year ; cannot command a decent or comfortable 
 vehicle here {tJieir vehicles all locked up, 400 miles 
 off, in these wanderings) ; while we — /" The Lady 
 Ashburton was kindness itself to her ; and we all 
 came up to Town together, 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 dreadful unexpected stroke might perhaps be 
 providential withal upon me ; and that there lay 
 some other little zvoi'k to do, under changed conditions, 
 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 ; our 
 three or four half or quarter days together, how 
 unique in their sad charm as I now recal them from 
 beyond the grave ! That day at Russell's, in the 
 garden etc. at Holmhill ; so poorly she, forlorn of 
 outlook (one would have said ; one outlook ahead, 
 that of getting Die tins roojn trimmed up, — the dar- 
 ling ever-loving soul !) — and yet so lively, sprightly 
 even, for my poor sake ; " Sir William Gomm " (old 
 Peninsular and Indian General, who had been read- 
 ing Friedrich when she left), what a sparkle that
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 239 
 
 was, her little slap on the table, and arch look, when 
 telling us of him and it 1 And her own rigJit 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 foolish ^c?;//&-adventure with 
 the draft I had left her ; " retrench ! " oh dear, oh 
 dear !) — Among 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 Jiang 
 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 sht&v phanlasnis, and ioi^Wy 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 witch- 
 craft, or the ravings of John of Munster ; consider- 
 ably 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 Nithbank ! " — the " dinner " ahead there 
 (to my horror), her cautious 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,^ — wearisome old women, 
 
 ' " A Tailor at Thornhill " (Shankland) "who had vehemently laid
 
 240 REMINISCENCES 
 
 whom she had such an interest in, almost wholly for 
 my sake) ; then our long drive through the Drum- 
 lanrig woods, with 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 plea- 
 sant 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 position in 
 these things ; that of a person recogtiised for quietly 
 superior if she cared to be so ; and also of a suffer- 
 ing aged woman, accepting her age, and feebleness, 
 with such a grace, polite composure and simplicity 
 as — as all of you might imitate, impartial bystanders 
 would have said ! The Minister's Assistant, poor 
 young fellow, was gently ordered out by her, to sing 
 ine^ " Hame cam our gudeman at e'en," — which made 
 him completely happy, and set the dull drawing- 
 room all into illumination till tea entered. He, the 
 assistant, took me to the station (too late for //er 
 that evening). 
 
 The third day was at Dumfries ; Sister Jean's and 
 the Railway Station : more hampered and obstructed, 
 but still good, — beautiful as ever on her part. 
 
 to heart the Chat'acteristics was also a glad phenomenon to me. Let a 
 million voices cry out, How clever ! it is still nothing : let one voice 
 ciy out, How true ! it lends us quite a new force and encouragement." 
 — Q,z.x\y\€'s> Journal, 6lh June 1832.
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 241 
 
 Dumb Turner, at the Station, etc. ; evening 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 carriages off) ; I little thought it was to be the 
 last bit of railwaying we did together. These, I 
 believe, were all our meetings in the Scotland 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, and sadly send John in her 
 stead. Brother Jamie, whose rustic equipoise, 
 fidelity and sharp vernacular sense, she specially 
 loved, was not to behold her at this time or ever- 
 more. 
 
 [25//^ July. . . . Have to go into my writing- 
 case, and sort and reposit her last Letters, and the 
 rings and a buckle ; — could not yesterday.] 
 
 She 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 vie. She stood 
 there, bright of face and of soul, her drawing- 
 room all bright ; and everything to the last film 
 of it in order ; had arrived only two or three 
 hours before ; and here again %ve were. Such wel- 
 come, 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 
 
 ' Visit to Miss Davenport Bromley at Folkestone. 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 REMINISCENCES 
 
 victorious over all disorder, always shone on me like 
 
 a star as I journeyed and jumbled along amid the 
 
 shriekeries and miseries. Such welcomes could not 
 
 await me for ever ; I little knew this was the last of 
 
 them on Earth. My next, — for a thousand 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, that ; 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 and sorrows had only " worn " the 
 
 noble texture of her being into greater fineness, the 
 
 colour and tissue still all complete ! — That 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 
 
 how consummately it had been done to the bottom, 
 
 in spite of her weakness (the noble heart !) ; and 
 
 I think (remorsefully) I 7iever praised her enough 
 
 for her efforts and successes in regard to it. Too 
 
 late now ! 
 
 My return was about the middle of September ; 
 she never travelled more, except daily up and down 
 among her widish circle of friends, of whom she 
 seemed to grow fonder and fonder, though gener- 
 ally their qualities were of the affectionate and faith- 
 fully honest kind, and not of the distinguished, as a 
 requisite. She was always very cheerful, and had 
 businesses enough, — though I recollect some morn- 
 ings, one in particular, when the sight of her dear
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 243 
 
 face (haggard from the miseries of the past night) 
 was a kind of shock to me. Thoughtless mortal : 
 — she rallied always 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 
 Jicr. Our old laundress, Mrs. Cook, a very merito- 
 rious 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 Workhouses indicated ; discovery of her at 
 length, in the cJiaos of some Kensington Union (a 
 truly cosmic body, herself, this poor old Cook) ; 
 with instantaneous stir in all directions (consulting 
 with Rector Blunt, interviews with Poor-Law Guard- 
 ians etc., etc.), — and no rest till the poor old Mrs. 
 Cook was got promoted into some quiet cosmic 
 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 //// my business and the final 
 one. Of our Rectorship, and what came of it, there 
 is already some record given {Own Notebook, marked 
 "Notebook III.," last pages there).^ 
 
 We were peaceable and happy (comparatively) 
 through autumn and winter — especially she was ; 
 wonderfully bearing her sleepless nights and thousand- 
 
 ^ What follows, on to p. 255 (see footnote there), is taken from the 
 Notebook here referred to, and runs consecutively.
 
 244 REMINTSCENCES 
 
 fold infirmities, and gently picking out of them (my 
 beautiful little heroine !) 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 ; — Dowager Lady William Russell is 
 the only one I will name, who loved her like a 
 daughter, and was charmed with her talents and 
 graces ; often astonishing certain quality s7iobs by 
 the way she treated her, the ////titled queen. " Mr. 
 Carlyle a great man, yes ; but Mrs. Carlyle, let 
 me inform you, is no less great as a woman." 
 Which used to amuse my little Darling ; — not that 
 she needed protection in such circles ; from the first, 
 her self-possession there, as everywhere, was com- 
 plete ; though her modesty and graceful bashfulness 
 were also great. For timid modesty, with perfect 
 simplicity, composure, veracity and grace of demean- 
 our, in entering such scenes, I have never seen her 
 equal. One or two such entrances of hers I remem- 
 ber yet (with my very heart), as surpassingly beauti- 
 ful ! 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 Edin- 
 burgh Rectorship (to which she gently advised me) ; 
 beginning of November I was elected ; and an inane 
 though rather amusing hurlyburly of empty congratu- 
 lations, imaginary businesses, etc. etc., began, — the 
 end of which has been so fatally tragical ! Many 
 were our plans and speculations about her going 
 with me ; to lodge at Newbattle, at etc. ; the
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 245 
 
 heaps of frivolous letters lying every morning at 
 breakfast, and which did not entirely cease all 
 winter, were a kind of entertainment to her ; and 
 then, onwards into March, when the Address and 
 Journey had to be thought of as practical and close 
 at hand. She decided, ///Avillingly, and with vari- 
 ous 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 Edin- 
 burgh, she said one day, " You are to speak extem- 
 pore " (this she more than once clearly advised, and 
 with sound insight) ; " now if anything should happen 
 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 lovingly 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 miserable (angry with myself for getting into 
 such a coil of vanity, sadly ill in health), and her 
 noble example did not teach me as it should. Sorrow 
 to me now, when too late ! . 
 
 Thursday — [But I will give over ; no end to 
 paltry interruptions ; and poor trivialities bursting
 
 246 REMINISCENCES 
 
 in upon my most sacred thoughts {Monday, yth May, 
 2\ P.M.)] — Thursday 29th March, about nine A.M., 
 all was ready here (she softly regulating and for- 
 warding, as her wont was) ; and Professor Tyndall, 
 full of good spirits, appeared with a cab for King's 
 Cross Station, — Fryston Hall to be our lodging till 
 Saturday and Edinburgh. 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 on forgetting nothing that could 
 further me. A little flask, holding perhaps two 
 glasses, of fine brandy, she brought me as a thought 
 of her own : — I did keep a little drop of that brandy 
 {Jiers, 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 
 hurried Notes. The last I saw of her was as she 
 stood with her back to the Parlour-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. ; I had two 
 nights, the first and the last, that were totally hid- 
 eous ; — and the terror lay in them that speaking would 
 be impossible ; that I should utterly break down, — 
 to which, indeed, I had in my mind said, " Well then,"
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 247 
 
 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 re- 
 duced them to their ininiviiun. Lord Houghton's 
 and Lady's, kindness to me was unbounded ; sJie 
 also was to have been there, but I was thankful not. — 
 Saturday (to York etc. with Houghton ; thence, after 
 long wet 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 at Edinburgh, the forlornest of all 
 physical wretches ; and had it not been for the kind- 
 ness of the good Erskines and of their people too, I 
 should have had no sleep there either, and have gone 
 probably from bad to worse. But Tyndall's letter 
 of Sunday would be comforting ; and my poor little 
 Darling would still be in hope, that Monday morning; 
 though of course in the painfullest anxiety (Tyndall's 
 telegram to come to her in the afternoon), — 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, crowd- 
 ing, noisy inanity and misery, — till once I got done. 
 My Speech was delivered as if in a mood of defiant 
 despair, and under the pressure of nightmares. Some 
 feeling 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
 
 248 REMINISCENCES 
 
 to my Brother's Lodging (73 George Street, near 
 by) ; to the Students all crowding and shouting round 
 me, I waved my hand prohibitively at the door, per- 
 haps lifted my hat ; and they gave but one cheer 
 more, — something in the tone of //, which did for 
 the first time go into my heart : " Poor young men ; 
 so well affected to the poor old brother or grand- 
 father here ; 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 dinner. 
 Followed by others such ; unwholesome to me, not 
 joyful to me ; and endured as duties, little more. — 
 But that same afternoon, Tyndall'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 naugJit 
 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 become only a pain. But I do thank 
 Heaven for this last favour 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 seemed to have 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
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 249 
 
 been told you already !) She went out for a 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 en- 
 deavouring 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 Jeannie 
 was not wrong, she was right, and has made it good ! 
 Surely for this I should be grateful to Heaven ; for 
 this, amid the immeasurable wreck that was preparing 
 for us. She had from an early period formed her 
 own little opinion about we (what an Eldorado 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 
 counted what the world said to the contra7y (very 
 brave, magnanimous, and noble, truly, she was in all 
 this) ; but to have the world confirm her in it was 
 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 thunder- 
 bolt from skies all blue, she was snatched from me : 
 a " death from the gods," the old Romans would 
 have called it ; the kind of death she many a time 
 expressed her wish for : and in all my life (as I 
 feel ever since) there fell on me no misfortune
 
 2SO REAIINISCEA'CES 
 
 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 cheer- 
 fulness, and loving hopefulness life still had in it 
 to me. 
 
 The paragraph in The Times (Monday, 23d April), 
 which I believe is by Dr. Ouain (a most kind 
 Physician of hers), contains in briefest compass the 
 true Narrative of her Death, — which I have searched 
 into all the items of, but have no wish or need to 
 record here 011 paper, as if they were liable to be for- 
 gotten, or erased from the poor heart of me while I 
 live here. She had " lunched " (dined, for Jiet^ with 
 the Forsters that day, who noticed her especial cheer- 
 fulness and well-being, " Carlyle coming home the 
 day after to-morrow!" She drove away, perhaps 
 towards three P.M.; walked (about a hundred and fifty 
 yards) in Kensington Gardens ; got in again south 
 end of Serpentine Bridge ; set out that wretched 
 little dog to run by her near "Victoria Gate " (north- 
 east corner of the Park); swift brougham hurting its 
 foot, instant spring out to help // (though she little 
 loved it, and had taken it only by charity ; woe to 
 it !), return of the swift-brougham Lady to apologise 
 (/;/ the footpath out [of the brougham], this, opposite 
 Stanhope Place), re-ascent into her carriage, and 
 Sylvester driving on : this was the last act of her to 
 me inestimable life ! She had laid off her bonnet, 
 taken out two combs (that sharp prick in the back 
 stopping heart and lungs), laid her hands on her lap, 
 right-hand back uppermost, left-hand palm upper- 
 most ; and leaning in the left-hand corner of her 
 carriage, she lay dead ! Death, they tell me, must
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 251 
 
 have followed almost instantly ; — her last brief 
 thought, if she had any, must have been a pang of 
 sorrow about nic. God be gracious to her through 
 Eternity — and oh to be joined with her again, if that 
 is not too fond a thought ; free both of us from sin, 
 for evermore ; that were indeed a Heaven ! — — 
 Silvester seems to have spent still about three- 
 quarters of an hour, suspecting nothing wrong; drove 
 down by the Big Drive, then up by the Serpentine, 
 and down by the Victoria Gate and Big Drive once 
 more ; at the bottom of that, he half paused for 
 orders ; getting none, looked back over the blinds, 
 saw the two hands; turned up by the Serpentine again, 
 but after a few yards, looking back, saw the dear 
 little hands again, — drove towards an elderly Lady 
 near by, in the path beyond Rotten Row ; begged 
 her to look in ; she half did, elderly Gentleman near 
 her wholly did ; pronounced it death to all appear- 
 ance, and recommended him to hasten over to St. 
 George's Hospital, which he in a moment did. All 
 in vain, in vain ! Her look of peace, of beautiful 
 absolute repose had struck them much ; very kind, 
 very helpful to nic, if to no other, — everybody was. 
 For, as I learned ultimately, had it not been for their 
 and John Forster's, and Dr. Ouain's and everybody's 
 mercy on me, there must have been, by rule, a 
 Coroner's Inquest held, — which would have been a 
 blotch upon my memory intolerable then, and dis- 
 cordantly ugly for all time coming. It is to Forster's 
 unwearied and invincible efforts, that I am indebted 
 for escape from' this sad defilement of my feelings. 
 Indeed his kindness then, and all through, in every 
 particular and detail was ?//<;examplcd, of a cordiality
 
 252 REMINISCENCES 
 
 and assiduity almost painful to me : thanks to him 
 and perpetual recollection. 
 
 Saturday night about half-past nine, I was sit- 
 ting in Sister Jean's at Dumfries ; thinking of my 
 Railway to Chelsea on Monday, and perhaps of a 
 sprained ankle I had got at Scotsbrig two weeks or 
 so before, — when the fatal telegram (two of them in 
 succession) came ; it had a kind of stunning effect 
 upon me ; not for above two days could I estimate 
 the immeasurable depth of it, or the infinite sorrow 
 which had peeled my life all bare, and, in one 
 moment, shattered my poor w^orld to universal ruin. 
 They took me out next day, to wander (as was 
 medically needful) in the green sunny Sabbath fields; 
 and ever and anon there rose from my sick heart the 
 ejaculation " My poor little Woman !" — but no full 
 gush of tears came to my relief, nor has yet come ; 
 will it ever? A stony "Woe's me, woe's me !" some- 
 times with infinite tenderness, and pity not for 
 myself, is my habitual mood hitherto. I had been 
 hitching lamely about in the Terregles quarter, my 
 company the green solitudes and fresh Spring 
 breezes, — quietly but far from happily, — about the 
 hour she died. Sixteen hours after the telegram, — 
 (Sunday about two P.M.) there came to me a Letter 
 from her, written on Saturday before going out ; the 
 cheeriest and merriest of all her several prior ones; — 
 a Note for her written at Scotsbrig, Friday morning, 
 and which should have been a pleasure to her at 
 breakfast that morning was not put in till after six 
 at Ecclefechan (negligence of , excusable, but un- 
 forgettable) ; had not left Ecclefechan till ten P.M., nor 
 arrived till two P.M. next day, and lay z/;/opened here.
 
 JAXE WELSH CARLYLE 253 
 
 Monday morning, John set off with me for 
 London ; — never, for a thousand years, should I 
 forget that arrival here of ours, — my first 2in\\^- 
 comed by her ; sJie lay in her coffin, lovely in death ; 
 I kissed her cold brow . . . pale Death and things 
 not mine or ours had possession of our poor dwell- 
 ing. Next day wander over the fatal localities in 
 Hyde Park ; Forster and Brother John settling, 
 apart from me, everything for the morrow. Morrow, 
 Wednesday morning, we were under way with our 
 sacred burden ; John and Forster kindly did not 
 speak to me (good Twisleton ^ too was in the train 
 without consulting me) : I looked out upon the 
 Spring fields, the everlasting Skies, in silence ; and 
 had for most part a more endurable day, — till Had- 
 dington where Dods etc. were waiting with hospitali- 
 ties, with etc. etc. which almost drove me openly 
 wild. I went out to walk in the moonlit silent 
 streets ; not suffered to go alone : I looked up at the 
 windows of the old Room where I had first seen 
 her, — 1 82 I on a Summer evening after Sunset, — 
 five and forty years ago. Edward Irving had 
 brought me out, walking, to Haddington ; sJie the 
 first thing I had to see there. The beautifullest 
 young creature I had ever beheld ; sparkling with 
 grace and talent, though sunk in sorrow (for loss 
 of her Father)," and speaking little. I noticed her 
 once looking at me, — Oh Heaven, to think of that 
 now ! — 
 
 The Dodses (excellent people in their honest 
 homely way) had great pity for me, patience with 
 
 ' The lion. Edward Twisleton ; died 1874; aged 63. 
 -' Dr Welsli died September 1S19.
 
 254 REMINISCENCES 
 
 me ; I retired to my room, slept none all night, — 
 little sleep to me since that telegram night ; — but 
 lay silent in the great Silence. Thursday (26th April 
 1 866), wandered out into the Churchyard etc.: at 
 one P.M. came the Funeral ; silent, small (only twelve 
 old friends, and two volunteer, besides us three), very 
 beautiful and noble to me : and I laid her head in the 
 grave of her Father (according to covenant of forty 
 years back) ; and all was ended. In the nave of the 
 old Abbey Kirk, long a ruin, now being saved from 
 further decay, with the skies looking down on her, 
 there sleeps my little Jeannie, and the light of her 
 face will never shine on me more. One other time, 
 — after the Inscription is put on, — I have promised 
 myself to be in Haddington. We withdrew, that 
 afternoon ; posted up (by Edinburgh with its many 
 confusions) towards London all night, and about ten 
 or eleven a.m. were shovelled out here ; where I am 
 hitching and wandering about, best off in strict 
 solitude (were it only possible) ; my one solace and 
 employment that of doing all which I can imagine 
 she would have liked me to do. Maggie Welsh and 
 my Brother are still with me. — I suppose it to be 
 useless to continue these jottings (Book probably to 
 be burnt from all other eyes, and to myself painful !) 
 — but perhaps will add something to-morrow still. 
 [8/// May i 866 ; ()tk I find !] 
 
 Thursday, May 10. (Days all dim to me ; 
 yesterday I was tvrong in date). . . . My one 
 solace and employment hitherto is that of sorting up, 
 and settling as I judge she would have wished, all 
 that pertained to her beautiful existence and her : 
 her advice on it all, how that wish starts out on me
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 255 
 
 strangely at many a turn ; and the sharp twinge 
 that reminds me, " No !" One's first awakening in 
 the morning, the reaHty all stript so bar'e before 
 one, and the puddle of confused dreams at once 
 gone, is the ghastliest half-hour of the day ; — as I 
 have heard others remark. On the whole there is 
 no use in writing here. There is even a lack of 
 sincerity in what I write (strange but true). The 
 thing I would say, I cannot. All words are idle.^ . . . 
 
 Miss Jewsbury's Account of the Burning 
 OF THE Candles, 
 
 " 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 upstairs into the closet of the spare room and 
 there she would find two wax candles wrapt in paper, and that 
 those were to be lighted, and burned. She said that after she 
 came to live in London, she wanted to give a party. Her 
 mother was staying with her. Her mother wished everything 
 to be very nice, and went out and bought candles and confec- 
 tionery : and set out a table, and lighted up the room quite 
 splendidly, and called her to come and see it, when all was 
 prepared. 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 action ; silently resolved on, and kept 
 
 ^ The extract from Notebook III. ends here. See supra, p. 243. 
 '^ The Carlyles' housekeeper at Chelsea.
 
 2s6 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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 been about 1837 ; 
 I remember the ' soiree ' right well ; the resolution, 
 bright as with heavenly tears and lightning, was 
 probably formed on her mother's death, Februar}' 
 1842. My radiant One! Must question Warren 
 the first time I have heart {2gth May 1866). 
 
 I have had from Mrs. Warren a clear narrative 
 (shortly after the above date). Geraldine's report is 
 perfectly true ; fact with Mrs. W^arren occurred in 
 February or March 1866, "perhaps a month before 
 you went to Edinburgh, sir." I was in the house, it 
 seems, probably asleep upstairs, or gone out for my 
 walk, evening about eight o'clock. My poor Darling 
 was taken with 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, " W^hen 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 w^ould, herself 
 drinking only hot water, oh heavens !) The candles 
 burnt for two whole nights, says Mrs. Warren (24//^ 
 Jtily 1866).
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 257 
 
 \_F)vin this point every vacant space of the Note- 
 book being used, Carlyle continues, on a separate paper, 
 ivafered on to the last page of //.] 
 
 The paper of this poor Notebook of hers is done ; 
 all I had to say, too (though there lie such volumes 
 yet unsaid), seems to be almost done : and I must 
 sorrowfully end it, and seek for something else. 
 Very sorrowfully still ; for it has been my sacred 
 shrine, and religious city of refuge from the bitter- 
 ness 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 farewell oi Her a second time? Right silent 
 and serene is She, my lost Darling yonder, as I often 
 think in my gloom ; no sorrow more for Her, — nor 
 will there long be for me. . , . 
 
 Everything admonishes me to end here my poor 
 scrawlings and weak reminiscences of days that are 
 no more. 
 
 I still mainly mean to burn this l^ook before my 
 own departure ; but feel that I shall always have a 
 kind of grudge to do it, and an indolent excuse, 
 "Notj^^; wait, any day that can be done!" — and 
 that it is possible the thing may be left behind me, 
 legible to interested survivors, — friends only, I will 
 hope, and with i^'orthy curiosity, not ?//AvortJiy ! 
 
 In which event, I solemnly forbid them, each and 
 VOL. I. S
 
 25 8 REMINISCENCES 
 
 all, to publish this Bit of Writing as it stands here ; 
 and warn them that without fit editing no part of it 
 should be printed (nor so far as I can order, sJiall 
 ever be) ; — and that the 'fit editing ' of perhaps 
 nine-tenths of it will, after I am gone, have become 
 inipossibh'. 
 
 T. C. (Saturday, 28th July 1866).
 
 APPEN DIX
 
 CARLYLE'S BEQUEST OF CRAIGENPUTTOCK 
 TO THE UNIVERSITY OF EDINBURGH i 
 
 I, Thomas Carlyle, residing at Chelsea, presently Rector 
 of the University of Edinburgh, from the love, favour, and 
 affection which I bear to that University, and from my 
 interest in the advancement of education in my native 
 Scotland, as elsewhere ; for these, and for other more pecu- 
 liar reasons, which also I wish to put on record, do intend, 
 and am now in the act of making, to the said University, 
 a bequest as underwritten, of the estate of Craigenputtock, 
 which is now my property. Craigenputtock, or, for dis- 
 tinction. Upper Craigenputtock (a wing of it having been 
 sold some seventy or eighty years ago, which is now called 
 Under Craigenputtock), lies at the head of the parish of 
 Dunscore, in Nithsdale, Dumfriesshire ; extent is of about 
 800 acres — improved moor pastures, ditto arable ground, 
 ditto meadow pasture, with rather copious plantations, solid 
 enough mansion and offices ; rental at present (on lease 
 of nineteen years) is ^250 ; annual worth, with improve- 
 ments now in progress, is probably ^300. Craigenputtock 
 was for many generations the patrimony of a family named 
 Welsh — the eldest son usually a " John Welsh" — in series 
 
 ^ This Deed incorporates Carlyle's original draft of instructions to 
 the Lawyer, which is now preserved in the University of Edinljurgh.
 
 262 APPENDIX 
 
 going back, think some, to the famous John Welsh, 
 son-in-law of the Reformer Knox. The last male heir of 
 this family was John Welsh, Esq., surgeon, Haddington 
 (born at Craigenputtock in seventeen hundred and seventy- 
 five, died at Haddington in eighteen hundred and nineteen, 
 a highly-honoured, widely-regretted man, and is buried in 
 the Abbey Kirk of that town) ; his one child, and heiress, 
 was my late dear, magnanimous, much-loving, and to me 
 inestimable wife ; in memory of whom, and of her constant 
 nobleness and piety towards him and towards me, I now, 
 she having been the last of her kindred, am about to 
 bequeath to Edinburgh University, with whatever piety is 
 in me, this Craigenputtock which was theirs and hers, on 
 the terms, and for the purposes, and under the conditions 
 underwritten. Therefore I do mortify and dispone to and 
 in favour of the said University of Edinburgh, and of the 
 Principal and whole other members of the Senatus Acade- 
 micus thereof, and of their successors in offices for behoof 
 of the said University, for the foundation and endowment 
 of ten equal bursaries, to be called the "John Welsh 
 Bursaries," in the said University, heritably and irredeem- 
 ably, all and whole the twenty -shilling lands of Upper 
 Craigenputtock, with houses, biggings, yeards, orchyeards, 
 mosses, moors, meadows, outfield, infield, annexes, con- 
 nexes, parts, pendicles, and pertinents thereof whatsoever, 
 lying within the parish of Dunsmore or Dunscore and 
 Sheriffdom of Dumfries, according to the ancient meiths 
 and marches thereof; as said lands are described in 
 notarial instrument in my favour, recorded in the par- 
 ticular register of sasines, etc., kept at Dumfries for the 
 shire thereof, and the Stewartries of Kirkcudbright and 
 Annandale, the fourteenth day of June eighteen hundred 
 and sixty-six ; but these presents are granted and shall 
 be accepted by the said University and Senatus Acade-
 
 APPENDIX 263 
 
 micus thereof, on the terms, for the purposes, and under 
 the conditions hereinafter written, viz. : — Said estate is not 
 to be sold, but to be kept and administered as land ; net 
 annual revenue of it to be divided into ten equal bursaries, 
 to be called, as aforesaid, the "John Welsh" Bursaries. 
 The Senatus Academicus to bestow them on the ten 
 applicants entering the University who, on strict and 
 thorough examination and open competitive trial by exa- 
 miners whom the Senatus will appoint for that end, are 
 judged to show the best attainments of actual proficiency 
 and the best likelihoods of more, in the department or 
 faculty called of arts, as taught there ; examiners to be 
 actual professors in said faculty, the fittest whom the 
 Senatus can select, with fit assessors or coadjutors and 
 witnesses if the Senatus see good ; and always the report 
 of said examiners to be minuted and signed, and to 
 govern the appointments made, and to be recorded there- 
 with. More specially, I appoint that five of the "John 
 Welsh Bursaries " shall be given for best proficiency in 
 Mathematics (I would rather say " in Mathesis," if that 
 were a thing to be judged of from competition), but prac- 
 tically, above all, in pure geometry, such being perennially 
 the symptom, not only of steady application, but of a 
 clear methodic intellect, and offering, in all epochs, good 
 promise for all manner of arts and pursuits. The other 
 'iWQ. bursaries I appoint to depend (for the present and 
 indefinitely onwards) on proficiency in classical learning — 
 that is to say, in knowledge of Latin, Greek, and English, 
 all of these, or any two of them. This also gives good 
 jjromise of a young mind ; but as I do not feel certain 
 that it gives perennially, or will perennially be thought in 
 Universities to give the best promise, I am willing that the 
 Senatus of the University, in case of a cliange of its opinion 
 on this i)C)int hereafter in the cmu-sc of generations, shall
 
 264 APPENDIX 
 
 bestow these latter five bursaries on what it does then con- 
 sider the most excellent proficiency in matters classical, or 
 the best proof of a classical mind, and directs its own 
 highest effort towards teaching and diffusing, in the new 
 generations that will come. In brief — five bursaries for 
 proficiency in mathematics, especially in pure geometry ; 
 and five for proficiency in glassies, Latin and Greek, and 
 English — this, so far as we can practically see ahead at 
 present, yet with liberty to modify the latter five, should 
 new and better light arise, and the Senatus come to be 
 convinced that such light is better, expresses my intention 
 and desire in regard to occupants of the " John Welsh " 
 Bursaries. Bursaries to be open to free competition of all 
 who come to study in Edinburgh University, and who have 
 never been of any other university ; the competition to be 
 held on, or directly before or after, their first matriculation 
 there. Bursaries to be always given, on solemnly strict and 
 faithful trial, to the worthiest ; or if (what in practice can 
 never happen, though it illustrates my intention) the 
 claims of two were absolutely equal, and could not be 
 settled by further trial, preference is to fall in favour of 
 the more unrecommended and unfriended. Under penalties 
 graver than T, or any highest mortal, can pretend to impose, 
 but which I can never doubt — as the law of eternal justice, 
 inexorably valid, whether noticed or unnoticed, pervades all 
 corners of space and of time, are very sure to be punctually 
 exacted if incurred, this is to be the perpetual rule for the 
 Senatus in deciding. Bursars are to continue actual 
 students in the Faculty of Arts, and to be visibly attending 
 one or more classes in the same, so long as their bursary 
 lasts, are not permitted to hold any other bursary or similar 
 endowment in the University, are permitted to compete for 
 any other bursary, scholarship, or fellowship falling open 
 there, but, if successful, shall renounce the bursary they
 
 APPENDIX 265 
 
 held. Bursaries to last till the usual term of admittance 
 to trial for graduation as Master of Arts (that is, for four 
 years as things now stand), or till decease or misbehaviour 
 of the holder, if sooner, new appointment to be made at 
 opening of next University Session. And so may a little 
 trace of help, to the young heroic soul struggling for what 
 is highest, spring from this poor arrangement and bequest ; 
 may it run, for ever, if it can, as a thread of pure water 
 from the Scottish rocks, tinkling into its little basin by the 
 thirsty wayside, for those whom it veritably belongs to. 
 Amen. Such is my bequest to Edinburgh University. 
 The above said lands and others hereby mortified and 
 disponed, to be holden a me vcl de me ; and I resign the 
 said lands and others for new infeftment or investiture, but 
 always on the terms, for the purposes, and under the con- 
 ditions herein above written ; and I assign the writs ; and 
 I assign the rents to become due for the said lands and 
 others from and after the period of my death ; and I re- 
 serve my liferent of the said lands and others, and full 
 power to alter, innovate, or revoke these presents in whole 
 or in part ; and I dispense with the delivery hereof ; and I 
 consent to the registration hereof for preservation. In 
 Witness whereof these presents written upon this and 
 the two preceding pages by James Steven Burns, clerk to 
 John Cook, Writer to the Signet, are subscribed by me at 
 Chelsea the twentieth day of June, one thousand eight 
 hundred and sixty-seven years, before these witnesses — 
 John Forster, barrister-at-law, man of letters, etc., residing 
 at Palace Gate House, Kensington, London ; and James 
 Anthony Froude, man of letters, residing at number five 
 Onslow Gardens, Brompton, London. 
 
 (Signed) 1\ Carlvle. 
 John Forster, Witness. 
 J. A. 1''r()UDE, Witness.
 
 266 APPENDIX 
 
 Carlyle writes in his Journal, under date, Sunday, 2 2d 
 June 1867 : 
 
 "Finished off, on Thursday last, 'at 3 p.m.' (by appoint- 
 ment), 20 June, my poor Bequest of Craigenputtock to 
 Edinburgh University, for Bursaries ; all quite ready then, 
 Forster and Froude as 7vitnesses, — the good Masson, who 
 had taken endless pains, alike friendly and wise, being 
 at the very last objected to in the character of 'witness;' 
 as 'a party interested,' said the Lawyer in Edinburgh. 
 I a little regretted this Uttle circumstance ; so, I think, 
 did Masson secretly. He read us the Deed, with sonor- 
 ous emphasis, bringing every word and note of it home 
 to us : then I signed, then they tw^o, Masson ' witnessing ' 
 only with his eyes and mind. I was deeply moved, as 
 I well might be ; but held my peace, and shed no tears 
 [tears I think I have done with ; never, except for moments 
 together, have I 7uept for that catastrophe of April 21, — to 
 which whole days of weeping would have been, in other 
 times, a blessed relief). . . . ^Voe's me ; — and yet, in a 
 sense. Blessing is me ! This is my poor ' Sweetheart Abbey, ' 
 Cor Duke, or Neiv ' Abbey,' ^ — as sacred casket and tomb 
 for the Sweetest ' Heart ' which in this bad bitter world was 
 all my own ! Darling, Darling, — and in a little while we 
 shall hotJi be at rest ; and the Great God will have done 
 with us what was His Will." 
 
 Sec siipi-a, ]■). 164 ;/.
 
 CARLYLE'S WILL AND CODICIL 
 
 J, THOMAS CARLYLE, of 5 Great Cheyne-Row, Chelsea, 
 in the County of Middlesex, Esquire, declare this to be my 
 last Will and Testament Revoking all former Wills. I 
 DIRECT all my just debts, funeral and testamentary expences 
 to be paid as soon as may be after my decease. And it is my 
 express instruction that, since I cannot be laid in the Grave 
 at Haddington, I shall be placed beside my Father and 
 Mother in the Churchyard of Ecclefechan. I appoint my 
 Brother, John Aitken Carlyle, Doctor of Medicine, 
 and my Friend, John Forster of Palace Gate House, 
 Kensington, Esquire, dBjcccutors and trustees of this my 
 Will. If my said Brother should die in my lifetime, I 
 appoint my Brother, James Carlyle, to be an Executor 
 and Trustee in his stead ; and if the said John Forster 
 should die in my lifetime, I appoint my friend, James 
 Anthony Froude, to be an Executor and Trustee in 
 his stead. I give to my dear and ever helpful Brotlier, 
 John A. Carlyle, my Leasehold messuage in Great Cheyne- 
 Row in which I reside, subject to the rent and covenants 
 under which I hold the same, and all such of ray Furni- 
 ture, plate, linen, china, books, i)rints, pictures and other
 
 268 APPENDIX 
 
 effects therein as are not hereinafter bequeathed speci- 
 fically. My Brother John has no need of my money or 
 help, and therefore, in addition to this small remembrance, 
 I BEQUEATH to him Only the charge of being Executor of my 
 Will and of seeing everything peaceably fulfilled. If he 
 survives me, as is natural, he will not refuse. My poor 
 and indeed almost pathetic collection of books (with the 
 exception of those hereinafter specifically given) I request 
 him to accept as a memento of me while he stays behind. 
 I GIVE my Watch to my Nephew Thomas, the son of my 
 Brother Alexander, " Allele's Tom," as a Memorial of the 
 affection I have for him and of my thankful (and also 
 hopeful) approval of all that I have ever got to know or 
 surmise about him. He can understand that of all my 
 outward possessions this Watch is become the dearest to 
 me. It was given me on my Wedding, by One who was 
 herself invaluable to me ; it had been her Father's, made 
 to her Father's order ; and had measured out, into still 
 more perfect punctuality, his noble years of well-spent 
 time ; and now it has measured out (always punctually, // .'') 
 nearly forty-seven years of mine, and still measures, as with 
 an everloving solemnity, till time quite end with me : and 
 may the new Thomas Carlyle fare not worse with it than 
 his two Predecessors have done. To Maggie Welsh, my 
 dear Cousin (and Hers), One Hundred Pounds. To my 
 House servant, Mrs. Warren, if in my service at the time 
 of my decease, Fifty Pounds. Having with good reason, 
 ever since my first appearance in Literature, a variety of 
 kind feelings, obligations and regards towards New Eng- 
 land, and indeed long before that, a hearty good-will, real 
 and steady, which still continues, to America at large, and 
 recognising with gratitude how much of friendliness, of 
 actually credible human love, I have had from that
 
 APPENDIX 269 
 
 Country, and what immensities of wortli and capability I 
 believe and partly know to be lodged, especially in the 
 silent classes there, — I have now, after due consultation as 
 to the feasibilities, the excusabilities of it, decided to fulfil 
 a fond notion that has been hovering in my mind these 
 many years ; and I do therefore hereby bequeath the Books 
 (whatever of them I could not borrow, but had to buy and 
 gather, that is, in general, whatever of them are still here) 
 which I used in writing on Cromwell and Friedricii, and 
 which shall be accurately searched for, and parted from 
 my other Books, to " The President and Fellows of Harvard 
 College, City of Cambridge, State of Massachusetts," as a 
 poor testimony of my respect for that Alma Mater of so 
 many of my Trans-Atlantic Friends, and a token of the 
 feelings, above indicated, towards the Great Country of 
 which Harvard is the Chief School. In which sense I have 
 reason to be confident that the Harvard Authorities will 
 please to accept this my little Bequest ; and deal with it, 
 and order and use it, as, to their own good judgment and 
 kind fidelity, shall seem fittest. A certain symbolical value 
 the Bequest may have ; but of intrinsic value, as a collec- 
 tion of old Books, it can pretend to very little. If there 
 should be doubt as to any Books coming within the cate- 
 gory of this Bequest, my dear Brother John, if left behind 
 me, as I always trust and hope, who already knows about 
 this Harvard matter, and who possesses a Catalogue or List 
 drawn up by me, of which the Counterpart is in possession 
 of the Harvard Authorities, will see it for me in all points 
 accurately done. In regard to this, and to all else in these 
 final directions of mine, I wish him to be regarded as my 
 Second Self, — my Surviving Self. My Manuscript ^ en- 
 
 ^ In the original draft in Carlylc's hand this sentence reads : " My 
 Manuscript (of which there are two copies) entitled " etc.
 
 270 APPENDIX 
 
 titled "Letters and Memorials of Jane Welsh Carlyle" is 
 to me naturally, in my now bereaved state, of endless 
 value, though of what value to others I cannot in the least 
 clearly judge ; and indeed for the last four years am im- 
 peratively forbidden to write ^ farther on it, or even to look 
 farther into it. Of that Manuscript, my kind, considerate 
 and ever-faithful friend, James Anthony Froude (as he has 
 lovingly promised me) takes precious charge in my stead ; 
 to him therefore I give it with whatever other fartherances 
 and elucidations may be possible;'^ and I solemnly request 
 of him to do his best and wisest in the matter, as I feel 
 assured he will. There is incidentally a quantity of Auto- 
 biographic Record in my Notes to this Manuscript ; but ex- 
 cept as subsidiary, and elucidative of the Text I put no value 
 on such : express Biography of me I had really rather that 
 there should be none. James Anthony Froude, John Forster 
 and my Brother John, will make earnest survey of the 
 Manuscript and its subsidiaries there or elsewhere, in respect 
 to this as well as to its other bearings ; their united utmost 
 candour and impartiality (taking always James Anthony 
 Froude's practicality along with it) will evidently furnish a 
 better judgment than mine can be. The Manuscript is by 
 no means ready for publication ; nay, the questions, How, 
 When (after what delay, seven, ten years) it, or any portion 
 of it, should be published, are still dark to me ; but on all 
 such points James Anthony Froude's practical summing up 
 and decision is to be taken as mine. The imperfect Copy 
 of the said Manuscript which is among my papers with the 
 original letters^ I give to my Niece Mary Carlyle Aitken ; 
 
 ' In tlie original draft : ^'■forbidden to work farther " etc. 
 - In the draft : "to him therefore I appoint that the better of the 
 two copies be given up with " etc. 
 
 •^ In the draft : " The other Copy (with the Original Letters) " etc.
 
 APPENDIX 271 
 
 to whom also, dear little soul, I bequeath Five Hundred 
 Pounds for the loving care, and unwearied patience and 
 helpfulness she has shown to me in these my last solitary 
 and infirm years. To her also I give, at her choice, what- 
 ever Memorials of my Dear Departed One she has seen me 
 silently preserving here, — especially the table in the Draw- 
 ing-Room at which I now write and the little Child's-Chair 
 (in the China-Closet), which latter to my eyes has always a 
 brightness as of Time's Morning and a sadness as of Death 
 and Eternity, when I look on it ; and which, with the other 
 dear Article, I have the weak wish to preserve in loving 
 hands yet awhile when I am gone. My other Manuscripts 
 I leave to my Brother John. They are with one exception 
 of no moment to me ; I have never seen any of them since 
 they were written. One of them is a set of fragments about 
 James First, which were loyally fished out for me from 
 much other Cromwellian rubbish, and doubtless carefully 
 copied more than twenty years ago by the late John Chorley 
 who was always so good to me. But neither this latter, 
 nor perhaps any of the others, is worth printing. On this 
 point however my Brother can take Counsel with John 
 Forster and James Anthony Froude, and do what is then 
 judged fittest. Many or most of these Papers I often feel 
 that I myself should burn ; but probably I never shall after 
 all. The " one exception," spoken of above, is a Sketch of 
 my Father and his Life hastily thrown off in the nights 
 between his Death and Burial, full of earnest affection and 
 veracity ; — most likely un^i for printing ; but I wish it to 
 be taken charge of by my Brother John, and preserved in 
 the Family. Since, I think, the very night of my Father's 
 Funeral (far away from London and me !) I have never 
 seen a word of that poor bit of writing. — Li regard to all busi- 
 ness matters about my Books (of which not only the Copy-
 
 272 APPENDIX 
 
 rights but all the Stereotype plates from which the three several 
 collected Editions have been respectively printed, and which 
 are at present deposited with my Printers, Messrs. Robson 
 and Son, belong exclusively to me). Copyrights, Editions, 
 and dealings with Booksellers and others in relation thereto, 
 John Forster's advice is to be taken as supreme and com- 
 plete, better than my own ever could have been. His 
 faithful, wise and ever punctual care about all that has been 
 a miracle of generous helpfulness, literally invaluable to me 
 in that field of things. Thanks, poor thanks, are all that I 
 can return, alas ! I give the residue of my personal Estate 
 to my Trustees, before named, In trust to convert into 
 money, such part of my Estate as shall not consist of 
 money, or securities for money, and Upon trust to invest, 
 in such securities as they shall think fit, the moneys to arise 
 from such conversion and the moneys and securities of 
 which my personal Estate shall consist at the time of my 
 decease : With power to change investments from time to 
 time, And to stand possessed thereof In trust as to one-fifth 
 part thereof for my Brother Alexander, absolutely ; And as 
 to one-fifth part, In trust for my Brother James, absolutely; 
 And as to one other fifth part thereof. In trust for my Sister 
 Mary, Wife of James Austin, Farmer at Gill, Cummertrees, 
 Dumfriesshire, absolutely, for her separate use independent 
 of the debts, control or engagements of her present or any 
 future Husband ; And as to one other fifth part thereof, In 
 trust for my Sister Jean, the Wife of James Aitken of Dum- 
 fries, absolutely, for her separate use independent of the 
 debts, control or engagements of her present or any future 
 husband ; And as to the remaining fifth part thereof. In trust 
 for my Sister Janet, Wife of Robert Hanning of Hamilton, 
 Canada, absolutely, for her separate use independent of the 
 debts, control or engagements of her present or any future
 
 APPENDIX 273 
 
 husband. Provided always that, if my said Brothers 
 Alexander and James, or my said Sisters, or any, or either 
 of them shall die in my lifetime, the share or shares of him, 
 her or them, so dying, shall be In trust for the Children oi 
 my Brothers or Sisters respectively, so dying, who shall 
 attain the age of Twenty-one years, or being Daughters shall 
 marry, in equal shares ; but if there shall be no such Child, 
 then such share or shares shall go to the others, or other, 
 of my said Brothers and Sisters in equal shares, but so that 
 the shares which may thus accrue to my Sisters shall be for 
 their separate use in the same manner as their original 
 shares. I direct all legacies to be paid free of duty, I 
 DIRECT that, notwithstanding the trust for conversion here- 
 inbefore contained, my Trustees shall have absolute author- 
 ity to postpone the conversion, for any period not exceeding 
 two years after my death, of all or any part of my personal 
 Estate ; and I say this with especial reference to my Copy- 
 rights. And the income to be derived from my Estate, 
 previous to its conversion, shall be applied in the same way 
 as the income of my Estate, if converted, would be applic- 
 able. To my dear friends, John Forster and James Anthony 
 Froude (Masson too, I should remember in this moment, 
 and perhaps some others), I have nothing to leave that 
 could be in the least worthy of them ; but if they, or any 
 of them, could find among my reliques a Memorial they 
 would like, who of Men could deserve it better ! — No 
 Man at this time. If no such choice be made by them- 
 selves, I leave to Forster Faithorne's Print of Cromwell 
 between the Pillars, now in the Drawing- Room here, 
 and to Froude Pesne's Portrait of Wilhelmina with the 
 Fontange on her brow, now in the same Room. 3[n toitnefio 
 whereof I, the said Thomas Carlyle, the Testator, have 
 to this, my last Will and Testament, set my hand this 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 APPENDIX 
 
 sixth day of February, One thousand eight hundred and 
 seventy-three. 
 
 SiCncB and Declared by the said"^ 
 Thomas Carlyle, the Testator, as 
 and for his last Will and Testa- 
 ment, in the presence of us both 
 present at the same time, who in V T. CARLYLE. 
 his presence at his request, and 
 in the presence of each other, 
 hereunto subscribe our names as 
 Witnesses. / 
 
 WILLIAM HARES, 
 Butler, 
 
 Palace Gate House. 
 
 FREDERIC OUVRY, 
 
 66 Lincoln's Inn Fields, Solicitor. 
 
 Z\m IS A CODICIL to the last Will and Testament 
 of me, THOMAS CARLYLE, of No. 24 Cheyne-Row, 
 Chelsea, in the County of Middlesex, Esquire, which said 
 Will bears date the Sixth day of February, One thousand 
 eight hundred and seventy-three. Whereas by my said Will 
 I have appointed my Brother, John Aitken Carlyle, 
 Doctor of Medicine, and John Forster, Esquire, Exe- 
 cutors and Trustees thereof, and appoin'^ed and directed 
 that, if my said Brother should die in my lifetime, my 
 Brother, James Carlyle, should be an Executor and 
 Trustee in his stead. And that, if the saic" John Forster 
 should die in my lifetime, my friend, James Anthony 
 Froude, should be an Executor and Trustee in his stead. 
 And whereas, my dear and ever faithful friend, the said
 
 APPENDIX 275 
 
 John Forster has been taken from me by death, ^ and I am 
 desirous of revoking the said appointment of Executors and 
 Trustees contained in my said Will, and of appointing my 
 said Brother, John Aitken Carlyle, the said James 
 Anthony Froude and Sir James FitzJames Stephen, of 
 No. 24 Cornwall Gardens, South Kensington, in the said 
 County of Middlesex, K. C.S.I. Q.C., to be Executors and 
 Trustees of my said Will. Now, therefore, I do hereby 
 revoke the above recited appointment of Executors and 
 Trustees contained in my said Will, and do hereby appoint 
 my said Brother, John Aitken Carlyle, the said James 
 Anthony Froude and the said Sir James FitzJames 
 Stephen to be Executors and Trustees of my said Will. I 
 hereby revoke the gift in my said Will of the Writing-table, 
 belonging to me, which stands in the Drawing-Room at 
 No. 24 Cheyne-Row, aforesaid, and hereby give and 
 bequeath the same Writing-table to the said Sir James Fitz- 
 James Stephen. I know he will accept it as a distinguished 
 mark of my esteem. He knows that it belonged to my 
 honoured Father-in-Law and his Daughter, and that I have 
 written all my Books upon it except only Schiller and that, 
 for the fifty years and upwards that are now past, I have 
 considered it among the most precious of my possessions. 
 I GIVE and bequeath the Screen which stands in the 
 Drawing-Room at No. 24 Cheyne-Row aforesaid, to my 
 dear Niece, Mary Carlyle Aitken, who best knows the value 
 I have always put upon it, and will best take care of it to 
 the end of her life when I am gone. She knows by whom 
 it was made, and I wish her to accept it as a testimony of 
 the trust I rep ^se in her, and as a mark of my esteem for 
 her honourable, veracious and faithful character, and a 
 
 ^ John Forster, Lorn 2(1 Ainil 1812, died 1st February 1876.
 
 276 APPENDIX 
 
 memorial of all the kind and ever-faithful service she has 
 done me. The Faithorne Portrait of Oliver Cromwell, 
 which I had intended for my loving and ever-faithful friend, 
 John Forster, — the only bequest he would accept of from 
 me, — I now give and bequeath to his Widow, Mrs. Forster, 
 and I beg her to accept it in memory of him and of me. 
 I GIVE and BEQUEATH to my dear friend, David Masson, 
 my photographically printed, folio copy of Shakespeare's 
 'Works, in memory of me. The two pictures of Luther's 
 Father and Mother, which were a gift to me from Mr. 
 Robert Tait of Queen Anne Street, Cavendish Square, in 
 the said County of Middlesex, I give back to him. The 
 large oil painting which hangs in the Drawing- Room 
 at No. 24 Cheyne-Row, aforesaid, and which has been en- 
 graved under the title of " The little Drummer,"^ I give 
 and bequeath to Louisa Caroline, the Dowager Lady Ash- 
 burton, for her life, and after her death, to her Daughter, 
 The Honourable Mary Florence Baring, absolutely. And, 
 WHEREAS, by my said Will, I have given to my said dear 
 Brother, John Aitken Carlyle, my Leasehold messuage No. 
 24 Cheyne-Row, aforesaid, in which I reside, subject to 
 the rent and covenants under which I hold the same, and 
 all such of my Furniture, plate, china, linen, books, prints, 
 pictures and other effects therein as are not by my said 
 Will bequeathed specifically. And whereas I am desirous 
 of revoking such gift, and of making such bequest of the 
 said messuage, property and effects as hereinafter appears. 
 Now THEREFORE I do hereby revoke the said gift of the 
 said messuage, property and effects and hereby bequeath 
 the said last mentioned leasehold messuage and all such of 
 
 ^ P"or a description of this oil painting (which had been presented 
 to Carlyle by William Bingham, second Lord Ashburton) see History 
 of Frederick the Great, Book iv. chap, vi.
 
 APPENDIX 
 
 277 
 
 my Furniture, plate, linen, china, books, prints, pictures 
 and other effects therein as are not by my said Will and 
 this my Codicil bequeathed specifically, unto my said 
 Brother John Aitken Carlyle ^ for his life, he paying the 
 rent and all rates, taxes and outgoings payable in respect 
 of the same messuage and performing the covenants and 
 conditions under which I hold the same, and after his 
 death, I give and bequeath the same messuage. Furniture, 
 plate, linen, china, books, prints, pictures and other effects 
 unto my said Niece, Mary Carlyle Aitken, absolutely. In 
 all other respects I confirm my said A\'ilL 3Iii ltiitnC00 
 whereof I have to this Codicil to my said Will set my hand 
 this Eighth day of November, One thousand eight hundred 
 and seventy-eight. 
 
 "Sicnco and Declared by the said 
 Thomas Carlyle, the Testator, as 
 and for a Codicil to his last Will 
 and Testament, in the presence 
 of us who in his presence, at his 
 request, and in the presence of 
 each other (both being present 
 together at the same time) have 
 hereunto subscribed our names 
 as Witnesses, 
 
 T. CARLYLE. 
 
 Victor H. Deacon, \ Clerks to 
 
 Sou 
 
 C. Ernest Bowles 
 
 J 
 
 Messrs. Farrer Ouvry & Co., 
 Sor\ 
 66 Lincoln's Lin Fields, London. 
 
 ^ fohn Aitken Carlyle, horn 7th July iSoi, died 15th September 
 1879."
 
 Printed by R. & R. Clakk, Edinburgli.
 
 OF New YoKic 
 REMINISCENCES 
 
 EDWARD IRVING 
 
 [Cheyne Row, Autumn 1866.] 
 
 Edward Irving died thirty-two years ago (Decem- 
 ber 1834), in the first months of our adventurous 
 settlement here ; the memory 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 leaving for Glasgow (October^ i834)j 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 
 in heart ever 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 indeed 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 revival of him, 
 on rather weak and questionable terms, sentimental 
 mainly, and grounded on no really correct know- 
 ledge or insight ; which, however, seems to bespeak 
 
 ^ It must have been before October, for Irving had ah-eady set out 
 on his journey to Glasgow early in September. 
 
 VOL. II. B
 
 REMINISCEA'CES 
 
 some continuance of vague remembrance, for a good 
 while yet, by that class of people and the many that 
 hang by them. — Being very solitary, and except for 
 converse with the Spirits of my Vanished Ones, very 
 idle in these hours and days, I have bethought me 
 of throwing down (the more rapidly the better) 
 something of my recollections of this to me very 
 memorable man ; in hopes they may by possibility 
 be worth something 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. PergaDiiis, therefore ; — and be a great deal 
 swiftei', if you please ! 
 
 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 
 more 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 people, of a good-natured and prudent turn, 
 — something of what might be called a kindly 
 vanity, a very harmless self-esteem, doing pleasure 
 to the proprietor and hurt to nobody else, was 
 traceable in ^ all of them. They were not dis- 
 tinguished by intellect, any of them ; except it 
 might be intellect in the unconscious or instinctive 
 condition (coming out as prudence of conduct, 
 etc.), of which there were good indications ; — and 
 of Uncle George, who was prudent enough and
 
 EDIVARD IRVING 
 
 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 Father, 
 he, and a clever and original Dr. Little, their neigh- 
 bour, never could be fitted in a Hat-shop of 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 do not recollect. 
 There was a fine little spice of innocent, faint, but 
 genuine and kindly banter in him, now and then. 
 Otherwise I recollect him only as heavy, hebetated, 
 elderly or old, and more inclined to quiescence and 
 silence than to talk of or care about anything ex- 
 terior to his own interests temporal or spiritual. 
 
 Gavin, Edward's Father (name pronounced Ga-yin 
 = Guyon, as Edward 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, 
 honest-hearted, rational person, but made no pre- 
 tension to superior gifts of mind ; though he too 
 perhaps may have had such in the undeveloped 
 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, deliberate southward, I think for about 
 six weeks ; as far as Wiltshire at least, for I have 
 heard him speak of Devizes, " T/ie Devizes " he
 
 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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. He was by craft a 
 Tanner ; had settled in Annan, soon began to be 
 prosperous, wedded well, and continued all his life 
 there. He was among the younger of those 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 Bailie in Annan, 
 when the furious Election sung by Burns (' There 
 were five carlins in the South,' — five burghs, namely) 
 took place ; Gavin voted the right way (Duke of 
 Oueensberry's way); and got for his two brothers, 
 each the lease of a snug Oueensberry Farm, which 
 grew ever the snugger, as dissolute " Old Q." de- 
 veloped himself more and more into a cynical egoist, 
 sensualist, and hater of his next heir (the Buccleuch, 
 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 knew 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 con- 
 tinued 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
 
 EDWARD IRVING 5 
 
 various kinds of Farmers, cultivated, monied, scien- 
 tific 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 neighbourhood, 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 believe. 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 probaSly 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 
 simplicity and freedom (as of a man in 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 
 (the two eldest near Ecclefechan, and known to me), 
 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, — some honest 
 little farmer, he too, I conclude. 
 
 Their mother, Edward Irving's aged grandmother,
 
 REMINISCENCES 
 
 I well remember to have seen, once, perhaps twice, 
 at her son George's fireside ; a good old woman, 
 half in dotage, and the only creature I ever saw 
 spinning with a distaff and no other apparatus but 
 tow or wool. — All these Irvings were of blond or 
 even of red complexion ; red hair a prevailing or 
 sole colour in several of their families. Gavin was 
 himself 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. [Stop 
 for the day, 14/// September.'] 
 
 One of the circumstances of Irving's boyhood 
 ought not to be neglected by his Biographers : the 
 remarkable schoolmaster he had. " Old Adam 
 Hope," perhaps not yet fifty in Irving's time, was 
 all along a notability in Annan. 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 reading in 
 Salliist with him, on one such occasion, and how 
 he read it, and drilled us in it ; and I have often 
 enough seen him teach ; and knew him well enough. 
 A bony, strong-built, 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 
 in clean frugal rustic clothes ; in his schoolroom.
 
 EDWARD IRVING 
 
 bare-headed, hands usually crossed over back, and 
 with his effective leather strap (" Cat',' as he called 
 it, not tazvsc, 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 were very visible, as his mouth usually wore 
 a settled humanely -contemptuous grin, " Nothing 
 good to be expected from yoii, or from those you 
 come of, ye little whelps ; but we must get from 
 you the best you have, and not complain of any- 
 thing : " this was what the grin seemed to say ; but 
 the black teeth {Jet-black, for he chewed tobacco 
 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 
 humanely contemptuous of the world ; and valued 
 "suffrages" at a most low figure, in comparison ; — 
 I should judge, an extremely 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 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, 
 English 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
 
 8 REMINISCENCES 
 
 young idea, so far as he could carry it, you might 
 have searched for through the world in vain. Self- 
 delusion, half- knowledge, sham instead of reality, 
 could not get existed in his presence. He had a 
 Socratic way wnth him ; would accept the poor 
 hapless pupil's half-knowledge, or plausible sham of 
 knowledge, with a kind of welcome, " Hvi, Jim, yes ;" 
 then gently enough begin a chain of inquiries more 
 and more surprising to the poor pupil, till he had 
 reduced him to zero, to mere non plus ultra, and the 
 dismal perception that his sham of knowledge had 
 been flat misknowledge with a spice of dishonesty 
 added. This was what he called " making a boy 
 fast." For the poor boy had to sit in his place, 
 under arrest all day, or day after day, meditating 
 those dismal new -revealed facts, and beating in- 
 effectually his poor brains for some solution of the 
 mystery, and feasible road out. He might apply 
 again at pleasure ; " I have made it out. Sir : " but 
 if again found self-deluded, wanting, it was only a 
 new padlock to those fastenings of his. They were 
 very miserable to the poor penitent, or impenitent, 
 wretch. 
 
 I remember my Father's once describing to us, 
 a call he had made on Hope, during the mid-day 
 hour of interval ; whom he found reading or writing 
 something not having cared to lock the door and 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,
 
 EDWARD IRVING 
 
 had a kind of cat-pleasure in surveying and playing 
 with these captive mice, — which was to turn out so 
 beneficial withal. He did not much use the leather 
 strap, I believe, though it always dangled ready ; 
 but contented himself with these spiritual agonies 
 of " making fast," instead. 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 educate) and 
 make available the net amount of faculty discoverable 
 in each, and separate firmly the known from the 
 unknown or misknown 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 such strange 
 draperies, and huge superstructures so foreign to it, 
 something of that old primeval basis of rigorous 
 logic and clear articulation 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 neighbours. I consider 
 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 Ecclefechan Meeting-house 
 (my venerable Mr. Johnston's hearer on Sundays, 
 as will be afterwards noted) ; younger kindred, 
 cousins of his, excellent honest people, I have since
 
 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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. Breakfast (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 Bibles, Psalm and Chapter always 
 part of the service) : David was putting on his 
 spectacles, when somebody rushed in, " Such a 
 raging wind risen ; will drive the stocks (shocks) 
 into the sea if let alone ! " " Wind ? " answered 
 David ; " Wind canna 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 millionaire Hebrews, Rothschild 
 money-changers, Demosthenic Disraelis, and inspired
 
 EDWARD IRVING ii 
 
 young Goschens, and their " unexampled prosperity." 
 Weep, Britain, if these latter are among the honour- 
 able you now have ! — 
 
 One other circumstance that peculiarly deserves 
 note in Irving's young life, and perhaps the only 
 other one, is also connected with Adam Hope : 
 Irving's young religion. Annandale was not an 
 irreligious country, — though Annan itself (owing to 
 a drunken Clergyman, and the logical habits they 
 cultivated) was more given to sceptical free-thinking 
 than other places ; — the greatly prevailing fashion 
 was, a decent form of devoutness, and pious theoretic- 
 ally anxious regard for things Sacred ; in all which 
 the Irving Household stood fairly on a level with its 
 neighbours, 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 
 profane, I believe, or of the least tendency that way, 
 was usually seen, or would have been suffered with- 
 out protest and grave rebuke in Irving's environment 
 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 ungenteel 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 inves-
 
 REMINISCENCES 
 
 tigations into men and things. I concluded it would 
 be generally so over Scotland ; but found when I 
 went north, to Edinburgh, Glasgow, Fife, etc., that it 
 was not, or by no means so perceptibly was. For 
 the rest, all Dissent in Scotland is merely a stricter 
 adherence to the National Kirk in all points ; and 
 the then Dissenterage is definable to moderns simply 
 as a " Free Kirk making no noise." It had quietly 
 (about 1740), after much haggle and remonstrance, 
 " seceded," 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 sacredest it could. Not that there 
 was not something of rigour, of severity ; a lean- 
 minded controversial spirit among certain brethren, 
 (mostly of the laity, I think); "narrow-nebs" (nar- 
 row of ?ieb, 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," which you were now 
 the bearers of), there was little, almost no talk, 
 especially no preaching at all about " patronage," or 
 secular controversy ; but all turned on the weightier 
 and universal matters of the Law, and was con- 
 siderably entitled 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 modern vesture, and Poor
 
 EDWARD IRVING 13 
 
 Scholars and Gentlemen of Christ," I have nowhere 
 met with in Monasteries or Churches, among Pro- 
 testant or Papal Clergy, in any country of the 
 world. — All this is altered utterly at present, I 
 grieve to say ; and gone to as good as nothing or 
 worse. It began to alter just about that 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-consciousness, 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 Congregation," 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 Eccle- 
 fechan, 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 
 distance, a six miles twice, was nothing singular in 
 their case ; one family, whose streaming plaids, hung 
 up to drip, I remember to have noticed one wet
 
 14 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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 phasis of things ; — quite 
 vanished now, with whatever of divine and good 
 was in it, and whatever of merely human and not 
 so good. From reflection of his own, aided no 
 doubt, or perhaps awakened by study of Adam 
 Hope and his example (for I think there would 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 Ecclefechan for Sermon, listening, and occasionally 
 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 readiness in school 
 lessons. John had quite refused this Ecclefechan 
 adventure, and no doubt done what he could to 
 prevent it ; for father and mother looked on it, like- 
 wise, with dubious or disapproving eye, " 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 recognising 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 : "Wullie Drummond," a little man with 
 mournful goggle-eyes, a tailor I almost think ; and 
 "Joe Blacklock " {Blai-Iock), a rickety stocking-
 
 EDWARD IRVING 15 
 
 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, was never shrieky or narrow ; 
 but even in his last times with their miserable 
 troubles and confusions spoke always with a sonor- 
 ous 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 
 Annandale 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 ; 
 and 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 biggest Cathedral then extant could 
 have been. Rude, rustic, bare, no Temple in the 
 world was more so ; — but there were sacred lam- 
 bencies, 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 portraits
 
 1 6 REMINISCENCES 
 
 are yet clear to me as in a mirror, — their heavy- 
 laden, patient, ever-attentive faces ; fallen solitary, 
 most of them, children all away, wife away for ever 
 (or it might be wife still there ; one such case I well 
 remember, wife constant like a shadow and grown 
 very like her old man); the thrifty, cleanly poverty 
 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, whom sometimes I would be questioning 
 about these persons of the drama, and endeavouring 
 to describe and identify them to her, for that purpose. 
 Oh, 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 age, 
 and was reasonably becoming alive in the place and 
 its interests : — I remember to have felt some human 
 curiosity and satisfaction, when the noted Edward 
 Irving, English -master Hope escorting, introduced 
 himself in our Latin Class-room, one bright forenoon. 
 
 ^ Carlyle writes in 1866 : " INIythically tntc is what Sartor says of 
 his Schoolfellows, and not half of the truth. Unspeakable is the damage 
 and defilement I got out of those coarse unguided tyrannous cubs, — 
 especially till I revolted against them, and gave stroke for stroke ; as 
 my pious Mother, in her great love of peace and of my best interests, 
 spiritual chiefly, had imprudently forbidd^en me to do."
 
 EDWARD IRVING 17 
 
 Hope was essentially the introducer : this was our 
 " Rector's " Class-room ; Irving's visit to the school 
 had been specially to Adam Hope, his own old 
 teacher, — who now brought him down, nothing loth. 
 Perhaps our Mathematics gentleman, one Morley 
 (an excellent Cumberland man, whom I loved much, 
 and who taught me well), had also stept in, in honour 
 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 occupying 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 or fifteen minutes, trans- 
 acted itself in a standing posture there. We were 
 all of us attentive with eye and ear, — or as attentive 
 as we durst be, while, by theory, " preparing our 
 lessons." Irving was scrupulously dressed, black 
 coat, ditto tight pantaloons in the fashion of the 
 day ; clerical 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, decidedly 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 Edin- 
 burgh, of this Professor and of that, and their merits 
 and methods (" 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 
 VOL. II. C
 
 1 8 REMINISCENCES 
 
 that time totally non- extant to me) ; for the one 
 particular I clearly recollect was something from 
 Irving about new doctrines, by somebody (doubtless 
 Leslie), " concerning the circle ; " which last word 
 he pronounced " cirr///," with a certain preciosity, 
 which was noticeable slightly in other parts of his 
 behaviour. Shortly after this of " circul," he court- 
 eously (had been very courteous all the time, and 
 unassuming in the main), made his bow ; and the 
 interview melted instantly away. For seven 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 (by competition at Dumfries, summer 18 14) 
 to be " Mathematical Master " in Annan Academy, 
 with some potential outlook on Divinity as ultima- 
 tum (a rural " Divinity Student," visiting Edinburgh 
 for a few days each year, and " delivering " certain 
 " Discourses ; " six years of that would bring you to 
 the Church-^d'/r, as four years of continuous " Divinity 
 Hall" would; — unlucky only that, in my 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 in my Annan business : I was supporting myself 
 (even saving some few pounds of my poor £60 or
 
 EDWARD IRVING 19 
 
 £'jo 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 lone- 
 some, uncomfortable and out of place there. Didn't 
 go and visit the people there (" ought to have pushed 
 myself in a little, and sought or silently invited 
 invitations," such their form of social politeness, — 
 which I was far too shy and proud to be able for) ; 
 had the character of morose, dissocial, etc. etc. ; — 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 or two I had in the neighbourhood (Mr. 
 Church of Hitchill, and his wife. 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 Schoolmaster function 
 it was never said I niisdid it much (" a clear and 
 correct " expositor and enforcer) : but from the first, 
 especially with such adjuncts, I disliked it, and by 
 swift degrees grew to hate it more and more. Some 
 four years, in all, I had of it, two in Annan, two 
 in Kirkcaldy (under much improved social accom- 
 paniments) ; — and at the end, my solitary desperate 
 conclusion was fixed. That I, for my own part, 
 would prefer to perish in the ditch, if necessary, 
 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
 
 20 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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 every- 
 thing there (alas ! there was one little Pupil he had 
 there, with her prettiest little " pciuia, pcjDicE'' from 
 under the table, and "let me be a boy, too, Papa!"^ — 
 who was to be of endless moment, and 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 certainly might have had a tendency, 
 hadn't I struggled against it, and tried to make it 
 emulation, " 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 
 betrumpeting 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 glhinte i/iin" as the Germans 
 phrase it ; but in all strictness nothing inot'e. 
 
 About Christmas 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, " Niim detiir Religio 
 naturalis ? " It was the second, and proved to be 
 the last, of my performances on that theatre ; my 
 first, an English Sermon on the words, " Before I 
 was afflicted I went astray, but now," etc., a very 
 weak and flowery sentimental Piece, had been 
 achieved in 181 4, prior to or few months after 
 
 ^ See supra, vol. i. p. 73 n.
 
 EDWARD IRVING 
 
 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 " approba- 
 tions," 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. 
 
 One night, I had gone over to Rose Street to a 
 certain Mr. (afterwards Dr.) Waugh's there, — who was 
 a kind of maternal cousin or half-cousin of my own ; 
 had been my school -comrade (several years older), 
 item my predecessor in the Annan " Mathematical 
 Mastership " {ininicdiatc successor, he, of Morley), 
 and a great favourite in Annan Society in com- 
 parison with some, — and who, though not without 
 gifts, proved gradually to be intrinsically a good 
 deal of a fool, and by his insolvencies and confused 
 futilities, as " Doctor " there in his native place, has left 
 a kind of remembrance, ludicrous, partly contempt- 
 uous, though not without kindliness too, and even 
 something of respect. His Father, with whom I 
 had been boarded while a scholar at Annan, was 
 one of the most respectable and yet laughable 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
 
 22 REMINISCENCES 
 
 Waugh senior, and even of Waugh junior, there 
 might be considerable gossiping and quizzical de- 
 tailing ; 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 
 Avith so interminable a preface to one of the smallest 
 incidents conceivable ! 
 
 I was sitting in Waugh junior's that evening, 
 not too vigorously conversing, when Waugh's door 
 went open ; and there stept-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 duly welcomed ; 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 lips 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 minute 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 answer 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
 
 EDWARD IRVING 23 
 
 tyrannous to me (far the reverse his mood, at all 
 times, towards all men !) — but there was, I conjecture, 
 something of conscious unquestionable superiority, 
 of careless natural de Jiaut en bas, which fretted on 
 me, and which might be rendering my answers more 
 and more succinct. Nay, my small knowledge itself 
 was failing; and I had, more than once, on certain 
 
 points (as " Has Mrs. got a baby? Is it son 
 
 or daughter?" and the like) to answer candidly, "I 
 don't 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 in- 
 quisitor, or have you authority to question people, 
 and cross-question, at discretion ? I 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, by perhaps Irving himself in a sort ; — 
 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 alto- 
 gether hide it from me, while the interview still 
 lasted, which 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
 
 24 REMINISCENCES 
 
 of this small unpleasant 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 manners, 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 poor old Wife 
 had died on 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, no doubt), who seemed to be kindly taking 
 a sort of lead in the little managements. He con- 
 ducted worship, I remember ; " taking of the Book," 
 which was the only fit thing we could settle to ; and 
 he did it in a free-flowing, modest and altogether 
 appropriate manner, — '^ pj'ecenting" (or leading off 
 the Psalm) too himself, his voice melodiously strong, 
 his tune St. PanTs, 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, Edin-
 
 EDWARD IRVING 25 
 
 burgh, he quickly and for ever ended them, by a 
 friendliness which, on 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 
 relieved 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, rumours 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 ! " — Jiivi, the least cruel of 
 men, but expected and obliged 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 Irving, 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 Ilumc have his £2$ of salary, and
 
 26 REMINISCENCES 
 
 go, the lazy, efYete old creature : we will apply again 
 to Professors Christison and Leslie, the same who 
 sent us Irving, to send us anotJier ' 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 
 another " Mr. Irving Carlyle," an older, considerably 
 bigger boy, with flaming red hair, wild buck-teeth, 
 and scorched complexion, and the ivorst Latinist of 
 all my acquaintance; — so 'dark' was the good 
 Professor's ' class-room,' physically and otherwise), — 
 I learnt, much to my surprise and gratification, 
 " That Professor Leslie had been with him ; that 
 etc. etc. (as above) ; and, in brief, that I was the 
 nominee if I would accept." Several letters passed 
 on the subject ; and it had been settled, shortly 
 before this meeting with Irving, that I was, in my 
 near Vacation time (end of August) to visit Kirk- 
 caldy, 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 described. Noble, I must say, when you 
 put it altogether ! Room for plenty of the vul- 
 garest peddling feelings there was, and there must 
 still have been between us ; had either of us, 
 especially had Irving, been of Pedlar nature. And 
 I can say there could no two Kaisers, not Charle- 
 magne and Barbarossa, had they neighboured one 
 another in the Empire of Europe, been more 
 completely rid of all that sordcs, than were we 
 two Schoolmasters in the Burgh of Kirkcaldy. 
 I made my visit (August coming), which was full 
 of interest to me, saw St. Andrews etc.; saw
 
 EDWARD IRVING 27 
 
 a fine, frank, wholesome -looking 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, 
 while I first came along the street of Kirkcaldy on 
 the sunny afternoon (August i 8 1 6), and with blithe 
 looks and words had pointed out where his Brother 
 lived (a biggish simple house on the ^sands). The 
 luhen 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 ; and 
 said, cheerily flinging out his arms, " Upon all 
 these, you have luill and waygate" an expressive 
 Annandale phrase of the completest welcome ; 
 which I failed not of using by and by. I also 
 recollect lodging for a night or two nights with 
 him about that time, — bright moonshine, waves 
 all dancing and glancing out of window, and 
 beautifully humming and lullabying on that fine 
 long sandy beach, where he and I so often walked 
 and communed afterwards. From 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 con- 
 quest, 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
 
 28 REMINISCENCES 
 
 1 8 1 9, I think) a happy season in comparison, 
 and a genially useful. Youth itself, healthy well- 
 intending youth, is so full of opulences ! I always 
 rather like Kirkcaldy to this day ; Aiinafi the 
 reverse rather, still, when its gueiiseries come into 
 my head, and my own solitary quasi -ejichanted 
 position among them, — unpermitted to kick them 
 into the sea ! 
 
 Irving's Library was of great use to me : Gibbon, 
 Hume, etc. etc., I think I must have read it almost 
 through; — inconceivable to me now, with what 
 ardour, with^ what greedy velocity, 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, perhaps not more than 
 I now do ; but his winged sarcasms, so quiet, and 
 yet so conclusively transpiercing, and killing dead, 
 were often admirable potent and illuminative to 
 me ; nor did I fail to recognise his grand power of 
 investigating, ascertaining, of grouping and nar- 
 rating, — though the latter had always, then as now, 
 something of a Drury-Lane character ; the colours 
 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 
 r Astronomic, ancient and also modern, which con- 
 siderably disappointed me) ; on Irving's shelves 
 were the small Didot French Classics in quantity,
 
 EDWARD IRVING 29 
 
 with my appetite sharp : I must have read (of 
 French and English, for I don't recollect much 
 Classicality, only something of mathematics in in- 
 termittent 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 substance 
 of what they handled, and of what conclusions they 
 came to ; this he possessed, and could produce, in 
 an honest manner always, when occasion came : — 
 he delighted to hear me give accounts of my read- 
 ing, which were often enough a theme between us, 
 and to me as well a pleasant and profitable one ; — 
 he had gathered, by natural sagacity and insight, 
 from conversation and inquiry, a great deal of 
 practical knowledge, or 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 sym- 
 pathies, his native sagacities, honest -heartedness 
 and good-humour, made him the most delightful 
 of companions. Such colloquies and rich rovings 
 about, in bright scenes, in talk or in silence, I have 
 never had since. 
 
 The beach of Kirkcaldy, in summer twilights, a 
 mile of the smoothest sand, with one long wave 
 coming on, gently, steadily, and breaking in gradual 
 explosio7i, accurately gradual, into harmless melodious 
 zvhite, at your hand all the way (the b7-cak of it, 
 rushing along like a mane of foam, beautifully
 
 30 REMINISCEiXCES 
 
 sounding and advancing, ran from south to north, 
 from West-burn to Kirkcaldy Harbour, through the 
 whole mile's distance): this was a favourite scene ; 
 beautiful to me still, in the far-away. We roved in 
 the woods, too, sometimes till all was dark. I re- 
 member very pleasant strolls to Dysart ; and once 
 or twice to the Caves and queer old Saltworks of 
 Wemyss. Once, on a memorable Saturday, we 
 made pilgrimage, to hear Dr. Chalmers at Dun- 
 fermline on the morrow. It was on the inducting 
 a young Mr. Chalmers as Minister there (Chalmers 
 niinivms, 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 Inver- 
 keithing, — where we lodged, still in a touchingly 
 beautiful manner (host the Schoolmaster, one 
 Douglas from Haddington, a clever old acquaint- 
 ance of Irving's, in after years a Radical Editor 
 of mark ; whose wife, for thrifty order, admiration 
 of her husband, etc. etc., was a model and exemplar) : 
 four miles next morning to Dunfermline and its 
 crowded day ; Chalmers Maximus not disappointing, 
 — and the fourteen miles, home 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
 
 EDWARD IRVING 31 
 
 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 diligently walking 
 for exercise, no observation being possible, though 
 the day was so bright. No admittance, however : 
 plenty of fine " County peojole " had come up ; to 
 whom the Official had been coldly monosyllabic, — 
 as to us also he was ; polite, with a shade of con- 
 tempt ; and unwilling to let himself into speech. 
 Irving had great skill in these cases ; he remarked, 
 and led us into remarking, courteously this and that 
 about the famous Ramsden and his Instrument, about 
 the famous Trigonometrical Survey and so forth, till 
 the Official, in a few minutes, had to melt ; invited 
 us exceptionally in for an actual inspection 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 factd ; were to lodge in Leslie, other or 
 north side, with the Minister there, where, possibly 
 enough, Irving had engaged to preach for him next 
 day. I do remember a sight of Falkland ruined 
 Palace, black, sternly impressive on mc, 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 remember ;
 
 REMINlSCEiYCES 
 
 and a certain tragical Countess of Rothes, — she had 
 been a girl at school in London, fatherless ; in 
 morning walks in the Regent's Park she had noticed 
 a young gardener, had transiently glanced into him, 
 he into her, and had ended by marrying him ; to the 
 horror of Society, and ultimately of herself, I sup- 
 pose, for he seemed to be a poor little commonplace 
 creature, as he stood there beside her. She was now 
 elderly ; a stately woman, of resolute look though 
 slightly sad, and didn't seem to be soliciting pity. 
 Her I clearly remember ; but not who preached, or 
 what : — and, indeed, 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 one of 
 the rashest. There were three of us, Irving's Assist- 
 ant the third (a hardy, clever kind of man named 
 Donaldson, of Aberdeen origin. Professor Christison's 
 Nephew, whom I always rather liked, but who before 
 long, as he could never burst the shell of expert 
 schoolmastering and gerund-grinding, got parted 
 from me nearly altogether) ; our vessel was a row- 
 boat belonging to some neighbour ; in fact, a mere 
 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 ; 
 original aim had been as follows : — A certain Mr. 
 Glen, Burgher Minister at Annan, with whom I had 
 latterly boarded there, and been (domestically) very 
 happy in comparison, had since, after painful and 
 most undeserved treatment from his contentious 
 congregation, seen himself obliged to quit the 
 barren wasp's nest of a thing altogether, and with
 
 EDWARD IRVING 33 
 
 his wife and young family embark on a missionary 
 career, which had been his earhest thought, — as 
 Conscience now reproachfully reminded him, among 
 other considerations. He was a most pure and 
 excellent man ; of correct superior intellect, and 
 of much modest piety and amiability. Things 
 were at last all ready ; and he and his were come 
 to Edinburgh, to embark for Astrachan, — where or 
 whereabouts, accordingly, he continued diligent, 
 zealous, for many years, and was widely esteemed, 
 not by the missionary classes alone. Irving as 
 well as I had an affectionate regard for Glen ; 
 and on a Saturday, eve of Glen's last Sunday 
 in Edinburgh, had come across with me to bid 
 his brave wife and him farewell : — Edinburgh, from 
 Saturday afternoon till the last boat on Sunday 
 evening, this was every now and then a cheery 
 little adventure of ours, always possible again, after 
 the due pause. We found the Glens in an Inn 
 in the Grass Market, much hurried about, and 
 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 " (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 manse, I stopped 
 to take leave, Mrs. Glen alone was there for me 
 (Glen 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 
 for the last time and said, " Farewell, then ; good 
 be ever with you," she shot all pale as paper ; and 
 
 VOL. II. 1)
 
 34 REMINISCENCES 
 
 we parted mournfully without a word more. This 
 sudden paleness of the spirited woman stuck in my 
 heart like an arrow. All that night, and for some 
 three days more, I had such a bitterness of sorrow 
 as I hardly recollect otherwise : " Parting sadder 
 than by death," thought I (in my foolish inexperi- 
 ence !) — " these good people are to live, and we 
 are never to behold each other more !" Strangely, 
 too, after about four days it went quite ofT, 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 our- 
 selves 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 
 nautical conclusions none could be falser, more 
 ignorant : but we instantly set about executing it ; 
 hailed Donaldson, who was somewhere within reach ; 
 shoved " Robic 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 intercept that outward-bound 
 big ship. Irving, I think, though the strongest of 
 us, rather preferred the liclin post, then and after- 
 wards, and did not much take the oar when he could 
 honourably 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 intercept that big ship. Short
 
 EDWARD IRVING 35 
 
 counsel, thereupon ; and determination, probably on 
 iny hint, to make for Inchkcith 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) ; 
 and stept ashore towards the Lighthouse which was 
 near. 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 bed-qitilts as it were, of weak 
 dishevelled barley trying to grow under difficulties; 
 these, except perhaps a square yard or two of potatoes 
 equally ill off, were the only attempt at crop : in- 
 habitants none except these seven cows and the 
 lighthouse-keeper and his family. Conies probably 
 abounded, but these were fcrce natiira;, and didn't 
 show face. In a slight hollow about the centre 
 of the Island (whole 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 the " 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 still, what foul creatures 
 these Russian sailors were ; how (for one thing) in 
 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 wreck of white wooden
 
 36 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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 picturesque, 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 shining like a new shilling : a kindly 
 man withal : yet in every feature of face and voice 
 telling you : " Behold the victim of unspeakable 
 ennui 1" We got from him, down below, refection 
 of the best biscuits and new-milk ; I think almost 
 the best in both kinds 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 little boat, seemed to me 
 the beautifullest I had ever beheld : Sun just about 
 setting straight 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 land- 
 scape, on all hands of us ; and reaching right under 
 foot (as I remember), came a broad pillar as of gold
 
 EDWARD IRVING 37 
 
 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 ; day- 
 light evidently going to end by and by. Kirkcaldy 
 was some five miles off, and probably the tide not 
 in our favour. Gradually the stars came out, and 
 Kirkcaldy crept under its coverlid, showing 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 accident ; not the least ill-luck. 
 Donaldson, and perhaps 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 sufficiently what 
 a misery and tremor for us various friends had 
 been in. 
 
 This was the small adventure to Inchkeith. Glen 
 and family returned 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 
 testimonies, 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 son, earnestly solicited and urged me to 
 help ; which I did zealously ; and, by continual dun- 
 ning of the Duke of Argyll (whom I did not then 
 personally know, and who was very good and patient 
 with me), an annual £>^o was at last got; upon 
 which, Mrs. Glen, adding it to some other small 
 resources, could frugally but comfortably live. This
 
 38 REMINISCENCES 
 
 must have been in 1853. I remember the young 
 Glen's continual importunity, in the midst of my 
 FriedricJi incipiencies, 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 the dark valley she was now travelling ! When 
 she died (Christmas day, 1853), one of my reflections 
 was, " Too late for ha', that little bit of kindness ; 
 my last poor effort, and it came too late !" That is 
 always a date for it to me. Young Glen, with his 
 too profuse thanks etc., was again rather importunate ; 
 poor young soul, he is since dead. His Mother 
 appeared in person, one morning, at my door in 
 Edinburgh (last spring, in those Rector hurries and 
 hurlyburlies, now so sad to me), T. Erskine just 
 leading me off somewhither : an aged decent widow ; 
 looking kindly on me and modestly thankful ; so 
 changed I could not have recognised a feature of 
 her. How tragic to one is the sight of "old friends," 
 — a thing I always really shrink from, such has my 
 lot been ! — 
 
 Irving's visits and mine to Edinburgh were mostly 
 together, and had always their attraction for us, in 
 the meeting with old acquaintances 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 information ; no aspiration beyond (on the 
 best possible terms) bread and cheese ; their talk in 
 good part was little other than gossip and more or 
 less ingenious giggle. We lived habitually, by their 
 means, in a kind of Edinburgh element, not in the
 
 EDWARD IRVING 39 
 
 still barer Kirkcaldy one ; and that was all. Irving 
 now and then perhaps called on some City Clergy- 
 man ; but seemed to have little esteem of them, by 
 his reports to me afterwards. I myself, by this time, 
 was indifferent on that head. On one of those visits 
 my last feeble tatter of connection with Divinity 
 Hall affairs or Clerical outlooks was allowed to snap 
 itself, and fall definitely to the ground (Old " Dr. 
 Ritchie not at home," when I called to enter my- 
 self^; — "Good," answered I ; "let the omen be ful- 
 filled!") 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 remember is his often, and notable 
 preaching, in those Kirkcaldy years of mine. This 
 gave him an interest in conspicuous clergymen (even 
 if stupid), which I had not. Stupid those Edinburgh 
 Clergy were not all by any means ; but narrow, 
 ignorant, and barren to us two,- they without excep- 
 tion were. 
 
 In Kirkcaldy circles (for poor Kirkcaldy had its 
 circles, and even its West-End, much more genial to 
 me than Annan used to be) Irving and I seldom or 
 never met ; he little frequented them, I hardly 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 where, for his sake partly, I was 
 always welcome. There was a feeble intellectu- 
 ality current here, the Minister a precise, innocent, 
 didactic kind of man ; and I now and then was will- 
 
 ^ This was in March 181 7. 
 2 Irving was licensed to preach, at Kirkcaldy, in June 1S15.
 
 40 REMINISCENCES 
 
 ing enough to step in, — though various boys and 
 girls went cackHng about ; and Martin himself was 
 pretty much the only item I really liked. The girls 
 were some of them grown up, . . . yet even these, 
 strange to say, in the great rarity of the article and 
 my ardent devotion to it, were without charm to me. 
 Martin himself had a kind of cheery grace and 
 sociality of way (though much afflicted by dyspcpsiii) ; 
 a clear-minded, brotherly, well-intentioned man, and, 
 bating a certain glimmer of vanity which always 
 looked through, altogether honest, wholesome as 
 Scotch oatmeal.^ 
 
 Irving's preachings as a Licentiate (or ' Proba- 
 tioner ' waiting for fixed appointment) were always 
 interesting to whoever had acquaintance with him, 
 especially to me, who was his intimate. Mixed with 
 but little of self-comparison or other dangerous in- 
 gredient, indeed with loyal recognition on the part 
 of most of us, and without any grudging or hidden 
 envy, we enjoyed the broad potency of his delinea- 
 tions, exhortations and free flowing eloquences, which 
 had all a manly and original turn ; and then after- 
 wards there was sure to be, on the part of the public, 
 a great deal of criticising pro and contra, which also 
 had its entertainment for us. From the first, Irving 
 
 ^ In the passage omitted here, Carlyle goes on to say that Irving 
 became engaged to Miss Martin, whom he afterwards (in 1823) married, 
 and that Carlyle did not approve of her influence over Irving. It would 
 be unpardonable to reprint the passage, — all the more as Carlyle had, 
 in Letters written while he was a guest in Irving's house in London, 
 spoken approvingly of Mrs. Irving as a prudent, judicious housewife, 
 and gratefully of her kindness to him, — facts, which in those dark days 
 of sad reminiscences, he appears to have forgotten.
 
 EDWARD IRVING 41 
 
 read his discourses, but not in a servile manner ; and 
 of attitude, gesture, elocution, there was no neglect : — 
 his voice was very fine ; melodious depth, strength, 
 clearness its chief characteristics ; I have heard more 
 pathetic voices, going more direct to the heart, both 
 in the way of indignation and of pity, but recollect 
 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 example also, I suppose, I owe something of 
 my own poor affectations in that matter, which are 
 now more or less visible to me, much repented of or 
 not. We were all taught at that time, by Coleridge 
 etc., that the old English Dramatists, Divines, Philoso- 
 phers, judicious Hooker, Milton, Sir Thomas Browne, 
 were the genuine exemplars ; which I also tried to 
 believe, but never rightly could as a lohole. The 
 young must learn to speak by imitation of the Older 
 who already 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 that is not quite trivial 
 to express to your contemporaries, you will find such 
 rule a great deal more difficult to follow than many 
 people think ! 
 
 On the whole, poor Irving's style was sufficiently
 
 42 REMINISCENCES 
 
 surprising to his hide -bound Presbyterian public ; 
 and this was but a sHght circumstance to the novelty 
 of the matter he set forth upon them. Actual 
 practice : " 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 astonishment and deep offence of hide- 
 bound mankind. There was doubtless something 
 of rashness in the young Irving's way of preaching ; 
 nor perhaps quite enough of pure, complete and 
 serious conviction (which ought to have lain silent 
 a good while before it took to speaking) : in general 
 I own to have felt that there was present 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 middle-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
 
 EDWARD IRVING 43 
 
 past my right hand, and vanished out of doors with 
 a slam ; Irving quite victoriously disregarding. I 
 remember the violently angry face well enough, but 
 not the least what offence there could have been. 
 A kind of, " Who are you, Sir, that dare to tutor us 
 in that manner, 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 
 perhaps 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 qualities. 
 
 In vacation time, twice over, I made a walking 
 Tour with him : First time, I think (but I cannot 
 fix the chronology exactly, though it must lie in 
 Letters still hidden here) was to the Trosachs, and 
 home by Loch Lomond, Greenock, Glasgow etc. ; 
 many parts of which are still vivid to me. This 
 was probably in 181 y} The Tour generally was 
 to be of four ; one Pears, who was Irving's house- 
 mate or even landlord, Schoolmaster of Abbotshall, 
 i.e., of ' The Links,' or soiitJieru cxtra-biirghal part 
 of Kirkcaldy, a cheerful scatter-brained creature, 
 who went ultimately as Preacher or Professor of 
 something to the Cape of Good Hope ; and one 
 Brown (James Brown), who had succeeded Irving 
 in Haddington, and was now Tutor somewhere : 
 Tour finally of four, but the full rally was not to 
 be till Stirling ; even Pears was gone ahead ; — and 
 
 ' Carlyle's conjecture is correct. It was in 181 7.
 
 44 REAIINISCENCES 
 
 Irving and I (after an official dinner with the 
 burghal dignitaries of Kirkcaldy, who strove to be 
 pleasant), set out together, on a gray August even- 
 ing, by Forth sands towards Torryburn. Pears was 
 to have beds ready for us there ; and we cheerily 
 walked along, our mostly dark and intricate twenty- 
 two miles : but Pears had nothing scrviccahly ready, 
 — we could not even discover Pears, at that dead 
 hour (two A.M.) ; and had a good deal of groping and 
 adventuring before a poor Inn opened to us, with 
 two coarse clean beds, in which we instantly fell 
 asleep. Pears did in person rouse us next morning 
 about six ; but we concordantly met him with mere 
 "ah-ah's," and inarticulate hootings of satirical 
 rebuke, to such extent that Pears, conscious 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 remember 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 patiently a large tankard of 
 " penny -wheep " (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 River ; one of the most impressive sights. 
 Our march to Stirling was under pouring rain for 
 most part ; but I recollect enjoying the romance of
 
 EDWARD IRVING 45 
 
 it. " Kincardine, Culross {Cjiras), 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 rains, welcome too was the inside of 
 Stirling, with its fine warm inn, and the excellent 
 refection and thorough drying and refitting we got 
 there ; Pears and Brown looking pleasantly on ; 
 who made a pleasant day of strolling and sight- 
 seeing with us (day now very fine, Stirling all 
 washed), till we marched for Doune in the evening 
 (Brig of Teith, " iwicc of waters," " blue and arrowy 
 Teith," — Irving and I took that byway, in the dusk) ; 
 to breakfast 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 
 of Keir) ; — almost surprising to me how mournful it 
 was to ' look on this picture and on that ' at an 
 interval of fifty years ! — 
 
 Irving was in a sort the Captain of our expedi- 
 tion ; had been there before ; could recommend every- 
 thing, — was made (unjustly by us) quasi-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 unacceptable 
 whisky, or the " Mr. Stewart " who somewhat royally 
 presided over it, and dispensed these dainties, ex- 
 pecting to be flattered like an independency, as well 
 as paid like an innkeeper. Poor Irving could not
 
 46 REMINISCENCES 
 
 help it : — but in fine the rains, the hardships, the ill 
 diet were beginning to act on us all ; and I could 
 perceive we were in danger (what I have since found 
 usual) of splitting into two parties ; Brown (eight or 
 ten years my senior) leader of the Opposition, myself 
 considerably flattered by him ; though not seduced 
 by him into factious courses, only led to see how 
 strong poor Pears 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 ot 
 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, or were 
 like to be, divisions of vote in the walking Parlia- 
 ment, two against two ; and had there not been at 
 this point, by a kind of outward and legitimate 
 reason, what proved very sanatory in the case, an 
 actual division of routes, the folly might have lasted 
 longer and become audible and visible, which it 
 never did. Sailing up Loch Katrine, in the top or 
 unpicturesque part, Irving and Pears settled with us 
 (house fully heard) that only we two should go across 
 Loch Lomond, round by Tarbet, Roseneath, Greenock; 
 they meanwhile making direct for Paisley country 
 (where they had business) ; and so on stepping out, 
 and paying our boatman, they said adieu, and at 
 once struck leftward, 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-wheep " with the gas 
 gone out of it ! Stop to-day, ^tk October 1866.]
 
 EDWARD IRVING 47 
 
 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 
 flavoured just to the right pitch with something of 
 anxiety and sense of danger. The sinking sun threw 
 his reflexes on a tame-looking House with many 
 windows, some way to our right, — the " Kharrison 
 oi Infcrsnaidt'"^ (an ancient Kw\A-Rob Roy establish- 
 ment), as two rough Highland wayfarers had lately 
 informed us ; other house or person we did not see ; 
 but made for the shoulder of Ben Lomond and the 
 Boatman's Hut, partly, I think, by the Stars. Boat- 
 man 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, and 
 several miles broad here, had their due impression 
 on us) correctly to Tarbet, 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, or even of ditto rustic butter- 
 milk. 
 
 Brown and I did very well on our separate branch 
 of pilgrimage ; pleasant walk and talk down to the 
 west margin of the Loch (incomparable among 
 Lochs or Lakes yet known to me), past Smollett's 
 Pillar ;" emerge pleasantly on Helensburgh, on the 
 
 ' "The Garrison of Invcrsnaiil," in the county of Stirling, about 
 three miles north of Ben Lomond. 
 
 - A jjillar, erected to tlie memory of Smollett, in 1774, which stands
 
 REMINISCENCES 
 
 view of Greenock, and across to Roseneath Manse, 
 where with a Rev. Mr. Story, not yet quite inducted, 
 — whose Life has since been pubhshed,^ — 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 
 Haddington neighbourhood, saw some time after, 
 incidentally, a certain Bright Figure, to whom I am 
 obliged to him at this moment for speaking favour- 
 ably of me ! " Talent plenty ; fine vein of satire in 
 him !" something like that ; — I suppose they had 
 been talking of Irving, whom both of them knew and 
 liked well ; Hei% probably, at that time I had still 
 never seen ; but she told me long afterwards. We 
 have had Story's Son, Biographer and Successor, here 
 once ; who considerably resembles him, but is not 
 so smart and clever. 
 
 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 Glas- 
 gow as their business. Not till about two years 
 later ( 1 8 1 9, if I mistake not), did Forth see a 
 Steamer ; Forth's first was far bigger than the 
 Greenock ones, and called itself" TJie Tug;'' being 
 intended 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 
 
 near his birthplace, some three miles north-west of Dumbarton. It 
 bears a long Latin inscription, part of which was written by Dr. 
 Johnson. 
 
 ^ Memoir of the Kev. Robert Story of Roseneath (i vol. crown 8vo, 
 1864).
 
 EDWARD IRVING 49 
 
 a large finely appointed Steamer, or pair of Steamers, 
 for London ; which, so successful were they, all Ports 
 then set to imitating. London alone still held back 
 for a good few years ; it was not till about 1 840 
 that Steamers appeared in the river here. London 
 was notably shy of the Steamship, great as are its 
 doings now 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 Nineties I should guess, 
 say 1795) 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, exhibiting 
 and recommending itself to London and whatever 
 scientific or other spirit of marine adventure London 
 might have ; — London entirely dead to the pheno- 
 menon ; 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 steam- 
 ships, I have learned credibly elsewhere, the maker 
 and proprietor of that fruitless model on the Thames, 
 was Mr. Millar, Laird of Dalswinton in Dumfries- 
 shire (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 Dal- 
 swinton and die quasi-bankrupt (and I should think 
 broken-hearted) after that completing of his painful 
 invention, and finding of London and mankind dead 
 to it. Millar's assistant and work-hand for many 
 years was John Bell, a joiner in the neighbouring 
 
 ^ Late Charles Buller's Uncle. Somcrselshiie gentleman, ex-Indian, 
 died in 1831, an examiner in the India House. Colleague of John S. 
 Mill and his Father there.— T. C. 
 
 VOL. II. E
 
 so REMINISCENCES 
 
 village of Thornhill. Millar being ruined, Bell was 
 out of work and of connection : Bell emigrated 
 to New York ; and there, speaking much of his 
 old Master, and glorious unheeded invention, well 
 known to Bell in its outlines or details, — at length, 
 found one Fulton to listen to him ; and by " Fulton 
 and Bell" (about 1809), ^^'^ 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 M'Oueen of Thorn- 
 hill, Strachey of the India-House, and many other 
 bits of good testimony and of indication, 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 propos 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 great blue 
 mountain masses, giant " Cobler " overhanging, bright 
 seas, bright skies ; Roseneath new Mansion (still 
 unfinished, and standing as it did, the present Duke 
 of Argyll has told me), the grand old oaks, — and 
 a certain handfast, middle-aged, practical and most 
 polite " Mr. Campbell " (the Argyll Factor there), 
 with his two Sisters, excellent lean old ladies, with 
 their wild Highland accent, wiredrawn but genuine 
 good-manners and good principles, — and not least 
 their astonishment, and shrill interjections, at once
 
 EDWARD IRVING 51 
 
 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, these good souls 
 (Campbell himself, 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 new thought that I too might perhaps be ' one- 
 and-somewhat ' {Ein iind Etzvas) among my fellow- 
 creatures by and by, was secretly very welcome at 
 their hands. We rejoined Irving and Pears at 
 Glasgow (transit, place of meeting utterly forgotten) ; 
 I remember our glad embarkation in a track-boat 
 towards Paisley by canal ; visit preappointed for us 
 at Paisley by Irving, in a good old lady's house, 
 whose son was Irving's boarder ; the dusty, sunny 
 Glasgow evening ; and my friend's joy to see Brown 
 and me (or me and Brown, I might perhaps put it, 
 as his thought). Irving was very good and jocund- 
 hearted : most blithe his good old lady, whom I had 
 seen at Kirkcaldy before ; and we had a pleasant 
 day or two in those neighbourhoods ; the picturesque, 
 the comic, and the genially common all prettily 
 combining, particulars now much forgotten. Pears 
 went to eastward, Dunse, his native country; "born 
 i' Dunse," equal in sound to boni a dunce, as Irving'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
 
 5 2 REMINISCENCES 
 
 at " New Lanark," a green silent valley, with fine 
 Cotton-works " of David Dale," turned by Clyde 
 Water, we called to see Robert Owen, the then 
 incipient Kxc\\-Gonicrirs "model school," and thought 
 it (and him, whom 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 possibly it might 
 be about 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 the worst humour ; did nothing 
 but snap and snarl, and being answered by bits ot 
 quiz, towered at length into foam, and intimated she 
 would now bring somebody who would ask us. How 
 we could so treat an unprotected 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 celerity on our way, 
 not looking back unless summoned to do it, and 
 prudently avoiding 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, silently waiting the issue. 
 Issue was, a thickish kind of man, seemingly the 
 woman's husband, a little older than any of us, stept 
 out with her ; calmly enough surveying ; and, at 
 respectful distance, — asked " If we would buy any 
 apples?" — Upon which, with negatory grin, we did
 
 EDWARD IRVING 53 
 
 march. I recollect nothing more of this route, 
 except that we visited Lead-hills too, joyfully de- 
 scended into the mines etc. ; and 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 un- 
 fruitful man ; — at present Tutor to some Lockhart of 
 Lee, and wintering in Edinburgh ; went afterwards 
 to India, as Presbyterian Clergyman somewhere ; and 
 shrank gradually, we heard, into complete aridity, 
 ' phrenology ' 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 
 vie like a star, occasionally came up between them, 
 on that Journey, I dare say, as at other times. 
 She retained a child's regard for James Brown ; and, 
 in this house, he was always a memorable 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, often without foot-tracks, had no vestige of 
 inn ; so that there was a kind of knight-errantry in 
 threading your waj' through it, not to mention the 
 romance that naturally lay in its Ettricks andYarrow.s, 
 and old melodious songs and traditions. We walked
 
 54 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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, 
 clear rushing streams, cosy nooks and homesteads, 
 all of fine rustic type ; and presented to you in 
 natnra, not as in a Drury Lane with Stage-lights 
 and for a purpose. The vast and yet not savage 
 solitude 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 primeval things. I repeatedly 
 walked through that country, up to Edinburgh and 
 down, by myself, in subsequent years : — and nowhere 
 remember such affectionately sad, and thoughtful, and 
 in fact interesting and salutary journeys. I have 
 had days clear as Italy (as in this Irving case); days 
 moist and dripping, overhung with the infinite of 
 silent gray ; — and perhaps the latter kind were the 
 preferable, in 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 and socks 
 over shoulder hung on your stick : clean shirt and 
 comb were in your pocket ; onuiia uiea niccnvi 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 ;
 
 EDWARD IRVING 55 
 
 canty, shrewd and 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 confraternity of shepherds from father to 
 son. No sort of peasant labourers I have ever come 
 across seemed to me so happily situated, morally and 
 physically, well-developed, and deserving to be happy, 
 as these shepherds of the Cheviots. O fortiinati 
 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, from bonny Yarrow 
 onwards by Loch Skene and the Gray Mares 
 Tail (finest of all cataracts, lonesome, simple, 
 grand, that are now in my memory) down into 
 Moffatdale where we lodged in a Shepherd's Cot- 
 tage, must have been near " Caplegill," old Walter 
 Welsh's farm, though I knew not of it then ! From 
 the shepherd people came good talk, Irving skilful 
 to elicit it : — topography ; Poet Hogg (who was 
 then a celebrity), "S/iirra Scott " (famed Sir Walter, 
 " Sheriff of Selkirkshire," whose borders we had just 
 emerged from), then gradually stores of local anec- 
 dote, personal history, etc.: these good people never 
 once asked ns, Whence, Whither, or What are you ; 
 but waited till perhaps it voluntarily came, as 
 generally chanced. Moffatdale, with its green 
 holms and hill -ranges (" Carriferan saddleyoke," 
 actual (\n7is\- saddle ; "you can sit astride any- 
 where, and a stone dropped from either hand will 
 roll and bound a mile : " one of the prettiest hills), 
 with its pleasant groves and farmsteads, voiceful 
 limpid waters rushing fast for Afuiaii : all was
 
 56 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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 seen Loch 
 Skene, the Gray Mare's Tail etc. in his youth, and 
 now gave, in few words, such a picture of it all, 
 forty years after sight, as charmed and astonished 
 Irving ; who, on his side, w^as equally unlike a 
 common man : definite, true, intelligent, frankly 
 courteous, 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 unconsciously, was. No in- 
 tellect 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. Generous, all-recog- 
 nising 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 
 veniacidar, peaceably fixed, and almost genial, in 
 their mode of life, than I had been used to in the 
 Border home-land. Fife generally w^e liked. Those 
 ancient little burghs and sea-villages, with their poor 
 little havens, ' salt-pans,' and weatherbeaten bits of 
 Cyclopean breakwaters and rude innocent machineries, 
 are still kindly to me to think of ; — Kirkcaldy itself 
 had many looms, had Baltic trade. Whale-fishery etc.,
 
 EDWARD IRVING 57 
 
 and was a solidly diligent, yet by no means a pant- 
 ing, puffing, or in any way gambling " Lang Toun," 
 — its flaxmill- machinery, I remember, was turned 
 mainly by wind, and curious blue-painted wheels, 
 with oblique vans (how working I never saw), rose 
 from many roofs for that end. We, I in particular, 
 always rather liked the people, — though from the 
 distance chiefly ; chagrined and discouraged by the 
 sad trade one had ! Some hospitable human fire- 
 sides 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 " (what was 
 a sad feature) were we generally 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) rather a kind 
 of alien in the place, I did at last make acquaintance 
 with (at Irving's first, I think, though she rarely 
 came thither) ; some acquaintance ; — and it might 
 easily have been more, had she, and her Aunt, and 
 our economic and other circumstances liked ! She 
 was of the fair-complcxioned, softly elegant, softly 
 grave, witty and comely type, and had a good deal 
 of gracefulness, intelligence and other talent. Irving 
 too, it was sometimes thought, found her very in- 
 teresting, could the Miss-Martin bonds have allowed, 
 which they never would. To me, who had only 
 known her for a few months, and who within a 
 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 
 romantic, or latterly quite elegiac and silent terms,
 
 58 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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, doubt it not ; " Margaret Gordon," born I 
 think in New Brunswick, where 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 Aber- 
 dcenish in accent and otherwise) had adopted her, 
 and brought her hither over seas : and here, as 
 Irving's Ex-pupil, she now cheery though with dim 
 outlooks, was. Irving saw her again in Glasgow, 
 one summer, touring etc., he himself accompanying 
 joyfully, — not joining (so I understood it) the retinue 
 of suitors or potential ditto ; rather perhaps indicat- 
 ing 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 Scotia" (or so^ "as Governor;" and 
 I heard of her no more, — except that lately she was 
 still living about Aberdeen, childless, as the " 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, recognisably to me, here 
 in her London time (1840 or so), twice, once with 
 her maid in Piccadilly, promenading, little altered ; 
 a second time, that same year or next, on horseback 
 both of us, and niceting in the gate of Hyde Park,
 
 EDWARD IRVING 59 
 
 when her eyes (but that was all) said to me almost 
 touchingly, "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, or rather more, we had 
 all got tired of schoolmastering, and its mean con- 
 tradictions and poor results ; Irving and I quite 
 resolute to give it up for good ; the headlong Pears 
 disinclined for it on the there terms longer ; and in 
 the end of 18 19 (or '18? at this hour I know not 
 which, and the old Letters that would show are too 
 deep-hidden),^ we all three went away ; Irving and I 
 to Edinburgh, Pears to his own "East Country," — 
 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, opposi- 
 tion, or even flat disfavour 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, I should guess, as one item, 
 several good hundreds of money to wait upon. My 
 peculium I don't recollect, but it could not have ex- 
 ceeded i^ioo ; I was without friends, experience, or 
 connection in the sphere of human business, was of 
 shy humour, proud enough and to spare, — and had 
 begun my long curriculum of dyspepsia, which has 
 never ended since ! 
 
 Irving lived in Bristo Street, more expensive 
 rooms than mine ; and used to give breakfasts to 
 Intellectualities he fell in with, — I often a guest with 
 ' Carlyle left Kirkcaldy in November 18 iS.
 
 6o REAflNISCENCES 
 
 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 Irving, 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 pro- 
 pose for me, at one stage ; wished me to go out with 
 him " to Dunglas," and there do " luiiars " in his 
 name, he looking on, and learning of me what would 
 come of its own will : " Lunars " meanwhile were to 
 go as his 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 gray, crackling, sniggering spectre, one dusk ; en- 
 deavouring to seduce me by affability, in lieu of 
 liberal wages, into this adventure. Wages, I think, 
 were to be smallish (" so poor are we "), but then " the 
 great Playfair is coming on visit, — you will see Pro- 
 fessor Playfair !" I had not the least notion of such 
 an enterprise, on these shining terms ; and Captain 
 Basil with his great Playfair /;/ posse, vanished for 
 me into the shades 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 
 more desirable, if it would please to come ; which 
 it generally would not in the least. I was timor- 
 ously aiming towards " Literature " too ; thought in 
 
 ^ Died in 1844, aged 56.
 
 EDWARD IRVING 6i 
 
 audacious moments I might perhaps earn some trifle 
 that way, by honest labour somehow, to help my 
 finance : but in that too I was painfully sceptical 
 (talent and opportunity alike doubtful, alike in- 
 credible to me, poor down -pressed 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 diligent 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 become 
 real ! No more of that ; it did not conquer me, or 
 quite kill me, thank God. — Irving thought of 
 nothing as ultimate but a Clerical 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 
 one of them, — none of which took effect. 
 
 I forget how long it was till the then famed 
 Trismegistus 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 men- 
 tioned Irving's name, had privately engaged to get 
 Chalmers a hearing of him in his, Andrew's, Church ;^ 
 how Chalmers heard incognito^ and there ensued 
 negotiation ; — once I recollect transiently seeing 
 
 ' This was in St. George's Church, Edinlnirgh, in July 1819 ; Irving 
 began his work as Assistant to Dr. Chahncrs in October of the same 
 year.
 
 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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 Annandale, 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 Dryfc, quasi- 
 " Drive," — so impetuous and swift is it), where [was] 
 a certain witty comrade of ours, one Frank Dixon, 
 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 all three, Frank and 
 I to set Irving on his road to Moffat and bid him 
 good speed, on the top of a hill, commanding all 
 Upper -Annandale 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 land- 
 scape, the wind was beautifully chasing : " Like 
 Life ! " I said, with a kind of emotion, on which 
 Irving silently pressed my arm, with the hand near 
 it or perhaps 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 
 evening (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 doubtless to Irvine as well as me.
 
 EDWARD IRVING 63 
 
 A most quizzing, merry, entertaining, guileless and 
 unmalicious man ; with very considerable logic, 
 reading, contemptuous observation and intelligence ; 
 much real tenderness too, when not obstructed, and 
 a mournful true affection, especially for the friends 
 he had lost by death ! No mean impediment t/icre 
 any more (that was it), — for Frank was very 
 sensitive, easily moved to something of envy, and 
 as if surprised where contempt was not possible : — 
 easy banter was what he habitually dwelt in ; for 
 the rest, an honourable, bright amiable man : alas, 
 and his end was very tragic ! I have hardly seen 
 a man with more opulence of conversation, — 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, though 
 perhaps still more genial of sense, when I now 
 reflect); and had nothing of the wild '' Annandalc- 
 Rabelais " turn which had grown up, partly of will, 
 and at length by industry as well, in poor Frank 
 Dixon 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 aquiline 
 face, gray genially laughing eyes, something sternly 
 serious and resolute in the squarish fine brow ; nose 
 specially aquiline, thin and rather small, — 1 well 
 remember the play of point and nostrils there, while 
 his wild home-grown Gargantidsms went on. He 
 rocked rather, and negligently wriggled, in walking 
 or standing ; something slightly twisted in the spine.
 
 64 REMINISCENCES 
 
 I think ; but he made so much small involuntary- 
 tossing and gesticulation while he spoke or listened, 
 you never noticed the twist. What a childlike and 
 yet half imp-like volume of true laughter lay in 
 Frank ; how he would fling back his fine head, left 
 cheek up, not himself laughing much or loud ever, 
 but showing you such continents of inward gleesome 
 mirth and victorious 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 always liked poor Frank ; 
 and he me heartily, — after having tried to banter 
 me down, and recognised the mistake, which he 
 loyally did for himself, and never repeated. We 
 had much innocently 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 promotion 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 Glasgow, 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 still 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 dispirit-
 
 EDWARD IRVING 65 
 
 ment, was home again, or on his way home, to 
 Dryfesdale, there to He useless, — Irving recom- 
 mending me to do for him what kindness I could, 
 and not remember that he used to disbelieve, and 
 be ignorantly cruel, in my own dyspeptic tribulations. 
 This I did not fail of ; nor was it burdensome, but 
 otherwise, while near him in Annandale. 
 
 Frank was far more wretched than I had been ; 
 sunk in spiritual 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 favourite in Society there) ; with 
 these, in his rough Farmhouse, — " Belkathill " (Bell- 
 top Hill? near Hook, head part of the pleasant vale 
 of Dryfe), — he settled himself to live. Farm was 
 his, but in the hands of a rough-spun Sister and her 
 ploughing Husband ; who perhaps were not over- 
 glad to see Frank return, with new potentiality of 
 ownership, if he liked, — which truly, I suppose, he 
 never did. They had done some joinering, plank- 
 flooring, in the Farmhouse, which was weather-tight, 
 newish though strait and dim ; and there, on rough 
 rustic terms, perhaps with a little disappointment to 
 the young gentlemen, Frank and his Bermudians 
 lived, for some years. He had a nimble quiet 
 pony ; rode, latterly (for the Bermudians did not 
 stay above a year or two), much about among his 
 cousinry or friends ; always halting and baiting 
 with me, when it could be managed. I had at once 
 gone to visit him ; found Belkathill on the new 
 terms as interesting as ever. A comfort to me to 
 administer some comfort ; interesting even to com- 
 pare dyspeptic notes : besides, Frank, by degrees, 
 
 VOL. II. F
 
 66 REMINISCENCES 
 
 would kindle into the old coruscations, and talk as 
 well as ever. I remember some of those visits to 
 him, still more the lonely silent rides thither, as 
 humanly impressive, wholesome, not unpleasant. 
 Especially after my return from Buller Tutorship, 
 and my first London visit ; when I was at Hoddam 
 Hill, idly high and dry like Frank (or only translat- 
 ing German Romance^ etc.), and had a horse of my 
 own. Frank took considerably to my Mother ; 
 talked a great deal of his bitter Byronic 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 contradicted, 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 don't 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, from Craigenputtock I 
 wrote to him, but never got the least answer, 
 never saw him or dist'uictly heard of him more. 
 Indistinctly I did, with a shock, hear of him once, 
 and then a second final time, — thus : My brother 
 Jamie (youngest brother of us, ten years my junior), 
 riding to Moffat, in 1828 or so, saw near some 
 poor cottage (not a farm at all, ' 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 ; whom, in spite
 
 EDWARD IRVING 67 
 
 of this sunk condition, he recognised clearly for 
 Frank Dixon, 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, and 
 slipshod ^ in a pair of old elogs ! " That was 
 Jamie's guess ; which he reported to me ; and few 
 months after, grim whisper came, low but certain 
 (no inquest or coroner there), that Frank was dead, 
 and had gone in the Roman fashion.^ What other 
 could he now do ? — The silent, valiant, though 
 vanquished man. He was hardly yet thirty -five : 
 a man richer in gifts than nine-tenths of the vocal 
 and notable are. I remember him with sorro>v 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 thunders v/aiting it ! 
 
 Irving's Glasgow news, from the first, were good. 
 Approved of, accepted by the great Doctor and his 
 Congregation ; preaching heartily ; labouring with the 
 'Visiting Deacons' (Chalmers's grand '^ ParocJiiaV 
 Anti-Pmiperism Apparatus, much an object of the 
 Doctor's at this time) ; — seeing and experiencing new 
 things, on all hands of him, in his new wide element, 
 lie came occasionally to Edinburgh on visit : I re- 
 member him as of prosperous aspect ; a little more 
 
 ^ Slipshod means, in its Scotch sense here, not loose or untidy, but 
 stockingless. 
 
 - He died in 1S32.
 
 68 REAfTNISCENCES 
 
 carefully, more clerically, dressed than formerly 
 (ample black frock, a little ' sida'^ 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; — late autumn 18 19, the date of his in- 
 stalment?^ I wish I exactly knew! Year 18 19 
 comes back into my mind as the year of the 
 Radical " rising " in Glasgow ; and the kind of 
 (altogether imaginary) " Fight " they attempted on 
 Bonnymuir against the Yeomanry which had as- 
 sembled from far and wide. A time of great rages 
 and absurd terrors and expectations ; a very fierce 
 Radical and Anti- Radical time. Edinburgh end- 
 lessly agitated all round me by it (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 region, 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 poor 
 
 ^ See supra, p. 6i ;/.
 
 EDWARD IRVING 69 
 
 private notion of it. One bleared Sunday morning-, 
 I had gone out for my walk (perhaps seven to eight 
 A.M.) ; at the Riding-House in Nicolson Street was 
 a kind of straggly group, or small crowd, with red- 
 coats interspersed : coming up I perceived it was the 
 " Lothian Yeomanry" {Jllid or East, I know not) 
 just getting under way for Glasgow to be part of 
 " the cordon " ; I halted a moment : they took the 
 road, very ill ranked, not numerous 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 fellow-creatures !" — Another morning, months 
 after, spring and sun now come, and the " cordon " 
 etc. all over, — I met a gentleman, an Advocate, 
 slightly of my acquaintance, hurrying along, musket 
 in hand, towards The Links, there to be drilled as 
 an item of the " Gentlemen Volunteers " now afoot. 
 " You should have the like of this ! " said he, cheerily 
 patting his musket. " Hm, yes ; but I haven'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 
 another : a sense that revolt against such a load of 
 unveracities, impostures, and quietly inane formalities 
 would one day become indispensable ; — sense which 
 had a kind of rash, false, and quasi-insolent joy in it ; 
 mutiny, revolt, being a light matter to the young.
 
 70 REMINISCENCES 
 
 Irving appeared to take great interest in his 
 Glasgow visitings about among these poor Weavers, 
 and free communings with them as man with men. 
 He was altogether human we heard, and could well 
 believe ; he broke at once into sociality and frank- 
 ness, " 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 saluta- 
 tion 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 happened 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 black, and the eyes under it sparkling and 
 glistening," — whom, however, he succeeded in paci- 
 fying ; 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 permissions 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
 
 EDWARD IRVING 71 
 
 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 he 
 sometimes gave me 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 mer- 
 chant) was warmly intimate and attached ; the like 
 William Graham, of Burnswark, Annandale, 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 
 his most do)iiestic and practically trusted friends ; 
 but he had already many, in the better Glasgow 
 circles, and, in generous liking and appreciation, 
 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, 
 on its streets, in its jolly (sometimes Christmas') 
 dining-rooms and drawing-rooms, were cordial and 
 instructive to me. The solid style of comfort, free- 
 dom and plenty, was new to mc in that degree. 
 The Tontine (my first evening in Glasgow) was quite 
 a treat to my rustic eyes : several hundreds of such 
 fine, clean, opulent, and enviable or amiable-looking 
 good Scotch gentlemen, sauntering about in trustful 
 gossip, or solidly reading their newspapers, — I re- 
 member the shining bald crowns and serene white 
 heads of several ; and the feeling " O fortunatos 
 nimiujn," which they generally gave me. Irving 
 was not with me on this occasion ; had probably
 
 REMIiYISCENCES 
 
 left me there for some half-hour, and would come 
 to pick me up again when ready. We made morn- 
 ing calls together too, not very many ; and found 
 once, I recollect, an exuberant bevy of young ladies, 
 which I (silently) took as sample of a great and 
 singular privilege in my friend's way of life. Oftenest 
 it was crotchety, speculative, semi-theological elderly 
 gentlemen, 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 yowng-lady 
 stamp, seemed to me well-looking, clever enough, 
 good-humoured ; but I noticed (for my own behoof, 
 and without prompting of any kind) that they were 
 not so well dressed as their Edinburgh Sisters ; some- 
 thing flary, glary, colours too flagrant and ill-assorted ; 
 want of the harmonious transitions, neatness, and soft 
 Attic art, which I now recognised 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 overdone, — which 
 probably (though we were dead-silent on that head) 
 was on occasion Irving's feeling too. But the great 
 man was himself 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 house, to breakfast ; company Irving, one 
 Crosby, a young Licentiate, with glaring eyes and 
 no speculation in them, who went afterwards to Bir- 
 mingham, and thirdly myself. It was a cold vile
 
 EDWARD IRVING 73 
 
 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 rather fine drawing-room (a Mr. Parker's), 
 in a rather solemn evening party ; where the Doctor, 
 perhaps bored by the secularities and trivialities else- 
 where, 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, "as in sy^npathetic ink; Bible 
 awakens it, and you can read ! " I listened respect- 
 fully, 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 [weeks] of his 
 death, when he called here, and sat with us an hour, 
 — very agreeable to //^r 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 Croiinoell especially, and Cromwell's 
 self ditto, which I heartily 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 memorablest point to me, 
 was of Painter Wilkie, who had been his familiar in 
 youth, and whom he seemed to me to understand 
 well. " Painter's language^' he said, " was stinted and
 
 74 REMINISCENCES 
 
 difficult." Wilkie had told him how, in painting his 
 Rent-Day, he thought long and to no purpose, by 
 what means he should signify that the sorrowful 
 Woman, with the children there, had left no Husband 
 at home, but was a Widow under tragical self- 
 management, — till one morning, pushing along the 
 Strand, he met a small artisan family going evidently 
 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 
 unconscious little orphan peaceable. He warmly 
 agreed with me in thinking Wilkie a man of real 
 genius, real veracity and simplicity. Chalmers was 
 himself very beautiful to us during that hour ; grave, 
 not too grave, earnest, cordial ; face and figure very 
 little altered, only the head had grown white, and in 
 the eyes and features you could read something of a 
 serene sadness, as if evening and silent star-crowned 
 night were coming on, and the hot noises of the day 
 growing unexpectedly insignificant to one. We had 
 little thought this would be the last of Chalmers ; but 
 in a few weeks after, he suddenly died [May i 847]. ' 
 He was a man of much natural dignity, ingenuity, 
 honesty, and kind affection, as well as sound intellect 
 and imagination. A very eminent vivacity lay in 
 him, which could rise to complete impetuosity (glow- 
 ing conviction, passionate eloquence, fiery play of 
 heart and head), — all in a kind of rtcstic type, one 
 might say, though wonderfully true and tender. He 
 had a burst of genuine fun too, I have heard ; of 
 the same honest, but most plebeian, broadly natural
 
 EDWARD IRVING 75 
 
 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 iW-read, so ignorant in all that lay 
 beyond the horizon in place or in time, I have almost 
 nowhere met with. A man capable of much soaking 
 indolence, lazy brooding, and do-nothingism, as the 
 first stage of his life well indicated ; a man thought to 
 be timid, almost to the verge of cowardice: yet capable 
 of impetuous activity and blazing audacity, as his 
 latter years showed. I suppose there will never again 
 be such a Preacher in any Christian Church.^ 
 
 Irving's Discourses were far more opulent in 
 ingenious thought than Chalmers's, which indeed 
 were, usually the triumphant on -rush of o/n' idea 
 with its satellites and supporters ; but Irving's 
 wanted in definite //ead, that is, steady invariably 
 evident az7/i, what one might call definite /lead and 
 backbone ; so that, on arriving, you might see clearly 
 where and how. That was mostly a defect one 
 felt, in traversing those grand forest -avenues of 
 
 ^ A slip from a newspaper containing the following extract from 
 Chalmers is here wafered on to the manuscript : 
 
 " It is a favourite speculation of mine that if spared to sixty, we then enter on the 
 seventh decade of human hfe, and that this, if possible, should be turned into the 
 Sabbath of our earthly pilgrimage and spent Sabbatically, as if on the shore of an 
 eternal world, or in the outer courts, as it were, of the temple that is above— the 
 tabernacle in Heaven. What enamours 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 peace and foretaste of the 
 blessedness that awaits the righteous." 
 
 Carlyle writes on the newspaper slip : Had heard it before from 
 Thomas Krskine, with pathetic comment as to what Chalmers's own 
 " Sabbath-decade " had been !
 
 76 REMINISCENCES 
 
 his, with their multifarious outlooks to right and 
 left. He had many thoughts, pregnantly expressed, 
 but they did not tend all one way. The reason 
 was, there were in him infinitely more 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 ex- 
 tejnpore thing. It flowed along, not as a swift rolling 
 river, but as a broad, deep and bending or mean- 
 dering one ; sometimes it left on you the impres- 
 sion almost of a fine noteworthy lake. Noteworthy 
 always ; nobody could mistake it for the Discourse 
 of other than an uncommon man. Originality and 
 truth of purpose were undeniable in it ; but there 
 was withal, both in the matter and the manner, 
 a something which might be suspected of affecta- 
 tion : a noticeable preference and search for striking 
 quaint and ancient locutions ; a style modelled on 
 the Miltonic Old-Puritan ; something too in the de- 
 livery which seemed elaborate and of forethought, or 
 might be suspected of being so. He always read, 
 but not in the least slavishly ; and made abundant 
 rather strong gesticulation 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 from 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 tempered form ; — not often admira-
 
 EDWARD IRVING 77 
 
 tion pure and simple, as was now always Chalmers's 
 lot there. Irving no doubt secretly felt the difference, 
 and could have wished it otherwise : but the generous 
 heart of him was incapable of envying any human ex- 
 cellence, 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 people ; a fine friendly and wholesome 
 element, I thought it for him ; and the criticisms go- 
 ing, 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 been used to. A 
 romance of novelty lay in them, too ; it was the first 
 time I had looked into opulent burgher life in any 
 such completeness and composed solidity as here. 
 We went to Paisley, several times ; to certain 
 " Carl/les " (so they spelt their name ; " Annan 
 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 dead ; but one of their Sons still lives, " Gavin 
 Carlile " (or now Carlj'le), a Free Kirk Minister here 
 in London (editing his Uncle's Select Works just 
 now).^ David Hope, of Glasgow, always a little stuck 
 
 ^ The Collected Writings of Edward Irving, edited by his nephew, 
 the Rev. G. Carlyle, M.A. (5 volumes, impcr. 8vo, London, 1864-65).
 
 78 REMINISCENCES 
 
 to me afterwards ; an innocent cheerful Nathaniel, 
 ever ready to oblige : the like much more emphati- 
 cally did William Graham of Burnswark, whom I 
 first met in the above City under Irving's auspices ; 
 and who might, in his way, be called a friend both 
 to Irving 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, — if it could 
 do the good soul any service at all ! 
 
 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 dctaclied a good 
 way on every side ; far-seen, almost to the shores of 
 Liverpool, — indeed commanding, all round, the whole 
 of that huge saucer, fifty to thirty miles in radius, 
 the bottom point of which is now called Gretna 
 (" Gretan-How," Big Hollow, at the head of Solway 
 Frith) ; a Biirnszvark beautiful to look on and much 
 noted from of old. Has a glorious Roman Camp on
 
 EDWARD IRVING 79 
 
 the south flank of it, ' the best preserved in Britain 
 except one ' (says General Roy) ; velvet sward 
 covering the whole, but trenches, prcetoruini (three 
 conic mounds) etc. etc., not altered otherwise ; one 
 of the finest limpid zvclls within it ; and a view to 
 Liverpool (as was said), and into Tynedale, and the 
 Cumberland or even Yorkshire mountains, on the one 
 side, and on the other into the Moffat ditto and the 
 Selkirkshire and Eskdale. The name '' Biirns\N2.xV " 
 is properly Birrcnswark (or fortification work) : three 
 Roman Stations, with Carlisle (' Cacr-Leivcl, as old as 
 King Solomon ') for mother ; Netherbie, Middlebie, 
 and Owerbie (or Uppevby in Eskdale) ; — the specific 
 Roman Town of Middlebie is about half a mile below 
 the Kirk (i.e. eastward of it), and is called by the 
 country people " TJie Birrens " (i.e. The Scrags or 
 Haggles, I should think) ; a place lying all in dimples 
 and wrinkles, with ruined houses if you dig at all ; 
 grassy, but warable ; part of which is still kept sacred 
 in lea by " the Duke " (of Queensberry, now of Buc- 
 cleuch 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 Inscriptions 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 the darkness which 
 was total ! The fable went that from Birrens to 
 Birrenswark (two and a half miles, for Burnswark 
 lies two good miles on the west or opposite side of
 
 8o REMINISCENCES 
 
 the Kirk) there ran a " subterranean passage," com- 
 plete tunnel, equal to carts perhaps ; but nobody 
 pretended ever 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 yEons. 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 labour, 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 (William was the youngest), 
 who were all respected in their station, — and who 
 all successively emigrated to America, on the follow- 
 ing slight first-cause. John Graham, namely, the 
 eldest of the Brothers, had been balloted for the 
 Militia (Dumfriesshire Militia) ; and, on private con- 
 sideration with himself, preferred expatriation to 
 soldiering, and quietly took ship to push his fortune 
 in the New World instead. John's adventures there, 
 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 mcrchant's- 
 clerkship or the like, with outlooks towards merchant 
 business of his own one day ; and invited thither, 
 one by one, all his Brothers to share with him, or
 
 EDWARD IRVING 8i 
 
 push like him there. Philadelphia was the place, at 
 least the ultimate place ; and the Firm of " Graham 
 Brothers " gradually rose to be a considerable and 
 well-respected 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 Burnswark, 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 ; Wil- 
 liam continued bachelor for life ; and this only Sister 
 returned ultimately to Annandale, and was William's 
 House-manager there. I remember her well, one of 
 the amiablest of old maids ; kind, true, modestly 
 polite to the very heart, — and in such a curious 
 style of polite culture; Pennsylvanian-Yankee grafted 
 on Annandale-Scotch ; used to " expect " instead of 
 "suppose;" would "guess," too, now and then; and 
 commonly said "Pastor" (which she pronounced 
 "Pawstor") 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, say i 8 1 4 
 or so) ; and despatched William thither, — whose 
 coming, I dimly remember, was heard of in Annan- 
 dale by his triumphant purchase for himself, in fee- 
 simple, of the Farm and Hill of Burnswark, which 
 happened to come into the market then. His trad- 
 ings and operations in Glasgow were extensive, not 
 unskilful 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 
 
 VOL. II, G
 
 REMINISCENCES 
 
 whole fleet of cargoes, all mostly of the same com- 
 modity, 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 humour ; and only 
 clinging with invincible tenacity to native Burnswark, 
 which of course was now no longer his, except on 
 Bond with securities, — with interest etc., — all of ex- 
 cessive extent, his friends said, but could not per- 
 suade 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. 
 
 Poor Graham kept iron hold of Burnswark, 
 ultimately as plain tenant ; good sheep-y^r;;^ 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 exploratory visit, where 
 his Brothers were in some degree set up again, 
 but had no ";^8ooo" to spare for his Burnswark; 
 he still hung a little to Glasgow, tried various 
 things, rather of a projector sort, all of which mis- 
 carried ; till happily he at length ceased visiting 
 Glasgow, and grew altogether rustic, a successful 
 sheep-farmer at any rate ; fat, cheery, happy ; and 
 so, for his last twenty years, rode visiting 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 silent deduc-
 
 EDWARD IRVING 83 
 
 tions in the Imimportant 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 called 
 " Grange," on the edge of the Hill country, seven 
 or eight miles from my Father's : Mrs, Johnston 
 was a Glasgow lady, of really fine culture, man- 
 ners, and intellect ; one of the smallest voices, 
 and most delicate, gently-smiling figures ; had been 
 in London, etc, ; her Husband was by birth Laird 
 of this pretty Grange ; and had modestly with- 
 drawn 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 that bright little environment 
 of theirs, with a kind of pathetic affection. I as 
 good as lost them on my leaving Annandale ; Mr. 
 Johnston 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 studiously, and 
 with unabating good-will, on my Annandale visits 
 to my Mother, to whom he was ever attentive and 
 
 ^ 1826, tlic year of Carlyle's marriage.
 
 84 REMINISCENCES 
 
 respectful for my sake and her own (dear good 
 Mother, best of Mothers ! He pointed out the 
 light of her ' end-window,' gabie-\vmdo\Y, 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 more with 
 us at Craigenputtock, ditto at London, and wrote 
 long Letters, not unpleasant to * read and burn : ' 
 but his sphere was shrinking more and more into 
 dull safety and monotonous 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 Jiini (for he was grown more com- 
 pletely stupid and oblivious every subsequent time), 
 was at the ending of my Mother's Funeral (Decem- 
 ber 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 innocent 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 occasion 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 
 
 ' August 1822.
 
 EDWARD IRVING 85 
 
 the}'e. I had grown disgusted with the fulsome 
 "loyalty" of all classes in Edinburgh towards this 
 approaching " George-Fourth Visit ; " whom though 
 called and reckoned 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, " Scandalous 
 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 efflor- 
 escence of the flunkcyisms. Which I was, for a 
 week or more (in Annandale and at Kirkchrist 
 with the Churches ^ in Galloway, — ride to Lochin- 
 brack Well, by Kenmure 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 company, that he took me out to Had- 
 dington - (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 summer afternoon. He took me round 
 
 ^ The Churches late of Ilitchill (see supra, p. 19), who had re- 
 moved to Galloway. 
 
 - End of May 1821 (Carlyle's first Letter to Miss Welsh, written on 
 his return to Edinburgh, is dated 4th June of that year).
 
 86 REMINISCENCES 
 
 by Athelstaneford (" Elshinford ") Parish, where 
 John Home wrote his " Douglas" — in case of any 
 enthusiasm for Home or it, which I scantly had : 
 we leapt the solitary Kirkyard wall, and found 
 close by us the tombstone of " old Skirving," a 
 more remarkable person. Author of the strangely 
 vigorous Doggrel Ballad on " Prcston-Pans Battle " 
 (and of the ditto Ansiuer 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 t/iere, 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 hope 
 towards Haddington, which was so infinitely pre- 
 ferable ! And something (as I used to gather long 
 afterwards) might have come of it, had not Kirk- 
 caldy been so peremptory, and stood by its bond 
 (as spoken or as written), " Bond or utter Ruin, 
 Sir ! " — upon which Irving had honourably sub- 
 mitted and resigned himself He seemed to be 
 quite composed upon the matter by this time : I 
 remember in our inn at Haddington that first night, 
 
 1 Skirving had in his ballad accused a certain Irish "Lieutenant 
 Smith " of cowardice, and of running aiuay at the Battle of Preston- 
 pans. Smith, on his return to his quarters at Haddington, was enraged 
 to find himself an object of ridicule, and sent a challenge to Skirving. 
 Skirving, hard at work amongst his servants, paused, leaning on his 
 spade, considered the challenge, and answered the Military Gentleman 
 who had brought it : "I never saw Lieutenant Smith, and I dinna ken 
 whether I can fecht him or no ; but if he'll come up here, I'll tak' a 
 look o' him ; and if I think I can fecht him, I wull. But if not, I'll 
 do as he did, I'll rin awa'."
 
 EDWARD IRVING 87 
 
 a little passage : we had just seen, in the Minister's 
 house (whom Irving was to preach for), a certain 
 shining Miss Augusta, — tall, shapely, airy, giggly, 
 but a consummate fool, whom I have heard called 
 " Miss Z>/j-gusta " by the satirical ; — we were now 
 in our double-bedded room, George Inn, Hadding- 
 ton, stripping, or perhaps each already in his bed, 
 when Irving jocosely said to me, " What would you 
 take to marry Miss Augusta, now ? " " Not for an 
 entire and perfect chrysolite the size of this terra- 
 queous Globe ! " answered I at once, with hearty 
 laughter from Ii"ving. — "And what would you take 
 to marry Miss Jeannie, think you ?" " 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 ; but they were the beginning of a new 
 life to me. 
 
 The notablest passage in my Glasgow visits was 
 probably of the year before this Edinburgh-Hadding- 
 ton one on Irving's part. I was about quitting 
 Edinburgh for Annandale ;^ and had come round by 
 Glasgow on the road home. I was utterly out of 
 health as usual ; but had otherwise had my enjoy- 
 ments. We had come to Paisley as finale, and 
 were lodging pleasantly with the Carliles. Warrand 
 Carlile hearing I had to go by Muirkirk in Ayr- 
 shire, and Irving to return to Glasgow, suggested 
 a convoy of me by Irving and himself, furthered 
 by a fine riding-horse of Warrand's, on the ridc- 
 and-tie principle : Irving had cheerfully consented, 
 
 ' This was towards the end of April 1S20.
 
 88 REMINISCENCES 
 
 " You and your horse, as far as you can ; / 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 (far on in April), 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 ; I never was 
 that way again, and there are pieces in [it] still, 
 strangely vivid to me. Warrand had settled that 
 we should breakfast with a Rev, Mr. French, perhaps 
 some fifteen miles off, after which he and horse 
 would return : I recollect the Mr. French, a fat 
 apoplectic -looking old gentleman ; 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, 
 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 six feet deep, mostly 
 dry at present ; a flat wilderness of broken bog, 
 of quagmire not to be trusted (probably zuettcr in
 
 EDWARD IRVING 
 
 old days than [now], and wet still at rainy seasons), 
 — clearly a good place for Cameronian Preaching, 
 and dangerously difficult for Claver'se and horse- 
 soldiery, if " the suffering remnant " had a few old 
 muskets among them ! Scott's Novels had given 
 the Claver'se Skirmish here, which all Scotland 
 knew of already, a double interest in those days. 
 I know not that we talked much of this ; but we 
 did of many things, perhaps more confidentially 
 than ever before. A colloquy the sum of which 
 is still mournfully beautiful to me, though the 
 details are gone. I remember us sitting on the 
 brow of a Peat-hag, the sun shining, our own voices 
 the one sound ; far, far away to 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 
 human creature after French (though of course our 
 very road would have to be inquired of, etc.), to 
 have had no bother, and no need, of human assist- 
 ance or society, — not even of dinner or refection, 
 French's breakfast perfectly sufficing us. The talk 
 had grown ever friendlier, more interesting : at 
 length the declining sun said plainly. You must 
 part. We sauntered slowly into the Glasgow- 
 Muirkirk highway (know not /loiv we knew to 
 find it without difficulty); 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 (" stonc-('///r," dry-stone wall, 
 very common in that country), and looking into
 
 go REMINISCENCES 
 
 the western radiance, continued in talk yet a while, 
 loth both of us to go. It was here, just as the sun 
 was sinking, [Irving] actually drew from me by 
 degrees, in the softest manner, the confession that 
 I did 7iot think as he of Christian Religion, and 
 that it was vain for me to expect I ever could or 
 should. This, if this were 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 
 concealments on that head ; which was really a 
 step gained. The sun was about setting, when 
 we turned away, each on his own path. Irving 
 would have a good space farther to go than I 
 (as now occurs to me), — perhaps fifteen or seven- 
 teen 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 yoit again," — a unique experience of mine in 
 inns. 
 
 I was off next morning by four o'clock ; Muir- 
 kirk, except possibly 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
 
 EDWARD IRVING 91 
 
 long before, but still rural, natural, not all in a roar- 
 ing whirl, as I imagine it 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 
 furnaces, a solitary man (' stoker,' if they call him 
 so) was industriously 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 puff ; and 
 turning suddenly, the poor old maniac woman 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 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, then in bonny Nithsdale (my first sight 
 of it) in the bright but palish almost pathetic sun- 
 shine and utter loneliness : about eight P.M., I got 
 well to Dumfries, fifty-four miles, the longest walk 
 I ever made in one day. 
 
 Irving's visits to Annandale, one or two every 
 summer, while I spent summer (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 beautifullest days, or rather the only beautiful 
 I had ! Unwearied kindness, all that tcnderest 
 anxious affection could do, was always mine from 
 my incomparable Mother, from my dear brothers,
 
 93 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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 learn at length, 
 by judicious endeavour, to speak piously and agree- 
 ably to one so pious, ivithout unveracity on my part, 
 nay it was a kind of interesting exercise to wind 
 softly out of those anxious 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 tenfold 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 
 gloaniiiig-Wmo. after their work was done, — once I 
 recollect noticing (though probably it happened 
 various times), that little Jean ("O^rzc," as we called 
 her, she alone of us not being blond but black- 
 haired, — 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 eagerly 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 Diilking I suppose (her charge would 
 probably be ducks or poultry, all safe to bed now) ; 
 and was turning her bit of leisure to tJiis account 
 instead of another. She was hardly longer than my 
 leg by the whole head and neck. There was a 
 younger and youngest Sister (Jenny) who is now in
 
 EDWARD IRVING 93 
 
 Canada ; of far inferior ' speculative intellect ' to 
 Jean ; but who has proved to have (we used to 
 think) superior hoiisekceping faculties to hers. The 
 same may be said of Mary the next elder to Jean. 
 Both these, especially Jenny, got stupid or stupidish 
 husbands ; but have dextrously and loyally made 
 the most of them and of their families and house- 
 holds, — Hanning, of Hamilton, Canada West; Austin, 
 of The Gill, Annan, are now the names of these two. 
 Jean is Mrs. Aitken, of Dumfries ; still a clever, 
 speculative, ardent, affectionate and discerning 
 woman, but much zcrsplittcrt by the cares of life ; 
 — ''^ zcrsplittcrt l^ tragically denied acianination, or de- 
 finite consistency and direction to a point ; a 
 " tragedy " often repeated in this poor world, the 
 more is the pity for the world too ! 
 
 All this was something ; but in all this I gave 
 more than I got ; and it left a sense of isolation, of 
 sadness ; as the rest of my imprisoned 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, com- 
 pilations, which were very welcome, too, though 
 never other than dreary. Life was all dreary, 
 ^oiiryl {Scottice), tinted with the hues of imprison- 
 ment and impossibility, — hope practically not there, 
 only obstinacy, and a grim steadfastness to strive 
 without hope or with. To all which Irving's ad- 
 vent was the pleasant (temporary) contradiction and 
 reversal, — like Sunrising to Night, or impenetrable 
 Fog, and its spcctralitics ! The time of his coming,
 
 94 REMINISCENCES 
 
 the how and when of his movements and possibiHties, 
 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 
 onc^ which is not otherwise of moment !) in that fine 
 locality. 
 
 I generally staid at least one night ; on several 
 occasions, two or even more ; and remember no 
 visits with as pure and calm a pleasure. 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 notabilities were some- 
 times to be found alighted there, Edinburgh people, 
 Liverpool people, — with whom it was interesting 
 (to the recluse party) to ' measure minds ' for a 
 little, and be on your best behaviour both as to 
 matter and manner. Musical Thomson (memor- 
 able, more so than venerable, as the Publisher of 
 Burns'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 
 Liverpool Brothers, Nelson their name, Scholars just 
 out of Oxford, were on visit, one time, in the Irving
 
 EDWARD IRVING 95 
 
 circle, specially at " Provost Dickson'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. 
 Dickson's, on other occasions, was usually my lodging, 
 and Irving's along with me ; but would not be on 
 this, — had I the least remembrance on that head, 
 except that I seem to have been always beautifully 
 well lodged, and that Mrs. Dickson, 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 headquarters, — which 
 seemed to be something like the prophecy one 
 might have gathered from those young aspects in 
 the Annan visit, had one been intent to scan them. — 
 A faded Irish Dandy, once picked up by us, is also 
 present : one fine clean morning, Irving and I found 
 this figure lounging about languidly on the streets ; 
 Irving made up to him, invited him home to break- 
 fast ; and home he politely and languidly went with 
 us : " bound for some Cattle-fair," he told us (Nor- 
 wich perhaps), and waiting for some coach : a par- 
 boiled, insipid ''Agricultural Dandy," or Old Fogie, 
 of Hibernian type ; wore a superfine light-green 
 frock, snow-white Corduroys ; age above fifty ; face 
 colourless, crow -footed, feebly conceited ; — proved 
 to have nothing in him, but especially nothing bad, 
 and wc had been human to him ! Breakfast, this 
 morning, I remember, was at " Mrs. Fcrgusson's " 
 (Irving's third Sister, there were four in all, and
 
 96 REMINISCENCES 
 
 there had been three brothers, but were now only- 
 two, the youngest and the eldest of the set) : Mrs. 
 Fergusson's breakfast-tea was praised by the Hiber- 
 nian pilgrim and well deserved it. 
 
 Irving was genially happy in those little Annan- 
 dale " 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 farther), those of his Daughters, all nestled close 
 to it in place withal : a very prettily thriving group 
 of things and objects, in their limits, 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, clear 
 as a mirror ; honestly loving and loved, all round. 
 His time, too, was so short, every moment valuable ; 
 — alas, and in so few years after, Ruin's ploughshare 
 had run through it all ; and it was prophesying to 
 you, " Behold, in a little while, the last trace of me 
 will not be here ; and I shall have vanished tragic- 
 ally, 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 topics ; 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 shut 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
 
 EDWARD IRVING 97 
 
 proportion, were naturally the gratefullest of all. 
 Irving's voice to me was one of blessedness and new 
 hope. He would not hear of my gloomy prog- 
 nostications ; 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 itself clear, one day. • He was very generous 
 to everybody's "talent ;" especially to mine, — which 
 to myself was balefully dubious (nothing but bare 
 scaffold-poles, weatherbeaten corner-pieces, of per- 
 haps a "potential talent," ever visible to me) : — his 
 predictions about what I was to be flew into the 
 completely incredible ; and however welcome, 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?" 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 sanguine ; I 
 much the reverse ; — and had his consciousness of 
 powers, and his generous ambitions and fore-castings ; 
 never ungenerous, never ignoble : only an enemy 
 could have called him "vain;" but perhaps 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 mani- 
 fest in him when the case offered ; never more, or 
 zvorse 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 be called a little vain ; if not, 
 VOL. II. H
 
 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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 sunnier type of character, or so 
 little of hatred towards any man or thing. On 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 
 Annan 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 per- 
 ceive, was not without its embarrassments, its dis- 
 couragements ; 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. Theo- 
 logical Scotland, above all things, is dubious and 
 jealous of originality ; and Irving's tendency to take 
 roads of his own was becoming daily more indis- 
 putable. He must have been severely tried in the 
 Sieve, had he continued in Scotland ! Whether that 
 might not have brought him out clearer, more pure 
 and victorious in the end, must remain for ever a 
 question. Much suffering and contradiction it would 
 have cost him, mean enough for most part, and 
 possibly with loss of patience, with mutiny etc. etc., 
 for ultimate result : but one may now regret that 
 the experiment was never to be made.
 
 EDWARD IRVING 99 
 
 Of course, the invitation to London was infinitely 
 welcome to him ; summing up, as it were, all of 
 good that had been in Glasgow (for it w^as the 
 rumours and reports from Glasgow people that had 
 awakened Hatton Garden to his worth) ; and pro- 
 mising to shoot him aloft over all that had been 
 obstructive there, into wader 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 Novem- 
 ber or December night,^ 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 Moncreiff's 
 Testimonial ; a Reverend old Presbyterian Scotch 
 Baronet, of venerable quality (the last of his kind) 
 whom I knew well by sight, and by his universal 
 character for integrity, honest orthodoxy, shrewd- 
 ness and veracity ; Sir Harry testified with brevity, 
 in stiff firm, ancient hand, several important things 
 on Irving'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 ; laughter was not the mood of 
 cither of us. I gave him as road -companion a 
 1 It was in December, just before Christmas 1821.
 
 loo REMINISCENCES 
 
 bundle of the best cigars (gift of Graham to me) I 
 almost ever had : he had no practice of smoking ; 
 but could 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 afterwards, I learnt he had begun by losing 
 every cigar of them, — left the whole bundle lying 
 on our 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, accord- 
 ing to my worst anticipation, 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 rumour, or more 
 specific report, chiefly from Graham 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 impedi- 
 ments there (" Preacher ignorant of Gaelic ? Our 
 fundamental law requires him to preach half the 
 Sunday in that language!" etc. etc.), — and how, at 
 length, all these were got over, or tumbled aside, 
 and the matter settled into adjustment, " Irving our 
 Preacher talis qualis',' to the huge contentment of 
 his Congregation and all onlookers. Of which latter 
 there 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 London, glad enough should I 
 have been to hear from him abundantly ; but he 
 wrote nothing on such points, nor in fact had I ex- 
 pected anything : and the truth was, which did a
 
 EDWARD IRVING 
 
 little disappoint me in time, our regular correspond- 
 ence 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 also hadn't it been given me by good 
 ditto ? Peace, and be silent ! In the first months, 
 Irving, I doubt not, had intended much correspond- 
 ence with me, were the hurlyburly once done ; but 
 no sooner was it so in some measure, than his flaming 
 popularity had begun, spreading, mounting without 
 limit, and instead of business hurlyburly 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 ipsissiuia 
 verba) I know to have been verily his : must not the 
 most blazing indignation (had the least vestige of 
 such ever been in me, for one moment) have died 
 almost into tears at sound of them ? Perfect abso- 
 lution there had long been, without inquiry after 
 penitence. My ever- generous, loving, and noble 
 Irving ! 
 
 If in a gloomy moment I had ever fancied that my 
 friend was lost to me, because no Letters came from 
 him, I had shining proof to the contrary very soon.
 
 REMINISCENCES 
 
 It was in these first months of Hatton Garden and its 
 imbrogho of affairs, that he did a most signal benefit 
 to me ; got me appointed Tutor and intellectual 
 guide and guardian to the young Charles Buller, 
 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 pleasant real history is briefly this. Irving's 
 preaching had attracted Mrs. Strachey, Wife of a 
 well-known Indian Official (of Somersetshire 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 withal, and of innocent secular grace 
 and gift) to things sacred and serious ; emphatically 
 what the Germans call a Sc/ionc Seclc. 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. Buller (a Calcutta fine-lady, and bright princess 
 of the kind worshipped there, a once very beauti- 
 ful, still very witty graceful airy and ingenuously 
 intelligent 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 quizzery 
 and wonder) the uncommon man ; took to him, she 
 also, in her way ; — recognised, as did her Husband 
 too, the robust practical common-sense that was in 
 him ; and, after a few meetings, began speaking of a 
 domestic intricacy there was with a clever, but too
 
 EDWARD IRVING 103 
 
 mercurial unmanageable eldest lad 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 ; hon- 
 ourably done with Harrow some weeks or months 
 ago ; still too young for College on his own footing ; 
 and veiy 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 favour of Pierce Egan and Boxiana (as if the 
 annals of English boxing were more nutritive to 
 an existing Englishman than those of the Pelopon- 
 nesian War, etc. etc.) ; against all which, 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 gentle- 
 man 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 
 unguidcd Youth to Edinburgh College ; I know a 
 young man there who could lead him into richer 
 spiritual pastures, and take effective charge of him." 
 Buller thereupon was sent, and his Brother Arthur 
 with him ; boarded with a good old Dr. Fleming (in
 
 I04 REMINISCENCES 
 
 George's Square), then a Clergyman of mark ; and 
 I (on a salary of ;^2 00 a-year) duly took charge. 
 This was a most important thing to me, in the 
 economics 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 every- 
 thing was being adjusted completely to his wish, or 
 beyond it. 
 
 From the first, I found my Charles a most man- 
 ageable, intelligent, cheery and altogether welcome 
 and agreeable phenomenon ; quite a bit of sunshine 
 in my dreary Edinburgh element. I was in waiting 
 for his Brother and him when they landed at Flem- 
 ing's ; we set instantly out on a walk, round by the 
 foot of Salisbury Crags, up from Holyrood, by the 
 Castle and Law-Courts, home again to George's 
 Square ; and really I recollect few more pleasant 
 walks in my life ! So all-intelligent, seizing every- 
 thing you said to him with such a recognition, so 
 loyal-hearted chivalrous, guileless ; so delighted (evi- 
 dently) with me, as I was with him. Arthur, a two 
 years younger, kept mainly silent, being slightly 
 deaf too ; but I could perceive that he also was a 
 fine little fellow, honest, intelligent, and kind ; and 
 that apparently I had been altogether much in luck 
 in this didactic adventure. Which proved abun- 
 dantly the fact : the two Youths both took to me 
 with unhesitating liking, and I to them ; and we 
 never had anything of quarrel, or even of weariness
 
 EDWARD IRVING 105 
 
 and dreariness, between us : such " teaching " as I 
 never did, in any sphere before or since ! Charles, by 
 his quahties, his ingenuous curiosities, his brilKancy 
 of faculty and character, was actually an entertain- 
 ment to me, rather than a labour ; 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 Third Greek Class in 
 College. In Greek and Latin, in the former in every 
 respect, 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 function. 
 I tried to guide him into reading, into solid inquiry 
 and reflection ; he got some mathematics from me, 
 and might have had more. He got, in brief, what 
 expansion into wider fields of intellect, and more 
 manful modes of thinking and working my poor pos- 
 sibilities 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, and all the Family, till death parted us. 
 
 This of the Bullers was the product for me of 
 Irving's first months in London ; began, and got 
 under way, in the Spring and 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 
 outlooks somewhat cheerfuller, — I still remember a 
 happy forenoon (Sunday, I fear!) in which I did a 
 FiftJi Book (or complete " Doctrine of Proportion ") 
 for that work ; complete really, and lucid, and yet 
 one of the briefest ever known ; it was begun and
 
 io6 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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 £^o for my entire 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, — and that was such an improvement 
 upon wages producing (in Jean Paul's phrase) only 
 water without the bread ! — Towards Autumn the 
 Buller Family followed to Edinburgh, Mr. and Mrs. 
 Buller 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 gene- 
 rally dined with me at luncheon time, and who after- 
 wards turned out a lazy, hebetated 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 
 recognised 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- 
 Indian, accidental English-gentleman, and native or 
 touring Lion genus, for which Mrs. Buller had a lively 
 appetite) ; I still lodged in my old half-rural rooms, 
 "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 content ; but that did dismally
 
 EDWARD IRVING 107 
 
 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 presentiment 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 sake alone ;- — and 
 yet perhaps a benefit withal 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 Jllrs. 
 Buller (having, no doubt, portrayed Mr. Buller to me 
 in acceptable and clearly intelligible lineaments) That 
 she, she too was a worthy, honourable and quick- 
 sighted lady; but not 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 
 interviews and intercourses ; 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 Had- 
 dington ; and heard often about Irving, and of things 
 far more interesting to me, from that quarter. Gone 
 silent now, closed for ever ; so sad, so strange it all 
 is now ! — Irving, I think, had paid a visit there, and 
 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-year ; some months
 
 io8 RE^riNISCENCES 
 
 before his," popularity" had yet taken Jire, 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 fuliginous 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 some- 
 times 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 worthy of success !") ; second, something (prob- 
 ably 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, hand-cuffed 
 wretch ? To me, these great doings in Hatton 
 Garden came only on the wings of Rumour, 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 silence : 
 I had been growing steadily worse in health too, and 
 was silently 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, 
 honestly my feelings on the matter. My love to 
 Irving, now that I look at it across those temporary 
 vapours, had not abated, never did abate ; but he 
 seemed for the present flown (or viountcd, if that was 
 it) far away from me ; and I could only say to myself,
 
 EDWARD IRVING 109 
 
 " Well, well, then ; so it must be." — One heard too, 
 often enough, that in Irving there was visible a cer- 
 tain joyancy and frankness of triumph ; that he 
 took things on the high key, nothing doubting ; and 
 foolish stories circulated about his lofty sayings, sub- 
 limities of manner and the like ; something 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 circum- 
 stances, that would have been, on both sides, agree- 
 able 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 memorable measure, saw Irving 
 again. He was on his Marriage Jaunt, Miss Martin 
 of Kirkcaldy now become his Life-Partner, off on a 
 Tour to the Highlands ; and the generous soul had 
 determined to pass near Kinnaird (right bank of 
 Tay, a mile below the junction of Tummel and 
 Tay), where I then was with the Bullers, and pick 
 me up to accompany as far as I would. I forget 
 where or how our meeting was (at Dunkeld prob- 
 ably) ; I seem to have lodged with them two 
 nights in successive Inns ; and certainly parted from 
 them at Loch Tay Village, Sunday afternoon, where 
 my horse, by some means, must have been waiting 
 for me : I remember baiting him (excellent cob or 
 pony " Dolph," i.e. Bardoiph, bought for me at 
 Lilliesleaf Fair by my dear Brother Alick, and 
 which I had ridden into the Highlands for health) 
 at Aberfeldy ; and to have sat, in a kindly and polite 
 yet very huggermugger cottage, among good peasant
 
 no REMINISCENCES 
 
 Kirk-people, refreshing themselves on returning home 
 from Sermon ; sat for perhaps some two hours, till 
 poor Dolph got rested and refected like his fellow- 
 creatures there. I even remember 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 w^ould 
 be with My Lord, at Taymouth Castle ! After 
 Aberfeldy Cottage, the curtain falls. 
 
 Irving, on this his Wedding-Jaunt, seemed super- 
 latively 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. Irving was 
 demure and quiet, though doubtless not less happy 
 at heart ; really comely in her behaviour . . . 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, 
 after all ! — 
 
 My friend was kind to me as possible ; and bore 
 with my gloomy humours (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 remem- 
 ber jovial bursts of laughter from him at my surly 
 sarcastic 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 Taymouth still ahead, — 
 " Doesn't this subdue you ? " " Subdue me ? I
 
 EDWARD IRVING 
 
 should hope not ! I have quite other things to 
 front with defiance, in this world, than a gush of 
 bog -water tumbling over crags as here ! " Which 
 produced a joyous and really kind laugh from him 
 as sole answer. He had much to tell me of London, 
 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 Font/nil- Abbey 
 Sale, the other week, hired to attend as a ' Wliite- 
 bonnet ' there," said he with a laugh. WJiite-boiinet 
 intensely vernacular, is the Annandale name for a 
 false bidder merely appointed to raise prices ; works 
 so, for his five shillings, at some poor little Annandale 
 Roup {R2if, or vocal Sale) of Standing crop or 
 hypothecated cottage furniture ; and the contrast 
 and yet kinship between these little things and the 
 Fonthill great ones, 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 something harmless and 
 beneath him. 
 
 Wilson in Blackivood had been very scornful, and 
 done his bitterly enough disobliging best : never- 
 theless Irving, now advising 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,
 
 REMINISCENCES 
 
 " Come now, you know I am the judicious Hooker ! " 
 which was considered 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 further : — " Well, Carlyle, I am glad to hear 
 you say all that ; it gives me the opinion of another 
 mind on the thing," — which at least, beyond any 
 doubt, it did ! He was in high sunny humour, good 
 Irving. There was no trace of anger left in him ; 
 he was jovial, riant, jocose, — jocose rather than 
 serious throughout, which was a new phasis to me. 
 And furthermore, in the serious vein itself there was 
 oftenest something oi falsetto noticeable (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 
 Montagu, elderly, sage, lofty, yet humane, whom 
 we got to know afterwards, and to call by his name 
 for her, " the Noble Lady," who had saved him 
 greatly from the dashing floods of that tumultuous 
 and 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 
 
 •" The Oracles of God in Four Orations. For Judgment to Come, 
 an Argument in Nine Parts (i vol. London, 1823). Miss Welsh's copy 
 is inscribed " To Jane Welsh my beloved Pupil and most dear friend — 
 and to her Mother whom I love no less — to whose smiles upon his 
 labours the author is indebted for much, very much of his present 
 ardour."
 
 EDWARD IRVING 113 
 
 from Taymouth Kirk (Kirk, Congregation, Minister 
 and Sermon utterly erased from me), how in coming 
 down the broadish Httle 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 Servant ran up, " Please, Sir, aren't you the 
 Rev. Edward Irving ? " " Yes." " Then my Lord 
 Breadalbane begs you to stop for him one moment." 
 Whereupon exit Flunkey ; Irving turning to us, with 
 what look of sorrow he could, and " Again found 
 out ! " upon which the old Lord came up (Father 
 of the last, or late " Free-Kirk " one, whom I have 
 sometimes seen), 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 friendliest) were comfortably fit for 
 uttering to the Bullers next day. I saw no more 
 of Irving for this time. But he had been at Had- 
 dington too, was perhaps again corresponding a 
 little there ; and I heard occasionally of him, in the 
 beautiful, 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 prepared the 
 way for in the London Magazine ; — three successive 
 Parts there were ; I know not how far advanced 
 at this period ; know only that I was nightly 
 working at the thing in a serious, sad, and totally 
 VOL. II. I
 
 114 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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, over- 
 shadowed 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 company good or bad, as I never 
 experienced before or since. I remember 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 
 miserablest dyspeptic health, uncertain whether I 
 ought not even to quit on that account, and at times 
 almost resolving to do it ; dumb, far away from all 
 my Loved ones ; — my poor Schiller, nothing con- 
 siderable of a ivoj'k even to my own judgment, had 
 to be steadily persisted in, as the only protection 
 and resource in this inarticulate huge wilderness, 
 actual and symbolical. My Editor I think was 
 complimentary ; but I knew better. The Times 
 Newspaper once brought me, without commentary 
 at all, an " eloquent " passage reprinted (about the 
 Tragedy of " noble Literary Life") ; which I remember 
 to have read with more pleasure, in this utter isola- 
 tion, 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 desolations of my inner man a 
 strange little glow of illumination : but here too, on 
 a little reflection, I 'knew better;' and the winter
 
 EDWARD IRVING 115 
 
 afternoon was not over when I saw clearly how very 
 small this conquest was, and things were in their 
 statu quo again. 
 
 ScJiillcr done, I began WilJiehn Mcister ; a task I 
 liked perhaps rather better, too scanty as my know- 
 ledge 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 ]Vil/iclin Meister, 
 and eagerly read it through ; — my sally out, after 
 finishing, along the vacant streets of Edinburgh 
 (a windless, Scotch-misty Sunday night) is still vivid 
 to me : " Grand, surely, harmoniously built together, 
 far-seeing, wise and true : when, for many years, 
 or almost in my 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 he there : of Kinnaird life they had now 
 had enough ; and I (and my miserable 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 com- 
 plexities to a single question, " 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 instantly and strictly up ; — found, 
 after long months, that I might as well have ridden
 
 Ii6 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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 ; finished that and the rest 
 of the Meistcr business (^i8o of payment the 
 choicest part of it !) rapidly off ; made a visit to Had- 
 dington, — what a retrospect to me now, encircled 
 by the Silences and the Eternities ; most beautiful, 
 most sad (I remember the gimp bonnet she wore, and 
 her anxious silent thoughts, and my own, mutually 
 legible both of them, in part, — my own little Darling, 
 now at rest, and far away !) — which was the last 
 thing in Scotland. Of the Leith Smack, every figure 
 and event in which is curiously present, though 
 so unimportant, I will say nothing : only that we 
 entered London River on a beautiful May^ morning ; 
 scene very impressive to me, and still very vivid 
 in me ; and that soon after mid-day, I landed safe in 
 Irving's, as appointed. 
 
 Irving lived in Myddelton Terrace {Jiodie Myddel- 
 ton Square), Islington, 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 region ; Irving's house was fourth from the 
 northern end of that, which of course had its left- 
 hand on the New Road. The place was airy, not un- 
 cheerful ; our chief prospect from the front was a 
 
 ^ It was in the beginning of June.
 
 EDWARD IRVING 117 
 
 good space of green ground, and in it, on the hither 
 edge of it, the big open reservoir of Myddelton's 
 " New River " (now above two centuries old, for that 
 matter, but recently made new again and all cased in 
 tight masonry), on the spacious expanses of smooth 
 flags surrounding which, it was pleasant on fine 
 mornings to take our early promenade, with the free 
 sky overhead, and the New Road with its lively traffic 
 and vchiculation seven or eight good yards below our 
 level. I remember several pretty strolls here, our- 
 selves two, while breakfast was getting ready close 
 by, and the esplanade, a high little island lifted free 
 out of the noises and jostlings, was all our own. 
 
 Irving had received me with the old true friendli- 
 ness, wife and household eager to imitate him therein. 
 I seem to have staid a good two or three weeks with 
 them at that time (Buller arrangements not yet 
 ready, nay sometimes threatening to become un- 
 certain 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 Montagu's eldest son (" Noble Lady's " step- 
 son ; she was Basil's third Wife, and had four kinds 
 of children at home, a most sad miscellany, as I 
 afterwards found), ' Mr. Montagu junior,' accidental 
 guest at our neat little early dinner ; my first speci- 
 men of the London Dandy, — broken Dandy, very 
 mild of manner, who went all to 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 strangcly-com- 
 plexioncd young lady, with soft brown eyes and
 
 1 1 8 REMINISCENCES 
 
 floods of bronze-red hair, really a pretty-looking, 
 smiling and amiable, though most foreign bit of 
 magnificence and kindly splendour ; whom they wel- 
 comed by the name of " dear Kitty," — Kitty Kirk- 
 patrick, 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 usual 
 grandiloquent terms. This might be called novelty 
 second, if not first and far greatest ! Then after 
 dinner, in the drawing-room, which was prettily fur- 
 nished, 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 
 we 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, per- 
 haps 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
 
 EDWARD IRVING 119 
 
 of whom were rich and openhanded, that had done 
 this fine stroke of art-magic ; one of the many muni- 
 ficences achieved by them in this new province. 
 Perhaps the " Noble Lady " had, at first, been sus- 
 pected ; but how innocently she, — not flush in that 
 way at all, though notably so in others ! The talk 
 about these and other noble souls, and new pheno- 
 mena, strange to me, and half-incredible in such inter- 
 pretation, 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 questionable 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, according to old habit, strove to represent 
 it to himself, and to make it be; and it was as 
 the latter that it obstinately continued being ! 
 There were beautiful items in his present scene 
 of life, but a great majority which, under specious 
 figure, were intrinsically poor, vulgar and impor- 
 tunate ; and introduced largely into one's existence 
 the character of Jiuggeruntgger, 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 think 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 communings 
 were. Crowds of visitors came about him, and ten
 
 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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 general, but with symp- 
 toms 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 hollower spot, there suddenly dis- 
 closed 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 London 
 shoved aside as foil or background, nothing 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 benedictory 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.
 
 EDWARD IRVING 121 
 
 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 honest, shrewd and 
 pious Nithsdale man, who wedded a Sister of Mrs. 
 Irving's by and by, and whom I knew 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 : — a Sir Peter Laurie, 
 afterwards of Aldermanic and even Mayoral celeb- 
 rity, 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 especially 
 struggling) ; — and indeed once, to me at Paris a 
 while after this, likened Irving and Dinwiddle to 
 " Harlequin and Blast " whom he had seen in some 
 Farce then current ; Harlequin conjuring up the 
 most glorious possibilities (like this of their " Cale- 
 donian 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-Saddlcr 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 coming to live in 
 London, he had rather grown in civic fame and
 
 REMINISCENCES 
 
 importance ; and possibly (for I am not quite sure) 
 on the feeble chance of his being of some help, I 
 sent him some indication or other (a project belike, 
 and my card with it; one of several air-castlcs I was 
 anxiously building at that time before taking to 
 French Revolution /) ; — but if so, he took no notice, 
 gave no sign. Some years afterwards I met him 
 in my rides in the Park ; evidently recognisant, and 
 willing or wishful 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 ; uncon- 
 scious wholly that he might have risen to the top 
 in a considerably nobler and fruitfuller one. What 
 a tragic, treacherous stepdame is vulgar Fortune to 
 her children ! Sir Peter's wealth has gone now in 
 good part to somebody concerned in "discovering," 
 not for the final time, " the source of the Nile " (bless- 
 ings on it !) — a Captain Grant, I think, companion 
 to a ditto Speke ; having married Sir Peter's Scotch 
 Niece and Lady Heiress, a good clever girl, once of 
 Haddington . . . 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 
 
 1 Sir Peter Laurie died 1861 ; aged 83.
 
 EDWARD IRVING 123 
 
 to India, called after marriage, but found nobody, — 
 nor now ever will. 
 
 By far the most distinguished Two, and to me 
 the alone important, of Irving's London Circle, were 
 Mrs. Strachey (Mrs. Buller's younger sister), and the 
 " Noble Lady," Mrs. Basil Montagu ; 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 they [the Stracheys] oftenest were in Summer. 
 I remember our entering the little winding avenue, 
 and seeing in a kind of open conservatory or 
 verandah, on our approach to the House, the efful- 
 gent vision of " dear Kitty," busied among the roses, 
 and almost buried under them, who, 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 w^ith my 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. Edw^ard (that, I think, was the Examiner's 
 name) might be a few years turned of fifty, at this 
 time; his Wife twenty years younger, with a number 
 of pretty children, — the eldest hardly fourteen, and
 
 124 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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, clean 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 ; ' Utilitarian ' and Democrat by creed, 
 yet beyond all things he loved Chaucer and kept 
 reading him. A man rather tacit than discursive ; 
 but willing 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 im- 
 patient of pretence, of sham and untruth in all 
 forms, — especially contemptuous of " quality " pre- 
 tensions and affectations, which he scattered grin- 
 ningly to the winds. Dressed in the simplest form ; 
 walked daily to the India House and back, though 
 there were fine carriages in store for the women 
 part ; — scorned cheerfully " the general 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
 
 EDWARD IRVING 125 
 
 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 manners, 
 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 Bcgiini 
 sort, had wealth abundant, and might perhaps have 
 been charmed ? None knows. She had one of the 
 prettiest smiles, a visible sense of humour (the slight 
 merry curl of her upper lip, rigJit side of it only, the 
 carriage of her head and eyes, on such occasions, the 
 quiet little things she said in that kind, and her low- 
 toned hearty laugh, were noticeable) ; this was per- 
 haps her most spiritual quality ; of developed in- 
 tellect she had not much, though not wanting in 
 discernment. Amiable, affectionate, graceful ; might 
 be called attractive (not sHdl enough for the title 
 " pretty," not tall enough for " beautiful ") ; had 
 something low-voiced, languidly harmonious, placid, 
 sensuous, loved perfumes etc.: a Y\.2\{-Bcgiim in short ; 
 interesting specimen of the Semi -oriental English- 
 woman. Still lives, near Exeter (the prize of some 
 idle 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 Montagu establishment (25 Bedford Square) 
 was still more notable, and as unlike this as possible.
 
 126 REMINISCENCES 
 
 Might be defined, not quite satirically, as a most 
 singular social and spiritual vic'iiageric ; which, in- 
 deed, was well known and much noted and criticised 
 in certain Literary and other circles. Basil Montagu, 
 a Chancery Barrister in excellent practice, hugely a 
 sage too, busy all his days upon " Bacon's Works," 
 and continually preaching a superfinest morality, 
 about benevolence, munificence, health, peace, un- 
 failing 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 grizzled 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 "Jemmy Diddler "^) ; 
 who indeed had been father of him, in a highly 
 tragic way ! [His mother,] pretty Miss Ray, care- 
 fully educated for that function ; Rev. ex-dragoon 
 Hackman taking this so dreadfully to heart 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 
 
 ^ Carlyle's memory was at fault here. "Jemmy Tiuiic/ier^^ is the 
 name of a character in Gay's Beggar s Opei-a, and was a nickname 
 applied to John, Earl of Sandwich, who died in 1792. Gray's satirical 
 poem on Lord Sandwich, The Candidate, begins — 
 
 " When sly Jemmy Twitcher had smugged up his face. 
 With a lick of court whitewash, and pious grimace." 
 
 "Jeremy Diddler " is the name of a character in Kenny's farce of 
 Raising the Wind. 
 
 ^ See Boswell's Joluison (edited by P. Fitzgerald, 3 vols. London, 
 1874), ii. p. 362.
 
 EDWARD IRVING 127 
 
 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 genesis, and with a 
 life of his own which had been brimful of difficulties 
 and confusions ! It cannot be said he managed it 
 ill, but far the contrary, all things considered. No- 
 body 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 myself 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. Mon- 
 tagu's own by a previous marriage, were present in 
 the house ; a most difficult miscellany. . . . Only 
 the eldest child, Emily, the one daughter Basil had, 
 succeeded in the world ; made a good match (in 
 Turin country somewhere), and is still doing well. 
 Emily was Basil's only daughter, but she was not 
 his wife's only one : Mrs. Montagu had by her 
 former marriage, which had been brief, one daughter, 
 six or eight years older than Emily Montagu ; 
 Anne Skepper the name of this one, and York or 
 Yorkshire her birthplace : a brisk, witty, prettyish, 
 sufficiently clear - eyed and sharp - tongued young 
 lady, — bride, or affianced, at this time, of the Poet 
 " Barry Cornwall," i.e. Bryan W, Procter, whose wife.
 
 128 REMINISCENCES 
 
 both of them still prosperously living, she now is. 
 Anne rather liked me, I her ; an evidently true, 
 sensible and practical )-oung lady, in a house con- 
 siderably in want of such an article. She was the 
 fourth genealogic 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 Montagu at the head of it, and an almost still 
 stranger miscellaneous society that fluctuated through 
 it, Mrs. Montagu had a problem like few others. 
 But she, if anyone, was equal to it. A more constant 
 and consummate Artist in that kind you could no- 
 where meet with ; truly a remarkable 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 ; 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 always gently shut, 
 as if till the inquiry were completed, and the time 
 came for something of royal speech upon it. She 
 had a slight Yorkshire accent ; but spoke — Dr. Hugh 
 lilair could not have picked a hole in it, and you 
 might have printed every word, — as queenlike, 
 gentle, soothing, measured, prettily royal, — towards 
 subjects whom she wished to love her. The voice 
 was modulated, low, not inharmonious, yet there 
 was something of metallic in it, akin to that smile 
 in the eyes. One durst not quite love this high
 
 EDWARD IRVING 129 
 
 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-coloured 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. Montagu, 
 often angry ones ; but the truth is, she did love, and 
 aspire to, human excellence ; — and 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 honour from the theft. 
 
 In early life she had made some visit to Niths- 
 dale (to the " Craiks of Arbigland"), 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 defined him, as the first 
 mark of his genius. I think I have heard that, at 
 a Ball in Dumfries, she had frugally constructed 
 some dress by sewing real flowers upon it ; and 
 shone, by that bit of art, and by her fine bearing, 
 as the cynosure of all eyes. Her Father, I gradually 
 understood (not from herself), had been a man of 
 inconsiderable wealth or position, a Wine-merchant 
 in York, his name Benson ; her first Husband, Mr. 
 VOL. II. K
 
 I30 REMINISCENCES 
 
 Skepper, some young Lawyer there, of German ex- 
 traction ; — and that the " Romance " of her wedding 
 Montagu, which she sometimes touched on, had 
 been, prosaically, nothing but this : Seeing herself, 
 on Skepper's death, left destitute with a young girl, 
 she consented to take charge of Montagu's mother- 
 less 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 sovereignty in the house had to be soft, judicious, 
 politic ; but it was constant 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 loved him so much 
 as tried to buy love from him, by soft ministrations, 
 by the skilfullest flattery liberally laid on. He con- 
 tinued always 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 paper -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 ! — 
 
 On one of the first fine mornings, Mrs. Montagu, 
 along with Irving, took me out to see Coleridge at
 
 EDWARD IRVING 13 1 
 
 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 unsatis- 
 factory, and yielded me nothing, — Coleridge, a 
 puffy, anxious, obstructed -looking, fattish old man, 
 hobbled about with us, talking with a kind of 
 solemn emphasis 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 narrozv parts of the garden -walks ; and 
 tried hard to get something about Kmit 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 afterward, Mon- 
 tagu, on Coleridge's " Thursday Evening," carried 
 Irving and me out, and returned blessing Heaven 
 (I not) for what we had received ; Irving and I 
 walked out more than once on mornings, too ; 
 and found the Dodona Oracle humanely ready 
 to act, — but never (to me, nor to 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 Montagu- 
 Irving 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.
 
 132 REMINISCENCES 
 
 Early in 1825 was my last sight of him ; a Print 
 of Porson brought some trifling utterance, " Sen- 
 suality, such a dissohitor even of the features of a 
 man's face!" — and I remember nothing more. On 
 my second visit to London (autumn 1831), Irving 
 and I had appointed a day for pilgrimage to High- 
 gate ; 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 
 Montagu'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 occasion. A confused dim miscellany of 
 " geniuses " (mostly nondescript and harmlessly use- 
 less) 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 him once ; once I gradually 
 felt to have been enough for me. Poor Lamb, such 
 a " divine genius " you could find in the then Lon- 
 don only ! Hazlitt, whom I had a kind of curiosity 
 about, was not now " of the admitted " (such the 
 hint) ; at any rate, kept strictly away. There was 
 a " Crabbe Robinson " (who had been in Weimar, 
 etc. ; who was first of the " Own Correspondents " 
 now so numerous, this is now his real distinction) ; 
 there was a Mr. Fearn " profound in Metaphysics " 
 
 ^ The Carlyles settled in Chelsea loth of June. Coleridge died 
 25th July 1834.
 
 EDWARD IRVING 133 
 
 (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 defined Poetry (to Irving once) as 
 "the prod^^ction of a rude A age/" 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 others, Miltoji more rarely), — this was the 
 orthodox strain ; but there was little considerable 
 of actual knowledge, and of critical appreciation 
 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 constantly there. Anne 
 and he were to have been, and were still to be, 
 married ; but some disaster or entanglement in 
 Procter's Attorney 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, happily took place in 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 honour- 
 able morality ; and airy friendly ways. Of slight 
 neat figure, vigorous for his size ; fine genially
 
 134 REMINISCENCES 
 
 rugged little face, fine head, — something curiously 
 dreamy in the eyes of him, lids drooping at the 
 outer ends, into a cordially meditative and beautiful 
 expression. Would break out suddenly, now and 
 then, into opera attitude and " La ci dareni la 
 viano " 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 the quarter 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 romantic estimation here, 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 after- 
 wards, I, more or less romantically , went to Birming- 
 ham ; and, though not " cured of dyspepsia " there 
 (alas, not the least) had two or three singular and 
 interesting months, as will be seen, if we have room. 
 But indeed it is shameful to speak so much of 
 myself in what was meant for another mainly. 
 Badams, Procter etc. were of Irving's London Circle; 
 and came to me through Irving : that is my one 
 excuse, so far as it will go. 
 
 Irving's Preaching at Hatton Garden, which I 
 regularly attended while in his House, and occa- 
 sionally afterwards, did not strike me as superior 
 to his Scotch performances of past time, or, in 
 private fact, inspire me with any complete or 
 pleasant feeling. Assent to them I could not, 
 except under very wide reservations ; nor, granting 
 all his postulates, did either matter or manner carry
 
 EDWARD IRVING 135 
 
 me captive, or at any time perfect my admiration. 
 The force and weight of what he urged was un- 
 deniable, the potent faculty at work, like that of 
 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 jarring on the mind : one felt the bad element 
 to be, and to have been, unwholesome to the honour- 
 able 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 " sitting 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 plebs 
 at all, but never higher than of the well-dressed 
 poptdus henceforth) ; which was a sad change to 
 the sanguine man. One noticed that at heart 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 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
 
 136- REMINISCENCES 
 
 to me once of this, and once only ; reporting some 
 of his expressions, with an affectionate sorrow. 
 Cruelly blasted all these hopes soon 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 (and there was on the very surface a fond 
 credulity etc., with 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 
 understand. Good Mrs. Oliphant, and probably 
 her public, have much mistaken me on this point : 
 that Irving to the very last had abundant " popu- 
 larity," and confluence of auditors sufficient for 
 the largest pulpit " vanity," I knew and know ; — but 
 also that his once immeasurable quasi -celestial 
 hope remained cruelly blasted, refusing the least 
 bud 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 never more : — 
 and the case, in itself, is easy to understand. 
 
 He had much quiet seriousness, beautiful piety 
 and charity, in this bad time of agitation and dis- 
 quietude ; and I was often honestly 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
 
 EDWARD IRVING 137 
 
 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 were not so mean ; never 
 complained of the uncomfortable huggermugger his 
 life was now grown to be ; took everything, wife, 
 servants, guests, world, by the favourablest handle. 
 He had infinite delight in a little baby boy there 
 now was, went dandling about with it in his giant 
 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 creature has been sent me to soften my 
 hard heart, which did need it ! " 
 
 Towards all distressed people, not absolutely 
 criminal, his kindness, frank helpfulness, long-suffer- 
 ing 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 deserved to do, though his talents 
 were good ; — and was now hanging very miscellane- 
 ously on London, with no outlooks that were not 
 bog meteors, and a steadily increasing tendency to 
 strong drink. He knew Town well, and its babble, and 
 bits of temporary cynosures and frequented haunts, 
 good and perhaps bad ; — took me one evening to 
 the Poet Campbell's, whom I had already seen, but 
 not successfully. 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
 
 138 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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 bank- 
 rupt vanity, which had taken quite the malignant 
 shape. Undeniable 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 Irving's 
 and elsewhere (perhaps with a little drink on his 
 stomach, poor soul), break out into oblique little 
 spurts of positive spite, — which I understood to mean 
 merely, " Young Jackanapes, getting yourself noticed 
 and honoured, while a mature man of real genius is " 
 etc. ! and took no notice of, to the silent comfort of 
 self and neighbours. 
 
 This broken Macbeth had been hanging a good 
 while about Irving, 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 dirty Winter weather, 
 and I was present, there came to Irving or to Mrs. 
 Irving, dated from some dark Tavern in the Holborn 
 precincts, a piteous little Note from Macbeth : 
 " Ruined again (tempted, O how cunningly, to my 
 old sin) ; 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 majority were of 
 opinion, " Pshaw, it is totally hopeless ! " but Irving, 
 after some minutes of serious consideration, decided, 
 " No, not totally" — and directly got into a Hackney- 
 coach, wife and he, proper moneys in pocket ; paid
 
 EDWARD IRVING 139 
 
 the poor devil's tavern-score (some £2 : los. or so, if 
 I remember), and brought him groaning home out of 
 his purgatory again, — for he was in much bodily 
 suffering too. I remember to have been taken up to 
 see him, one evening, in his bedroom (comfortable 
 airy place), a week or two after : he was in clean 
 dressing-gown and night-cap, walking about the 
 floor ; affected to turn away his face, and to be quite 
 " ashamed," etc. etc., 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 downstairs ; 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 under chalk-score and bodily sickness in his 
 drinking-shop, there 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 ; 
 and, 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 
 the 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 different kinds ; one insolent 
 " Bishop of Toronto," triumphant Canadian, but 
 Aberdeen by dialect (once only, from whom Irving 
 defended me) ; etc. etc. ; — but of these I say nothing.
 
 140 REMINISCENCES 
 
 Irving, though they made his House-element and 
 Life-element continually muddy for him, was end- 
 lessly patient with them all. 
 
 This my first visit to London, lasted, with interrup- 
 tions, from early June 1824 till [end of February] 
 1825 ; during which I repeatedly lodged for a little 
 while at Irving's, his house ever open to me like a 
 brother's ; but cannot now recollect the times or 
 their circumstances. The above recollections extend 
 vaguely over the whole period, — during the last four 
 or five months of which I had my own rooms in a 
 Southampton Street near by, and was still in almost 
 constant familiarity. My own situation was very 
 wretched, — primarily from a state of health, which 
 nobody could be expected to understand, or sym- 
 pathise with, and about which I had as much as pos- 
 sible 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 Night- 
 mares ! 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. " Obstinacy as of ten 
 mules" I have sometimes called it since ; — but in 
 candid truth there was something ivortJiily Jiuman 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 " ob- 
 stinacy," grounded on real human 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, airy,
 
 EDWARD IRVING 141 
 
 was a changeful lady ! The original program had 
 been, We were all to shift to Cornwall ; live in some 
 beautiful Buller cottage there was, about East Looe 
 or West (on her eldest Brother-in-law's property); 
 with this as a fixed thing, I had arrived in London, 
 asking myself "What kind of thing will it be?" It 
 proved to have become already a thing all of the 
 winds ; — gone like a dream of the night (by some 
 " accident " or other) ! For four or five weeks coming, 
 there was new scheme, followed always by newer and 
 newest ; all of which (by some " accident " or other) 
 proved successively inexecutable. Greatly to my 
 annoyance and regret, as may be imagined. The 
 only thing that did ever take effect was a shifting of 
 Charles and me out to solitary lodgings at Kew 
 Green ; ^ an isolating of us two {^pro tcniporc) over our 
 lessons there. One of the dreariest and uncomfort- 
 ablest things to both of us ; lasted for about a fort- 
 night, — 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 clement !) 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 meantime 
 making ready under some fit College " grinder ; " I 
 myself, not without regret, taking leave of the enter- 
 prise. Which proposal, after some affectionate resist- 
 ance 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 
 
 ^ In June 1S24.
 
 142 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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 years 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 ren- 
 dezvoused by appointment in Regent Square (St. 
 Pancras), where Irving and a great company were 
 laying the foundation of the " 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 confusing crowd and the unfavourable 
 locality (a muddy chaos of rubbish 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. — 
 
 Twenty years after, riding discursively towards 
 Tottenham, 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, easily ascertainable, the high 
 minarets of that Chapel ; and thought with myself,
 
 EDWARD IRVING 143 
 
 " Ah, you fatal tombstone of my lost Friend ; and 
 did a soul so strong and high avail only to build 
 YOU !" — and felt sad enough and rather angry in 
 looking at the thing. 
 
 It was not many days after this of the Regent- 
 Square Address, which was quickly followed by ter- 
 mination 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 
 Montagus 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 assent- 
 ing 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 England (the first considerable space I had 
 yet seen of it), with really pleasant recognition of its 
 fertile beauties, and air of long-continued cleanli- 
 ness, contentment and well-being. Stony Stratford, 
 Fenny Stratford, and the good people coming out of 
 Church ; Coventry, etc. etc. : all this is still a pic- 
 ture. 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 
 
 1 July 1824.
 
 144 REMINISCENCES 
 
 gentleviaji ;" 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 (western end of 
 Birmingham, not far from the great Watfs house of 
 that name) and instalment in the Badams's domes- 
 ticities must have well corresponded to my expecta- 
 tions, 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 successful, 
 though singular. 
 
 Apart from the nimbus of Montagu romance in 
 the first accounts I had got of Badams, he was a 
 gifted, amiable and remarkable man, — who proved 
 altogether friendly, beneficent, so far as he went 
 with 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 master- 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 ALoUc Digamma 
 department, I should apprehend ! He retained a 
 kindly and respectful remembrance about this Tris- 
 megistus of the then Pedants ; but always in brief 
 
 1 The flying arrow received from Apollo, on which Abaris, at his 
 own will, sped through space.
 
 EDWARD IRVING 145 
 
 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 Montagus), 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 husks 
 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, and in other branches of the colour business ; and 
 had a modest manufactory, of twenty or fewer hands, 
 and 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, opening rearward on 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 hus- 
 band (whom Badams only tolerated for her sake) 
 working out of doors among the twenty ; we lived 
 in the two upper floors, entering from our street 
 door, and wearing a modestly civilised air. Every- 
 thing has still a living look to me in that place ; 
 
 not even the bad (who never showed his 
 
 VOL. II. L
 
 146 REMINISCENCES 
 
 badness) but has claims on me ; still more the vener- 
 able 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 especi- 
 ally our excellent, sad, pure and silent Mrs. Barnet, 
 correct as an 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 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 re- 
 member the sight of her, on afternoons, in some 
 lighted closet there was, cutting out the bit of bread 
 for her children's luncheon, two clean pretty little 
 girls, who stood looking up with hope ; her silence, 
 and theirs, and the fine human relation between 
 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 qualities who has had in- 
 tricate vicissitudes, and fortunate escapes, staid 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 triumphant, 
 not very long ago, as Wife of the accomplished Dr. 
 
 of St. Leonards, — in which capacity she showed 
 
 a generous exaggerated " gratitude " to her old 
 Mistress and me, and set herself and her Husband 
 unweariedly to help, in that our sad St. Leonards'
 
 EDWARD IRVING 147 
 
 season of woe and toil, which has now ended in 
 eternal peace to One of us, and cannot, nor can 
 
 Dr. '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 open 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 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 to the other high-going sort) ; and many 
 were the pleasant rides I had in these Warwickshire 
 lanes and heaths, and real good they did me, — if 
 Badams's medicinal and dietetic formalities (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 {zvaistbaiid 
 in ha7td, was a common aspect, and hair all fly- 
 ing) : "What? Not up yet, — monster!" The smile 
 of his eyes, the sound of his voice, were so bright 
 and practically true, on these occasions. A tight
 
 148 REMINISCENCES 
 
 middle-sized handsome kind of man ; eyes blue, 
 sparkling, soft, nose and other features inclining to 
 the pointed, — complexion, 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 ; essen- 
 tially 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 emphatic and expressive were the 
 words that came from him. His faults were a too 
 sanguine temper, and a defective inner sternness of 
 veracity : — true he was, but not sternly enough, 
 and would listen to Imagination and delusive 
 Hope, when Fact said No : — for which two faults, 
 partly recognisable to me even then, I little ex- 
 pected he would by and by pay so dear ! 
 
 We had a pleasant time together ; many pleasant 
 summer rides and out-door talks and in ; — to Guy's 
 Cliff, Warwick Castle, Sutton Coldfield, Kenilworth, 
 etc., on holidays ; or miscellaneously over the furzy 
 heaths, and leafy ruralities in common evenings : 
 I remember well a ride we made to Kenilworth, 
 one Saturday afternoon, by the " Wood of Arden " 
 and its monstrous old Oaks, on to the famous Ruin 
 itself {fresh in the Scott Novels then), and a big 
 jolly Farmer friend 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 : 
 
 1 Samuel Parr, born 1747, died 1825 ; nicknamed "Old Parr "after 
 Thomas Parr who died in 1635 ^"'•l was reported to be 152 years old.
 
 EDWARD IRVING 149 
 
 Old Parr would have been desirabler to me than 
 the great old Ruin (now mainly a skeleton, part 
 of it a coarse farmhouse, which was the most in- 
 teresting part) ; but Badams didn't 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 over all this region ; yet everybody 
 seemed to consider him a ridiculous old fellow, 
 whose strength of intellect was mainly gone to self- 
 will and fantasticality ; they all mimicked his lisp, 
 and talked of his wig and tobacco-pipe (" No pipe, 
 no Parr !" his avowed principle when asked to dinner 
 among fine people). The old man came to Edin- 
 burgh on a visit to Dr. Gregory, perhaps the very 
 next year ; and there too, for a year following, there 
 lingered tradition 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 memorable gallop (we always went at 
 galloping or cantering pace, and Badams was proud 
 of his cattle and their really great prowess) was 
 one morning out to Hagley ; to the " top of the Clent 
 Hill," for a view, after breakfasting at Hagley Tap, 
 and then return. Distance from Birmingham is 
 about seventeen miles ; " The Leasowes " (Poet Shen- 
 stone's Place) is about midway (visible enough, to 
 left, in the level sun-rays, as you gallop out) ; after 
 which comes a singular Tcj'-ra 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
 
 ISO REAflNISCENCES 
 
 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 of the world were getting made here, on 
 very unexpected terms ! Hales Owen itself had 
 much sunk under the improved highway, but was 
 cheerfully 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-look- 
 ing place, when his now 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 Fortiuiatus travellmg-carpct 
 at my disposal. Smoke-pillars many, in a definite, 
 straight or spiral shape, — the Dudley "Black' 
 Country," under favourable omens, — visible from " the 
 top of ' the Clent Hill ' " ; after which, and the aristo- 
 cratic 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 in rare evenings ; a rather 
 pleasant talking, shrewd enough little fellow, with 
 bad teeth, and a knowing lightly satirical way ; — 
 whom Badams thought little of, but tolerated for 
 his (Joe's) Mother's sake, as he did Parkes Senior, 
 who was her second husband. The famous Joe 
 I never saw again, though hearing often of his prefer- 
 ments, performances and him, — till he died, not
 
 EDWARD IRVING 151 
 
 long since ; " writing a new Discovery of Junius" it 
 was rumoured ; fit enough task for such a man. 
 Bessy Parkes (of " the Rights of Women ") is a 
 daughter of his. There were Phipsons, too, " Unita- 
 rian people," very good to me : a young fellow of 
 them, still young though become a Pin Manufacturer, 
 had been at Ejdangen University, and could float 
 along in light airy anecdotic fashion, by a time ; — he 
 re-emerged on me four or five years ago, living 
 at Putney, head grown white from red, but heart still 
 light ; introducing a Chemical Son of his, whom 
 I thought not unlikely to push himself 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 I heard the famous " Dr. Hall " (of Leicester) 
 preach : a flabby puffy, but massy, earnest forcible- 
 looking man (' Jiomme alors ceVebre' !^ ; Sermon extem- 
 pore, text, " God who cannot lie : " — he proved beyond 
 shadow of doubt, in a really forcible but most super- 
 fluous way, that God never lied (' had no need to do 
 it,' etc., etc.) : "As good prove that God never fought 
 a duel ! " sniffed Badams, on my reporting at home. 
 
 " Jemmy Belcher " was a smirking little dumpy 
 Unitarian Bookseller, in the Bull-ring ; regarded as 
 a kind of curiosity and favourite 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 clevcrish and completely hostile criticism of my 
 WilJielui Mcistcr, of my Goethe and Self, etc. ; read 
 it faithfully to the end, and have never set eye on it 
 since. On stepping out, my bad spirits did not feel
 
 I S 2 REMINISCENCES 
 
 much elevated by the dose just swallowed : but I 
 thought with myself, " This man is perhaps 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 w;/serviceable 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 recol- 
 lect 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 wire -drawn ingenuities ; bankrupt 
 enthusiasms, bankrupt pride ; with the finest silver- 
 toned low voice, and most elaborate gently-winding 
 courtesies and ingenuities in conversation : " What 
 wouldn't one give to have him in a Box, and take 
 him out to talk ! " (That was Her criticism of 
 him ; and it was right good.) A bright, ready 
 and melodious talker ; but in the end an incon- 
 clusive 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 
 sat, you would have taken him, by candlelight, for 
 the beautifullest little Child ; blue -eyed, blonde- 
 haired, sparkling face, — had there not been a 
 something too, which said, " Eccovi, this Child has 
 been in Hell ! " After leaving Edinburgh, I never
 
 EDWARD IRVING 153 
 
 saw him, hardly ever heard of him. His fate, — 
 owing to opium etc., — was hard and sore ; poor 
 fine - strung, 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 Birming- 
 ham (" Bromwich-ham," Briiiiiagcni, as you were 
 forced to call it). 
 
 Irving himself once, 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 here was 
 helpless dispiritment, under dyspepsia which had 
 come upon him, hapless innocent lazy soul. The 
 people were very kind to him ; but he was help- 
 less, — and I think, soon after me, 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 L'ving's ; and, being received in 
 a kind of gala by those Scotch -Chapel people, 
 caused me a noisy not pleasant day. Another 
 day, positively painful, though otherwise instruct- 
 ive, I had, in the Dudley " Black Country " (which 
 I had once seen from the distance), roving about 
 among the coal-and-mctal mines there, — in com- 
 pany or neighbourhood of Mr. Airy, now "Astron- 
 omer Royal," whom I have never seen since. 
 Our party was but of four : some opulent retired 
 Dissenting Minister had decided on a holiday
 
 154 REMINISCENCES 
 
 ovation to Airy, who had just issued from Cam- 
 bridge, as a Trismegistus, chief of Wranglers, 
 and mathematical wonder ; and had come to 
 Birmingham, on visit to some footlicker whose 
 people lived there : " I will show Trismegistus 
 Airy our Mine -Country," said the Reverend old 
 
 Friend of Enlightenment ; " and Mr. G , Airy 
 
 footlicker, shall accompany ! " That was his happy 
 thought ; — and Badams, hearing of 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 blast furnaces, 
 descended into coal - mines ; poked about indus- 
 triously into Nature's and Art's sooty arcana, all 
 day (with a short recess for luncheon), and re- 
 turned at night, in the Reverend's postchaise, — 
 thoroughly wearied and disgusted, one of us at 
 least. Nature's sooty arcana were 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 interest, were 
 begging beer from me ! Nor was Airy himself in 
 the least an offence, or indeed sensibly a concern. 
 A hardy little figure, of edacious energetic physiog- 
 nomy, eyes hard, if 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.
 
 EDWARD IRVING 155 
 
 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 elbow. And to me, 
 fatal allotment, had fallen the " Footlicker," one of 
 the foolishest, conceited ever-babbling blockheads I 
 can remember to have met. What a day o{ boring 
 (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, of my Birmingham 
 reminiscences ! Irving himself had been with us ; 
 Badams was every few weeks up in London 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, solitary on 
 the coach -roof, between Canterbury 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 
 snuggish 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 Livc7'pool Ta^race at that time (now buried 
 among streets, and hardly discoverable by me last 
 Autumn, when I pilgrimcd thither again after forty-
 
 156 REMINISCENCES 
 
 two years !). Mrs. Strachey had Kitty with her ; 
 and was soon expecting her Husband. Both house- 
 holds were in full action, or daily getting into it, 
 when I arrived.^ 
 
 We walked together, all of us together some- 
 times, at other times in threes or twos ; we dined 
 often at Mrs. Strachey's ; read commonly in the 
 evenings at Irving'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 
 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, An\.\- 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 com- 
 plete, if that were a legitimate part of my subject. 
 
 The journey out, — weather fine, and novelty 
 awaiting young curiosity at every step, — was very 
 pleasant. Montreuil, Noailles, Abbeville, Beauvais : 
 interesting names start into facts ; Sterne's Senti- 
 mental Journey (especially) is alive in one from the 
 first stage onwards, — at Nampont, on the dirty little 
 
 ■^ This is a mistake. Miss Kirkpatrick, the livings and Carlyle were 
 all at Dover for some time before the Stracheys arrived.
 
 EDWARD IRVING 157 
 
 street, you almost expect to see the Dead Ass lying ! 
 Our second night was at Beauvais : glimpse of the 
 old Cathedral next morning went for nothing {luas 
 in fact nothing to me) ; 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, sashy, epauletted, well-dressed Officer striding 
 dismally to and fro, was, and still is, impressive on 
 me, as an almost unrivalled image of human ennui. 
 I rode usually outside ; fair Kitty sometimes, and 
 Strachey oftener, sitting by me, — on the hindward 
 seat : carriage, I think, was Kitty's own, and except 
 her maid we had no servants. Postilion could not 
 tell me where " Cray " was, when we were in the 
 neighbourhood. Country in itself, till near Paris, 
 ugly ; but all gilded with the light of young lively 
 wonder. Little scrubby Boys, playing at ball, on 
 their scrubby patch of Parish-green, how strange ! 
 " CJiarite, Madame, pour line paiivre miserable ; gu'elle 
 en a bien besoin f" sang the poor lame beggar girl, 
 at the carriage door. None of us spoke French 
 well ; Strachey 's grew ever 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 boire, 
 Monsieur ! " said a respectful exceptional Postilion 
 at the Coach-window, before quitting, " Nong, vous 
 avez driv^ devilish slow !" answered Strachey readily, 
 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.
 
 1 5 8 REMINISCENCES 
 
 From about Montmorency (with the Shadow of 
 Rousseau !) — especially from St. Denis, to Paris, the 
 drive was quite beautiful, and full of interesting 
 expectation. Magnificent broad highway, great old 
 trees and then potherb gardens on each hand ; all 
 silent too, in the brilliant October afternoon, hardly 
 one vehicle or person met, — till, on mounting the 
 shoulder of Montmartre, an iron-gate, and doiianier 
 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 skylights 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 speckled straw-hats and costumes and 
 physiognomies of the Faubourg St. {Fashionable — I 
 forget it at this moment!) are the memorablest cir- 
 cumstance to me. We alighted in the Rue de la 
 Paix (clean and good Hotel, not now a Hotel) ; 
 admired our rooms all covered with mirror, our 
 grates, or gr^iQ-backs, each with a Cupidon cast on 
 it ; — and roved about the Boulevards, in a happy 
 humour, till sunset or later. Decidedly later, in the 
 still dusk, I remember sitting down, in the Place 
 Vendome, 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 
 themselves in some quotity, drummers and drums 
 especially faultless ; and after a Shoulder Anns or 
 so, marched off in parties, drums fiercely and finely
 
 EDWARD IRVING 159 
 
 clangouring their raii-tan-plan ; — setting the watch or 
 watches of this human city, as I understood it. " Ha, 
 my tight Httle 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 Irving's ; 
 who were excellent ciceroni. They were on their 
 way to " the Liberation of Greece ; " a totally wild- 
 goose errand, as then seemed to me, — and as perhaps 
 they themselves secretly guessed, — but which entitled 
 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 : the considerably 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 Tennent} late 
 Governor of Ceylon ; and complimented, simpleton 
 that I was, on the now finely broivn colour of his 
 Jiair ! We have not met since. There was also, of 
 their acquaintance, a pleasant Mr. Malcolm, " Ex- 
 Lieutenant of the Forty-second ;'' native of the Orkney 
 Islands, only son of a Clergyman there ; who, as a 
 young ardent lad, had joined Wellington's Army at 
 
 ^ There is a trifling error here. Allan Cunningham was not alive 
 "twenty-five years afterwards " (died 1842). — Emerson Tennent died 
 in 1869, aged 65.
 
 i6o REMINISCENCES 
 
 the Siege of St. Sebastian, and got badly wounded, 
 lame for life, at the Battle of Thonlouse 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 favour, 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 humour, 
 and of pathos withal (there being much of sadness 
 and affection hidden in him),— all kept, as his natural 
 voice was, in a fine lozv melodious tone. He wrote, 
 in Periodicals, ' Annuals ' and the like vehicles, really 
 pretty verses ; and was by degrees establishing some- 
 thing 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 : his mother we had never seen. 
 
 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 
 exception, 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 will prove it to you on the spot!" 
 said some elder blackguard Lieutenant, among a 
 group of them, in their tent one evening (a Hano- 
 verian, if I recollect) : " On the spot ; none ! " — " How
 
 EDWARD IRVING i6i 
 
 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 a tone 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 plea- 
 santly report a great many. These, and the phy- 
 sical agonies and horrors witnessed and felt, had 
 given him a complete disgust for War. He could 
 not walk far, always had a marked halt in walk- 
 ing ; but was otherwise my pleasantest companion 
 in Paris. 
 
 Poor Louis Dix-hnit had been " lying in state," as 
 we passed through St. Denis ; Paris was all plastered 
 with placards, ' Lc Roi est inort, vive le Roi !' — an- 
 nouncing, from Chateaubriand, a Pamphlet of that 
 title. I made no effort to see Chateaubriand ; did 
 not see his Pamphlet either : in the Streets, Galleries, 
 Cafe's, I 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 attended 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 Louvre 
 Gallery alone or accompanied, I went often ; got 
 VOL. II. M
 
 id^F New iC REMINISCENCES 
 
 rather faintish good of the Pictures there, but at 
 least no harm, — being mute and deaf on the sub- 
 ject. Sir Peter Laurie came on me there one day ; 
 took me to dinner, and plenty of hard-headed London 
 talk. Another day, nobody with me and very few 
 in the Gallery at all, there suddenly came storming 
 past, with dishevelled hair, and large besoms in their 
 hand, which they shoved out on any bit of paper or 
 the like, a row of wild Savoyards, distractedly pro- 
 claiming, " Le Roi !" " Le Roi !" and almost overset- 
 ting people, in their fierce speed to clear the way. 
 Le Roi, diaries Dix in person, soon appeared accord- 
 ingly with three or four attendants ; very ugly people, 
 especially 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 gentleman ; 
 insipidly endeavouring 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 Ic Roi, in the circumstances ! We under- 
 stood 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 Baptism of what they called " the Child 
 of Miracle " (the assassinated Due de Berri's post- 
 humous child, hodie " Henri V. in partibiis "), — 
 Picture as yet distressingly ugly ; mostly in a smear 
 of dead-colours, brown and even green, and with a 
 kind of horror in the subject of it as well. How
 
 EDWARD IRVING 163 
 
 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, and its tragedies, I was to have more con- 
 cern 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 Revolution 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 Mathematician (whose Geometry I had translated 
 in Edinburgh) was the only man of real note with 
 whom I exchanged a {q.\^ words. A tall, bony, gray, 
 old man ; who received me with dignity and kind- 
 ness ; 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 "Diantre !" with an obliging air of regret: 
 his rugged, sagacious, sad and stoical old face is still 
 dimly present with me. At a meeting of the Institut 
 I saw, and well remember, the figure of Trismegistus 
 Laplace ; the skirt of his long blue -silk dressing- 
 goivn (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 
 
 ^ Adrien Marie Legendre, born 1752, died 1833.
 
 1 64 REMINISCENCES 
 
 something of contempt. The session itself was pro- 
 foundly stupid ; some lout of a Provincial reading 
 about Vefs a Sole, — and big Vauquelin the chemist 
 (noticed by me) fallen sound asleep. Strachey and 
 I went one evening to call upon a M. de Chezy,^ 
 Professor of Persic, with whom he, or his brother 
 and he, had communicated while in India. We 
 found him high aloft ; but in a clean snug apart- 
 ment ; burly, hearty, glad enough to see us ; — only 
 that Strachey would speak no French ; and intro- 
 duced himself with some shrill -sounding sentence, 
 the first word of which was clearly '^Salaam !" Chezy 
 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 ; Chezy a glowing and very 
 emphatic man : — " ce Jiideiix reptile de Langles" was 
 a phrase he had once used to Strachey's Brother, of 
 his chief French rival in the Persic field ! — I heard 
 Cuyier lecture, one day : fine strong German kind of 
 face ; ditto intelligence, as manifested in the Lecture ; 
 which reminded me of one of old Dr. Gregory's in 
 Edinburgh. I was at a sermon in Ste. Genevieve's, 
 main audience 500 or so of serving-maids, preacher 
 a dizened fool, in hourglass hat, who ran to and fro 
 in his balcony or pulpit, and seemed much contented 
 with himself ; heard another foolish preacher, Pro- 
 testant, at the Oratoirc (" Coiisole-toi, O b^rance I " on 
 the death of Louis Dix-huit) ; — looked silently into 
 The Morgue one morning (infinitely better Sermon, 
 
 ' Autoine Leonard de Chezy, Professor of Sanskrit, College de 
 France, born 1773, died 1832. Langles was Professor oi Persic.
 
 EDWARD IRVING 165 
 
 that stern old grayhaired Corpse lying there !) ;^ 
 looked into the Hotel-Dieu, and its poor sick-beds, 
 once ; was much in the Pont-Neuf region {o)i tond 
 les cJiicns ct coupe les chats, et va en I'iUe, 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 expression in the big 
 dull-glowing black eyes and it : incomparably the 
 best actor I ever saw. Play was Gidipe (Voltaire's 
 very first) \ place the Theatre Francais : 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 f and poor outskirts, and insignificant frac- 
 tions, of solitary Dialogues on the Kent shore (far 
 inferior to our old Fife ones !) have not yet entirely 
 vanished : t\^. strolling together 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 there. Irving grasped 
 my arm, said in a low tone of serious emotion : 
 " Sec, they arc going to bring out their topstone 
 
 ' See Early f.ctte}-.'; of T/iomas CarlyU (Macniillan ami Co., 18S6), 
 ii. 2S2. 
 
 - iQlh October 1826. 
 
 •* The trip lasted only twelve days. They returned to Dover 6lh 
 November 1824 ; the Irvings were not there ; had KTl for I^ondon 
 "only a few hours before."
 
 i66 REMINISCENCES 
 
 with shouting!" I inquired of a poor man, what it 
 was ; " You see, Sir, they gets allowance of beer," 
 answered he ; that was all, a silent deglutition of 
 some beer ! Irving sank from his Scriptural alti- 
 tudes ; 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 London ; 
 I should say, of the Stracheys posting, who took me 
 as guest, — the Irvings being now clearly gone. 
 Canterbury and 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 Diligence soon picked me up 
 (fare one shilling, transaction then very common), 
 and speedily landed me within reach of hospitable 
 Pentonville (4 Myddelton Terrace there), which gave 
 me a welcome like itself There I must have staid 
 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 decided on returning for another 
 while. My wretched Schiller (of which 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 : — " ;^ioo 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 that. I soon 
 
 1 Arrived in London on the 9th November.
 
 EDWARD IRVING 167 
 
 got lodgings in Southampton Street, Islington, in 
 Irving's vicinity ; and did henceforth, with my best 
 diligence, endeavour to fulfil that, — at a far slower 
 rate than I had expected. I frequently called on 
 Irving (he never or not often on me, which I did not 
 take amiss), and frequently saw him otherwise : but 
 have already written down miscellaneously most 
 of the remembrances that belong to this specific date 
 of months. On the whole, I think now, he felt a 
 good deal unhappy ; probably getting deeper and 
 deeper sunk, in manifold cares of his own ; and that 
 our communication had not the old copiousness and 
 flowing freedom, nay that even since I left for Bir- 
 mingham there was perhaps a diminution. London 
 " Pulpit Popularity ; " the smoke of that foul witch's 
 cauldron ; — there never was anything else to blame ! 
 I stuck rigorously to my work, to my Badams regi- 
 men : though it did little for me : I was sick of body 
 aad of mind, in endless dubiety, very desolate and 
 miserable ; and the case itself, since nobody could 
 help, admonished me to silence. One day, on the 
 road down to Battle-Bridge, I remember recognising 
 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 /hurry up ; they are 
 parted from me, the old days arc no more ! " was my 
 sad reflection in my sad humour. 
 
 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 "myself ; " look, thou fool ! I Icre is
 
 1 68 REMINISCENCES 
 
 a two-legged creature with scarcely half a thimbleful 
 of poor brains ; thou call'st thyself a man, with no- 
 body knows how much brain, and reason etc. dwell- 
 ing in it ; and behold, 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 intimate dialogue, was affectionate to me as 
 ever ; and had, as always to the end, a great deal of 
 practical 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 ! — and settling a good 
 io^N things : first and most of all. That I would, 
 renouncing ambitions, " fine openings," and the ad- 
 vice of all bystanders, and friends ivJio didn't knoiv, 
 go home to Annandale, were this work done ; provide 
 myself a place where I could ride, follow regimen, 
 and be free of noises (which were unendurable), till if 
 possible I could recover a little health. Much fol- 
 lowed out of that ; all manner of adjustments gather- 
 ing round it. As head of these latter, I had offered 
 to let my Dearest be free of me, and of any virtual 
 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 known 
 completely to me, and how celestial it was, till I had 
 lost her ! " Oh for one five-minutes more of her," 
 I have often said, since April last, " to tell her with 
 what perfect love, and admiration as of the beautiful- 
 lest of known human souls, I did intrinsically always 
 regard her!" But all minutes of the time are irre-
 
 EDWARD IRVING 169 
 
 vocably past : — be wise, all ye living, and remember 
 that \.\mc passes and does not return ! — 
 
 I had, apart from regular work upon Schiller, 
 a good deal of talking with people, and social moving 
 about, which was not disagreeable. With Allan 
 Cunningham I had made ready acquaintance ; a 
 cheerful social man, — " solid Dumfries Mason, with a 
 surface polish given him," was one good judge's defi- 
 nition, years afterwards ! He got at once into NitJis- 
 dnle when you talked with him ; which, though clever 
 and satirical, I didn't very much enjoy : Allan had 
 sense and shrewdness on all points, especially the 
 practical ; but, out of Nithsdale, except for his per- 
 ennial good - humour, and quiet cautions (which 
 might have been exemplary to me), was not instruct- 
 ive. 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 pleasant enough Yorkshire 
 youth, going with me to a spare-room I could 
 command. My commonest walk was fieldwards, or 
 down into the City (by many different old lanes and 
 routes) ; more rarely, by Portland Place {Fitzroy 
 Square and Mrs. Strachey's, probably j'frj-/), to Picca- 
 dilly and the West End. One muddy evening there 
 came to me, what enlightened all the mirk and mud, 
 ' by the Herren Grafen von Bentinck's ' (Servant), a 
 short Letter from Goethe in Weimar!^ It was in 
 answer to the copy of Wil//elin Meistei- which (doubt- 
 less with some profoundly reverent bit of Note) I had 
 despatched to him six months ago, without answer till 
 now. Tie was kind, though distant, brief; apologised, 
 
 ' Middle of December \^2i\.
 
 170 REMINISCENCES 
 
 by his ' great age [JioJicn JaJircii)l for the delay ; till at 
 length the Herren Grafen von Bentinck's passage 
 homewards had operated on him as a hint to do the 
 needful, — ' and likewise to procure 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 Bcntinck, whom 
 newspapers called the " stable minded," from his pre- 
 vious tiij-f 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 suddenly died,^ poor gentleman ; — I then remem- 
 bered that this was probably one of the Herren 
 Grafen von Bentinck, whose acquaintance 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 preceded the Bir- 
 mingham and Dover period : his errand was this. A 
 certain loquacious extensive Glasgow PublisJier (Dr. 
 Chalmers's, especially ; had been a schoolmaster, 
 " Collins " perhaps his name) was in London for 
 several weeks on business ; and often came to Irving, 
 — wasting (as I rather used to think) a good deal of 
 his time, in zealous discourse about many vague 
 things ; in particular, about the villany of common 
 Publishers ; how, for example, on their ^'■Half-profits 
 System," they would show the poor Author a 
 Printer's Account pretending to be paid in full, 
 
 ' 1S48.
 
 EDWARD IRVING 171 
 
 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 of 
 profit was nearly or altogether zero divided by tivo ! 
 Irving could not believe it ; denied stoutly on behalf 
 of his own Printer, one Bcnsley, 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, some- 
 where Holborn- wards ; found Benslcy and Wife in a 
 bright, quiet, comfortable room ; just finishing break- 
 fast : a fattish, solid, rational and really amiable- 
 looking pair of people, especially the Wife, who had 
 a fine, 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 honourably 
 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 ? Bensley, 
 with body and face, writhed uneasily ; evidently loth 
 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, in any instance, he found it no longer 
 tenable. 
 
 Another time (this also was of the Ante-Birming- 
 ham time) we made an excursion with certain ornate 
 City gentlemen called Jupp, father and three sons ;
 
 172 REMINISCENCES 
 
 and had a day's boating, from London Bridge to 
 Twickenham, perhaps to Teddington, and back ! The 
 three young Jupps were fine handsome gentlemanly 
 fellows, of City type ; so was Jupp senior, a veteran 
 boater of renown, full of Thames " wit " and the 
 like ; his house, in some cleanest, stillest brick-paved 
 Court near Guildhall, where he held some lucrative 
 ofiice, was a picture of opulent comfort ; so was, or 
 so had been, the good little plumpish elderly Mrs. 
 Jupp, still rosy, though now wrinkly as well, and 
 manifesting sickly maternal anxieties (of <?////-boating 
 kind), which Jupp senior promptly discomfited with 
 gay City repartee as fast as they rose. One of the 
 Sons had perhaps been at Cambridge ; at anyrate, 
 the youngest of them, who much fell to my share, 
 had a beautiful passion to go to some such place, as 
 to the suniniuni boninn of man ; — and there was with 
 us, of their acquaintance, an actual Cantab, a plea- 
 sant polite little fellow, who talked intelligently with 
 me upon College matters, and didn't row. My Scotch 
 * Mea viater est viala sus ' (which needs only two 
 commas to make it perfectly respectful : ' Go, mother, 
 the swine is eating the apples ') he could not inter- 
 pret ; but said, Had it been pronounced in [the] English 
 way, the last vowel of ' mcd ' would have helped him. 
 Legendre's Geometry, etc. he pretended to know, and 
 didn't (being in fact weak on the mathematical side), 
 — " Oh no, 7iot translated, I assure you ! " — Upon 
 which, " Bless you. Sir, I translated it myself ! " 
 somewhat took him aback, and the tone on that 
 string grew low enough. ]3ut the grand novelty was 
 Jupp senior's wit, " Mens tints ego" when he took 
 snuff; and so on : he was very good-humoured and
 
 EDWARD IRVING 173 
 
 absurd ; — escorting me, out of the wherry, towards 
 some Tavern (on an Island about Twickenham, — 
 leanish kind of Tavern, nothing but tea in it), Jupp 
 senior was spoken to, from a first-floor window, by 
 one of his Sons : " Good Heavens ! " cried he, start- 
 ing violently : " Speak ? I thought you were the 
 Sign of the Saracen's Head!" — It was 10 P.M. or so 
 before wc victoriously " shot London Bridge," the 
 perils of which feat had been an interjectional topic 
 with our junior Jupps, but were to me, at that time, 
 profoundly unknown and indifferent. Irving, during 
 this whole day, had been passive, taciturn, kindly 
 taking in the summer glories of land and river, and 
 the human kindness of the Jupps ; but looking 
 serious, pensive, almost sad, and preferring silence. 
 The worship of these Jupps was hearty, but too evi- 
 dently worth almost nothing. Worship as to a mere 
 Katerfelto or thing wondered at : " See, how the 
 people turn round on him ! " said the youngest Jupp 
 to me, as we walked the streets. I never went boat- 
 ing more, nor probably did Irving : one time quite 
 enough.^ 
 
 Irving was sorrowfully occupied at this period, 
 as I now perceive, in scanning and surveying the 
 ivroug-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 superabundant quantity and vivacity; 
 but it was not of the old high quality any more, the 
 thought that Christian religion was again to dominate 
 
 ' This unimporlant parai^raph, written on a 7-idcr (or attached slip) 
 which had got displaced in the MS., was omitted in the first edition.
 
 174 REATINISCENCES 
 
 all minds, and the world to become an Eden by his 
 humble thrice -blessed means, was fatally declaring 
 itself to have been a dream. And he could not 
 consent to believe it such ; never he ! That was 
 the secret of his inward quasi-desperate resolutions, 
 breaking 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 
 Interpreters of Prophecy ; thinking to cast his own 
 great faculty into that hopeless quagmire along with 
 them. These and the like resolutions, and the dark 
 humour 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 develop- 
 ment by the time I left for Scotland again. 
 
 About the beginning of March 1825, 1 had at 
 length, after fierce struggling and various disap- 
 pointments from the delay of others, got my poor 
 business winded up ; ScJiillcr 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, resolute and quiet 
 humour, was making my bits of packages, bidding 
 my poor adieus, just in act to go. Everybody 
 thought me headstrong and foolish ; Irving less so 
 than others, though he too could have no under- 
 standing of my dyspeptic miseries, my intolerable 
 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 de- 
 parture, at least it is the last I recollect of him, 
 we were walking in the streets, multifariously dis-
 
 EDWARD IRVING 175 
 
 coursing : 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. etc.), whom I had never seen 
 before, and never saw again. A lean old man, tall 
 but stooping, in tartan cloak ; face very wrinkly, nose 
 blue ; physiognomy vague and with \sic\ 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 comfortless 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 Honourable Something or 
 other, great in Scripture Prophecy, in which he had 
 started some sublime new idea, well worth prose- 
 cuting, as Irving had assured me. Their mutual 
 greetings were cordial and respectful ; and a lively 
 dialogue [ensued] on Prophetic matters, especially 
 on the sublime new idea, — I strictly unparticipant, 
 sitting silently apart till it were done. The Honour- 
 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 you on anything whatever?" To 
 which he answered, good-naturedly, but in a grave
 
 176 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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 Anothey's, ah me, 
 and are still here !).^ — I saw Manchester too, for the 
 first time (strange Bagman ways, in the Palace Inn 
 there), — walked to Oldham, savage-looking scene 
 of Sunday morning ; old schoolfellow 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 
 Johnston, 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, in my Palace 
 Inn (Boots having forgotten me), awoke by good 
 luck of myself, and saved my place on the coach 
 roof Remember the Blackburns, Boltons and their 
 smoke-clouds, to right and to left, grimly black 
 amid the gray March winds. Lancashire was not 
 all smoky then, but only smoky in parts. Remem- 
 ber the Bush Inn at Carlisle, and quiet luxurious 
 shelter it yielded for the night ; much different from 
 now ("Betty, 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 
 
 ' On one handle of the desk is engraved : Thomas Carlyle ; and 
 on the other : Libertas, Veritas, Paupertas.
 
 EDWARD IRVING 177 
 
 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 (2d December 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, contented 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 with- 
 out it, are our wanderings in this world ! — 
 
 My poor little establishment at Hoddam Hill 
 (close by the "Tower oi Repentance"^ as if symbolic- 
 ally !) 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 prettyish-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 
 
 ' A square Tower, near Hoddam Castle which was once the pro- 
 perty of the Lords Ilerries ; above the door of it are carved a Serpent 
 and a Dove (emblems of remorse and grace), and between them the word 
 Repentance. Scott gives a note respecting the vague traditions connected 
 with this Tower. See " The Complaint of tlie Lord Merries," J\Ii)is/)chy 
 of the Scottish Border {Umx vol. edition, Edinburgh, 1869), iv. 307. 
 
 VOL. IL . N
 
 178 REMINISCENCES 
 
 to beyond St. Bees, Sohvay Frith and all the Fells 
 to Ingleborough inclusive) as Britain or the world 
 could hardly have matched ! Here the ploughing 
 etc. was already in progress (which I often rode 
 across to see); and, here at term-day (26th May 
 1825) I established myself; set up my Books and 
 bits of implements and Lares ; and took to doing 
 GevDian Romance as my daily work ; " ten pages 
 daily " my stint, which, barring some rare accident, 
 1 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 taken his 
 degree ; — these, with a little man and ditto maid, 
 were our establishment. It lasted only one year ; 
 owing, I believe, to indistinctness of bargain, first 
 of all, and then to arbitrary high-handed temper ot 
 our Landlord (used to a rather prostrate style of 
 obedience, and not finding it here, but a polite 
 appeal to fair-play instead), our whole summer and 
 autumn were defaced by a great deal ot 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 controversies 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 October 
 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; 
 
 1 See supra, vol. i. i ;;.
 
 EDWARD IRVING 179 
 
 and lies now like a not ignoble russet-coated Idyll 
 in my memory ; one of the quietest on the whole, 
 and perhaps the most triumphantly important of my 
 life. I lived very silent, diligent, had long solitary 
 rides (on my wild Irish horse " Larry," good for the 
 dietetic part) ; — my meditatings, musings and reflec- 
 tions were continual ; thoughts went wandering (or 
 travelling) through Eternity, through Time, and 
 through Space, so far as poor I had scanned or 
 known ; — and were now, to my endless solacement, 
 coming back with tidings to me ! This year I 
 found that I had conquered all my scepticisms, 
 agonising doubtings, fearful 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 welter- 
 ings 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 controversies and cobvveb- 
 bcries ; and no feeling of my own, except honest 
 silent 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 Suffrages, their Nigger Emancipations, 
 Sluggard -and -Scoundrel Protection Societies, and 
 " Unexampled Prosperities," for the time being ! — 
 What my pious joy and gratitude then was, let the 
 pious soul figure. In a fine and veritable sense, I, 
 poor, obscure, without outlook, almost without
 
 i8o REAITNISCENCES 
 
 worldly hope, had become independent of the 
 world ; — what was death itself, from the world, to 
 what I had come through ? I understood well what 
 the old Christian people meant by their " Conversion," 
 by God's Infinite Mercy to them : — I had, in effect, 
 gained an immense victory ; and, for a number of 
 years, had, in spite of nerves and chagrins, a con- 
 stant inward happiness that was quite royal and 
 supreme ; in which all temporal evil was transient 
 and insignificant ; and which essentially remains 
 with me still, though far oftener eclipsed, and lying 
 deeper down, than then. Once more, thank Heaven 
 for its highest gift. I then felt, and still feel, end- 
 lessly 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 recol- 
 lect of myself such pious musings ; communings, 
 silent and spontaneous, 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 Dixon, 
 at rare intervals, called in passing. Nay once, for 
 about ten days, my Dearest and Beautifullest herself 
 came across, out of Nithsdale, to " pay my Mother
 
 EDWARD IRVING 
 
 a visit," — where 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 
 Grandmother 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 
 Mouswald, with Dumfries, and the granite Moun- 
 tains lying in panorama seven or eight miles off to 
 our left ; and what she artlessly yet finely said to 
 me there. Oh, 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 with 
 Irving ; a little Note or so on business, nothing 
 more. Nor was Mrs. Montagu much more instruct- 
 ive on that head, who wrote mc high-sounding 
 amiable things, which I could not but respond to, 
 more or less, though dimly aware of their (juality : 
 nor did the sincere and ardent Mrs. Strachey, who 
 wrote seldomer, almost ever touch upon Irving. But 
 by some occasional unmelodious clang in all the 
 Newspapers (twice over I think in this year), we 
 could sufficiently, and with little satisfaction, construe 
 his way of life. Twice over he had leaped the bar- 
 riers ; and given rise to criticism, — of the customary
 
 1 82 REMINISCENCES 
 
 idle sort, loudish universally, and nowhere accurately 
 just. Case first was of Preaching to the London 
 Missionary Society ("Missionary" I will call it, 
 though it might be " Bible " or another) : on their 
 grand Anniversary these people had appointed him 
 the honour of addressing them, and were numerously 
 assembled, — expecting some flourishes of eloquence, 
 and flatteries to their illustrious divinely - blessed 
 Society ; ingeniously done, and especially with fit 
 brevity ; 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 ot 
 honey and butter, opened into strict sharp inquiries, 
 Rhadamanthine expositions of duty and ideal ; is- 
 suing perhaps in actual criticism 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, with dinner 
 hot at the end of it ! This was much criticised ; 
 " plainly wTong, and produced by love of singularity 
 and too much pride in oneself!" voted everybody. 
 For in fact a man suddenly holding up the naked in- 
 exorable 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 ; — 
 and 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 be-
 
 EDWARD IRVING 183 
 
 loved Brother lately dead in India. (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 suppose 
 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 recognised by family-likeness, but never saw 
 again or before.) 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-of ; and 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 Irving, and my loss 
 of him (and his loss of inc, on such poor terms as 
 these seemed to be !) — but I carelessly trusted in his 
 strength against whatever mistakes and impediments ; 
 and felt that for the present it was better to be ab- 
 solved from corresponding with him. 
 
 That same year, late in Autumn, he was at 
 Annan, only for a night and a day, — returning from 
 some farther journey, perhaps to Glasgow or Edin- 
 burgh, and had to go on again for London next 
 day. I rode down from Hoddam Hill before night- 
 fall ; found him sitting in the snug little Parlour 
 beside his Father and Mother ; beautifully domestic ; 
 — I think it was the last time I ever saw those good 
 old people : we sat only a few minutes ; my thoughts 
 sadly contrasting the beautiful affectionate safety 
 here, and the wild tempestuous hostilities and perils
 
 1 84 REMINISCENCES 
 
 yonder. He left his blessing to eacli, by name, in 
 a low soft voice : there was something almost tragi- 
 cal to me, as he turned round (hitting his hat on 
 the little door-lintel) and, 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 Gretna ; and to ivalk 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. He looked sad and serious ; not in the least 
 downhearted ; — told us (probably in answer to some 
 question of mine) that the Projected " London 
 University " (now of Gower Street) seemed to be 
 progressing towards fulfilment ; and how, at some 
 meeting. Poet Campbell arguing loudly for a purely 
 Secular System, had, on sight of Irving entering, at 
 once stopt short, and, in the politest way he could, 
 sat down without another word on the subject. " It 
 will be ?/;n'eligious, secretly anti- religious, all the 
 same," said Irving to us. Whether he reported of 
 the Projected Athenainii Club (dear to Basil Mon- 
 tagu, 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 next by name, and of the next ; " The 
 Lord bless you !" — in a sad and solemn tone (with 
 something of elaboration noticeable in it, too), which
 
 EDWARD IRVING 185 
 
 was painful and dreary to me. A dreary visit al- 
 together, though an unabatedly affectionate on both 
 sides : in what a contrast, thought I, to the old sun- 
 shiny visits, when Glasgow was headquarters, and 
 everybody was obscure, 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 
 perfectly recal, only the fact of our escorting ; 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 11s, at Comley Bank, Edinburgh, 
 not to VIC any longer ! It was probably in Spring, 
 I 827 ; a visit of only half an hour ; more resembling 
 a " call " from neighbour on neighbour. I think it 
 was connected with Scripture-Prophecy work, in which 
 he was now deep : at any rate, he was now preaching 
 and communing on something or other, to numbers 
 of people in Edinburgh ; and we had heard of him 
 for perhaps a week before as shiningly busy in that 
 way, when, in some interval, he made this little run 
 over to Comley Bank and us. He 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 contrary : he talked 
 with an undeniable self-consciousness, and something 
 which you could not but admit to be religious man- 
 nerism ; — never quite recovered out of that, in spite
 
 1 86 REMINISCENCES 
 
 of our, especially of her efforts, while he staid. 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 pain- 
 ful contradiction he evidently had, from the world 
 about him ; but also much zealous favour ; — and was 
 going, that same evening, to a Public Dinner given 
 in honour 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 ivom. him, and bidden " Shift for yourselves !" 
 We saw him once again in Scotland ; at Craigen- 
 puttock, and had him for a night, 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 he went along, 
 the regular clergy actively countenancing. I remem- 
 ber dining with him at our Parish Minister's, good 
 Mr. Bryden's, with certain Reverends of the neigh- 
 bourhood (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 Craigenputtock ; where he 
 
 ' Tlie Rev. David Dow was ejected from the Scotch Kirk for "heresy."
 
 EDWARD IRVING 187 
 
 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 audible 
 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 Studies had 
 brought to him ; — whom I was to knozv 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 something I said 
 had struck Irving as unexpectedly orthodox ; who 
 thereupon ejaculated, " Well, I am right glad to hear 
 that ; — and will not forget it, where 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 " Prophetic 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 Hierophant and 
 Chief over Irving himself He was far the richest 
 of the Sect, and alone belonged to the Aristocratic 
 Circles ; abundant in speculation as well as in money ; 
 a sharp, elastic, haughty kind of man, had consider- 
 able ardour, disorderly force of intellect and character, 
 and especially an insatiable love of shining and 
 figuring. In a different element I had afterwards 
 plentiful knowledge of Henry ; and, if I got no good 
 of him, got also no mischief, which might have been 
 
 extremely possible ! 
 
 We strolled pleasantly, in loose group, Irving
 
 1 88 REMINISCENCES 
 
 the centre of it, over the fields. I remember an 
 excellent little Portraiture of Methodism 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 ncrvoiis- 
 sysicni ; an essentially sensuous religion, depending 
 on the body, not on the soul ! " " Fit only for a 
 gross and vulgar-minded people," I perhaps added : 
 " a religion so-called, and the essence of it principally 
 coivaj'dice and Jnnigcr ; terror of pain, and appetite 
 for pleasure, both carried 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 
 ScJiildcrung (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 along flowingly, like true 
 discourse direct from the inner reservoirs, and that 
 everybody seemed to listen with respectful satisfac- 
 tion. We rode pleasantly home in the dusk ; and 
 soon afterwards would retire, Irving having to "catch 
 the Glasgow Coach " early next day. Next day, 
 correct to time, he and I were on horseback, soon 
 after breakfast ; and rode leisurely along towards
 
 EDWARD IRVING 189 
 
 Auldgarth Bridge, some ten miles from us, where the 
 Coach was to pass. 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 diange here ; changes at Thornhill ! " — 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 i 83 i. 
 
 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 iinbeilc for such a 
 man. What the particulars of his heresy were, I 
 never knew or have totally forgotten : some doctrine 
 he held about the Human Nature of the Divine Man, 
 that Christ's human nature was liable to sin like our
 
 I90 REMINISCENCES 
 
 own, and continually tempted thereto, while, by his 
 divine nobleness he kept it continually perfect, and 
 pure from sin, — this doctrine, which as an impartial 
 bystander, I, from Irving's point of view and from 
 my 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 honourable to their Supreme of the 
 World to have had his work done for him than to 
 have done it himself : Flunkeys irredeemable ; carry- 
 ing their phisJi into Highest Heaven ! ") — this I do 
 remember; but whether this was the damning heresy 
 of Irving, 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 sphere, 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 Resartus, namely ! The whole 
 of which circumstances have, naturally, imprinted 
 themselves on me, while so much else has faded out. 
 The first genesis of Sartor I remember well
 
 EDWARD IRVING 191 
 
 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 Review 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 bother of it, and that I should have some 
 kind of Speech to make ! " Speech " done, however 
 {taliter qnaliter^ some short rough words upon ^^ Burns',' 
 which did well enough), the thing became not unplea- 
 sant ; — and I still well remember it all. Especially 
 how, at length, probably near midnight, I rose to go ; 
 decisively resisting all invitations to " sleep in Dum- 
 fries ;" must and would drive home (knowing well zvJio 
 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 honour ; 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 
 (whom I well remember : " as useful a beast," said 
 my dear Mother once of her, in fine expressive Scotch,
 
 192 REMINISCENCES 
 
 while we drove together, " as ever as little skin 
 covered.") : — this was all my team. Soon aftfer 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 sat, in deep perfect 
 sleep (probably 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 ivrong road to 
 be avoided) ; " Rowting Brig," " Milltown Brig " (also 
 with intricacy of wrong roads) : — not very long after 
 which latter, in the bottom of Glenessland, 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 brave little mare's perform- 
 ance in it. Ah me, in this Creation, rough and 
 honest, though not made for our sake only, how 
 many things, lifeless and living, — living/^rj-^;/j", some 
 of them, and tJieir life beautiful as azure and heaven, 
 — beneficently help us forward, while we journey 
 together, and have not yet bidden sorrowful farewell ! 
 My little Darling sat 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. 
 
 ' It was on the 22(1 July.
 
 EDWARD IRVING 193 
 
 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 sore struggles, had quitted us, in the flower 
 of her youth, age about twenty-seven. She was the 
 charm of her old Father's life ; deeply respected as 
 well as loved by 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 miseries, with a stoicism all her 
 own ; Doctors, unable to help, saw her with astonish- 
 ment rally and apparently recover, — " by her own 
 force of character alone!" 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 unex- 
 pectedly the sound of horses' feet ; and, up our little 
 " Avenue," pacing under the trees, ©verhung 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- 
 Office, a long Letter from Goethe ;^ one of the finest 
 I ever had from him ; (Son's death perhaps men- 
 
 ^ For this letter, see Correspoiideuce hetivecn Goethe and Carlyle 
 (Macmillan and Co., 1S87), p. 127. 
 
 VOL. II. O
 
 194 REMINISCENCES 
 
 tioned in it ?) — Letter 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 even- 
 ing at Craigenputtock. Margaret staid 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's!" she once whis- 
 pered to one of her sisters) : we had brought her to 
 Dumfries, in the hope of better medical help, 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 new or suburban 
 gardeii-\o6.g\\\g we had got (but did not thoi tell me 
 what the dying one had said to her). In fine, towards 
 midnight, June 21-22, I 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 woods and sky) ; 
 — 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 I met him at 
 the door with such news (for he had staid behind me, 
 getting rid of the horses) ; the mute struggle, mute 
 and vain, as of the rugged rock not to dissolve itself, 
 — is still visible to me. Why do I evoke these
 
 EDWARD IRVING 195 
 
 bitter sorrows and miseries, which have mercifully 
 long lain as if asleep ? I will not farther : that day, 
 22d June 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 painfullest of my 
 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. — 
 
 [Half of another ivritteii sheet goes with me to 
 Mentone, to try whether it (it, and something better, 
 might I hope ?) cannot be finished there. — Chelsea, 
 Wednesday, 19 Dec. 1866.] 
 
 All this has nothing to do with Irving ; little even 
 with the journey I was now making towards him, — 
 except that in the tumultuous agitations of the latter, 
 it came all, in poignant clearness and completeness, 
 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 jostle 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 bands, 
 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 after 
 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 was
 
 196 REMINISCENCES 
 
 all darkened, carefully lamp-lit ; play just beginning 
 or going to begin : out of my gratis box (front box 
 on the lower tier), I sat gazing into that painted 
 scene and its mimings ; 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 tJicrc ; gener- 
 ally 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 Regent 
 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. 
 
 \2'jth December 1866. Ceased at London, per- 
 haps three weeks ago, mere hubbub and uncertainty 
 intervening ; begins again at Mentone on the Riviera 
 Oceidentale, whither I have been pushed and pulled 
 in the most unheard-of way. Professor Tyndall, Lady 
 Ashburton, friends, foes all conspiring ; a journey 
 like " chaos come again," and an arrival and continu- 
 ance hitherto still liker ditto (wakeful nights each, 
 especially the one just gone) : — in which strange 
 circumstances, bright sun shining, blue sea faintly 
 murmuring, orange groves glowing out of window, 
 Mentone hidden, and Ventimiglia Cape in view ; all
 
 EDWARD IRVING i()7 
 
 earth a kind of Paradise, inhabitant a kind of quasi- 
 Satan, — I endeavour to proceed the best I can.] 
 
 Our talk was good and edifying : he was by this 
 time deep in Prophecy and other aberrations ; sur- 
 rounded by weak people, mostly echoes of himself 
 and his incredible 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 opinion ; and 
 wise and even shrewd in regard to anything of busi- 
 ness 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 whithersoever 
 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 sym- 
 pathy with his than was then the case. We also 
 talked on Religion and Christianity " Evidences," — 
 our notions, 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 
 Human Soul, — the Highest God (doubt it not) assent- 
 ing and inspiring all along !" This I remember once 
 saying plainly ; which was not an encouragement to 
 prosecute the topic. We were in fact, hopelessly 
 divided, to what tragical extent both of us might well 
 feel ! But something still remained ; and this we {Jie 
 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 
 and the like, a strange set of ignorant conceited
 
 198 REMINISCENCES 
 
 fanatics forming the body of the party, and greatly 
 spoiling it for me. Irving's own kindness was evi- 
 dently in essence unabated ; how sorrowful, at once 
 provoking and pathetic, that I or he could hence- 
 forth get so little good of it ! — 
 
 We were to have gone and seen Coleridge to- 
 gether ; had fixed a day for that object ; but the 
 day proved one long deluge, no stirring out possible ; 
 and we did not appoint another. I never saw 
 Coleridge more ; he died the year after our final 
 removal to London ■} a man much pitied and recog- 
 nised by me ; never excessively esteemed in any 
 respect, and latterly, on the intellectual or spiritual 
 side, less and less. The Father of Puseyism and 
 of much vain Phantasmal Moonshine, which still 
 vexes this poor earth, — as I have elsewhere described 
 him. Irving and I did not, on the whole, see much 
 of one another during this Sartor Rcsartus visit ; 
 our circles, our courses and employments were so 
 altogether diverse. Early in the visit, he walked 
 me to Belgrave Square to dine with Henry Drum- 
 mond ; 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, astonish- 
 ing the idle of mankind. Henry Drummond, house 
 all in summer deshabille, carpets up, etc., received us 
 \y\i\\ abundance of respect, and of aristocratic poco- 
 
 ^ This is a mistake ; Coleridge died 25th July 1834. See siij^ra, 
 p. 132 «,
 
 EDWARD IRVING 199 
 
 curantism 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 in raising wheat, t'other half in 
 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 decisive 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 inconsistency : that was 
 the feeling he left in me ; nor did it alter afterwards, 
 when I saw a great deal more of him, — without 
 sensible increase 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 in- 
 tention, 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 the eleventh 
 hour, decided not to go ; so that the ugly confusion 
 fell all on me : — and in few months more, Henry 
 was himself dead ; and no mistake possible again. 
 
 ^ Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle.
 
 REMINISCENCES 
 
 Albury, the ancient Earl of Arundel's, the recent 
 Prophet- Conference's etc., I had seen for the first, 
 and most likely for the last time. . . } 
 
 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 Jeffrey'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 increase 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 wanting. All men 
 were full of the Reform Bill, nothing else talked 
 of, written of ; the air loaded with it alone ; — which 
 occasioned 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. Stupider 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 
 heaviness of old age ; and partly (still more im- 
 portant) that, in regard to this particular Sartor 
 question, his position was an impossible one, position 
 of a poor old man endeavouring to answer " Yes a?id 
 
 ^ A few lines referring to Mr. Thomas Carlyle, Advocate, printed in 
 the first edition, are omitted here, as there are good grounds for believ- 
 ing that Carlyle had been misinformed as to this namesake of his.
 
 EDWARD IRVING 201 
 
 No !" I had striven and pushed, for some weeks, 
 with him and others, on those impossible principles, 
 till at length discovering, — I, with brevity, demanded 
 back my poor Manuscript from Murray ; received it 
 with some apologetic palaver (enclosing an opinion 
 from his Taster, which was subsequently printed in 
 one edition), and much hope, etc. etc. ; locked it 
 away into fixity of silence for the present (my 
 Murray into ditto for ever) ; — 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 farther. Ah me, this sunny Riviera, which 
 we sometimes vaguely thought of, she does not see 
 along with me : and my thoughts of her here are 
 too sad for words. I will write no more to-day. 
 Oh my Darling, my lost Darling, may the Great 
 God be good to thee. Silence, though ; — and 
 " Hope " if I can !— 
 
 My Jeannie came about the end of September. 
 Brother John, by industry of hers and mine {Jiers 
 chiefly), acting on an opportunity of Lord Advocate 
 Jeffrey's, had got an appointment for Italy ^ ("Travel- 
 ling Physician," by which he has since made abun- 
 dance of money, and of work may be said to have 
 translated Dante's Liferno, were there nothing 
 more!). — We shifted from an uncomfortable Lodging 
 (at Irving's youngest Brother George's, an incipient 
 Surgeon, amiable, and clever superficially, who soon 
 after died) into a clean quiet and modestly comfortable 
 
 ^ Dr. J. A. Carlyle held this appointment for a number of years. 
 His amiable and kindly disposition made him a favourite with his 
 patient, the Countess of Clare, with whom he remained on intimate 
 terms of friendship as long as she lived.
 
 REMINISCENCES 
 
 one, in Ampton Street (same St. Pancras 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 in love with her ; served like a 
 fairy ; was, next year long after we were gone, for 
 coming to us at Craigenputtock 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 in 
 her poor tribute of love. A fine outpouring of her 
 grief and admiring gratitude, written after that event, 
 (letter to me, signed " Eliza Snowden," — Miles 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), was not 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 indifierent 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 enjoyed London, and the considerable mis- 
 cellany of people that came about us. Charles 
 Duller, John Mill, several professed " admirers " of 
 mine (among whom was, and for aught I know still 
 is, the mocking Hayward !); Jeffrey almost daily as
 
 EDWARD IRVING 203 
 
 an admirer of hers > not to mention Mrs. Montagu 
 and Co., certain Holcrofts (Badams married to one 
 of them, a certain Kenny married to the mother of 
 them, — at whose house, I once saw Godwin, if that 
 were anything), Allan Cunningham from time to 
 time, and fluctuating Foreigners 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 Mar- 
 garet's death, he had been fast failing, though none 
 of us took notice enough, such had been his perfec- 
 tion of health, almost all along through the seventy- 
 three years he lived. I sat plunged into 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 continually 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 arc, 
 
 ^ See Paper, "James Carlyle," supra, vol. i.
 
 204 REMINISCENCES 
 
 after / have done with them. "Posterity," that is what 
 I never thought of appeaHng to ; what possible use 
 can there be in appeahng tJierc, — in appealing any- 
 where, except by absolute silence to the High Court 
 of Eternity, which can do no error ? Poor sickly 
 Transiencies that we are ; coveting we know not 
 what ! — In the February ensuing I wrote Johnson 
 (the Bossy part was published in Fraser for April) ; 
 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 Craigenputtock (sadly present to 
 my soul, most sadly yet most beautifully, 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 weakliest of his wholly rather 
 dim and weakly flock. I was never at all in his 
 church, during this visit, being grieved at once and 
 angered at the course he had got into : but once or 
 twice, poor Eliza Miles came running home from 
 some evening sermon there was, all in a tremor of 
 tears over these same " Tongues," and a riot from the 
 dissenting majority opposing them: "Alia tumult 
 yonder, oh me ! " This did not happen above twice 
 or so ; Irving (never himself a "Tongue" performer) 
 having taken some order with the thing, and I think 
 discouraged and nearly suppressed it as 7uifit during 
 Church service. It was greatly talked of; by cer- 
 tain persons with an enquiry, " Do you believe in it?"
 
 EDWARD IRVING 205 
 
 " Believe in it ? As much as I do in the High Priest 
 of Otaheite ! " answered Lockhart once, to Fraser, 
 the inquiring Bookseller, in my hearing. Sorrow 
 and disgust were naturally my own feeling : " How 
 are the mighty fallen ; my once 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 neighbouring room, 
 larger part of the drawing room belike. Mrs. Irving 
 had retired thither with the devotees ; Irving for our 
 sake had staid, 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 " Lall-lall-lall !" 
 (little or nothing else but /'s and as continued for 
 several minutes); to which Irving, with singular 
 calmness, said only, " There, hear you ; there are the 
 Tongues ! " and we two, except by our looks which 
 probably were eloquent, answered him nothing ; but 
 soon came away, full of distress, provocation and a 
 kind of shame. " Why wasn't there a bucket of cold 
 water to fling on that lall-lalling hysterical mad- 
 woman ? " thought we, or said, to one another : " Oh 
 
 Heavens, that it should come to this ! " 1 do 
 
 not remember any call we made there afterwards ; of 
 course there was a Farewell call ; but that too I 
 recollect only obliquely. . . . Seldom was seen a 
 more tragical scene to us, than this of Irving's 
 London 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
 
 2o6 REMINISCENCES 
 
 or two before our quitting London. I know not 
 whether the interview had been preconcerted be- 
 tween my DarHng and me for the sake of our 
 common Friend ; but it was 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 first opportu- 
 nity, and leading the Dialogue wholly into that 
 channel, till with all the delicacy but also with all 
 the fidelity possible to me, I put him fully in pos- 
 session of what my real opinion was. She, my 
 noble Jeannie, said hardly anything ; but her looks 
 and here and there a word testified how deep her in- 
 terest 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 
 knew not what length of time, on a course which 
 I could not but regard as full of danger to him. 
 That the "/j/// of the Corijithiaiis" to which he 
 always appealed, was surely too narrow a basis for 
 so high a tower as he was building on it ;- — a high 
 lean tower, or q\x?iS\-inast, 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 
 there, to any person, as this '^ ijth of the Corinthians "
 
 EDWARD IRVING 207 
 
 very greatly was. That it did not beseem him, 
 Edward 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. Be- 
 think you, my Friend, is not that your plainly 
 commanded duty ; more plain than any 13th of the 
 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, connections 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 these words of a well-affected soul, and 
 they might then be of help to him. 
 
 During all this, which perhaps lasted about 
 twenty minutes, Irving sat opposite 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 en- 
 deavoured to make his apology and defence ; which 
 did not last long, or do anything to convince me ; 
 but was in a style of modesty and friendly magna- 
 nimity, which no mortal could surpass, and which 
 remains to me, at this moment, dear and memorable
 
 2o8 REMINISCENCES 
 
 and worthy of all honour. Which done, he went 
 silently his way, no doubt with kindest farewells to 
 us ; and I remember nothing more. Possibly we 
 had already made farewell call in Judd-Street, the 
 day before, and found 1dm not there ? — 
 
 This was, in a manner, the last visit I ever made 
 to Irving ; the last time either of lis 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 homeward — I 
 have spoken of it elsewhere, and of the dear reminis- 
 cences it leaves, ever sad, but also ever blessed 
 to me now. We were far away from Irving, in our 
 solitary moors ; staid still there above two years 
 (one of our winters in Edinburgh) ; and heard of 
 Irving and his catastrophes only from the distance. 
 He had to come to Annan and be expelled from the 
 Scottish Kirk.^ That scene I remember reading in 
 some Newspaper, with lively conception and emotion. 
 A poor aggregate of Reverend 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 Presidency of St. John, without 
 the right truth of it being got at ! I knew the 
 " Moderator " (one Roddick, since gone mad) for one 
 of the stupidest and barrenest of living mortals ; 
 also the little phantasm of a creature (Sloan his 
 name ; who went niddy-noddying 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 
 ^ Irving was deposed at Annan on the 13th of March 1833.
 
 EDWARD IRVING 209 
 
 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 He buried !" — Con- 
 demnation, under any circumstances, had to follow ; 
 " Ic droit dc Die daiiincr te teste toiijours ! " as poor 
 Danton said, in a far other case.^ 
 
 The feeling of the population was strong and 
 general for Irving ; Reverends Sloan and Roddick 
 were not without their apprehensions of some tumult 
 perhaps, — had not the people been so reverent of 
 the place they were in. Irving sent us no word of 
 himself ; made no appeal to any friend or foe ; 
 unless his preaching to the people, up and down, for 
 some days, partly perhaps in the way 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 neighbourhood, and 
 who much admired and pitied the great Irving, gave 
 me the last notice I ever had of that tragic matter, 
 " Irving's vocal appellatio ad popiiliun, when Presby- 
 tery had condemned him." This time the assemblage 
 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 Middlcbie road, a little way off the main Street 
 and Highway. The Preacher stood on some table 
 or chair, which was fixed against the trunk of a huge, 
 high, strong and many-branched " Plane-tree " (well 
 known to me and to every one that passes that 
 way); the weather was of proper [March] quality, 
 
 ^ See French I\evolutio)i (Lilirary edition), iii. 320. 
 VOL. 11. P
 
 REMINISCENCES 
 
 grim, fierce, with windy snow-showers flying ; Irving 
 had a woollen comforter about his neck ; skirts of 
 comforter, hair, cloak, tossing in the storms ; eloquent 
 voice well audible under the groaning of the boughs 
 and piping of the winds. 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 
 Authorities of his New " Irvingite " Church (just 
 established in Newman 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 become 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 becoming uncertain ; news 
 naturally worse than none, — had we much believed 
 it, which, knowing his old Herculean strength, I 
 suppose we didn't. 
 
 In 1834 came our own removal to London ; — con- 
 cerning which are heavy fields of memory, laborious, 
 beautiful, sad and sacred (my darling Lost One !) — 
 were this the place for them ; which it isn't. Our winter 
 in Edinburgh ; our haggles and distresses (badness 
 of servants mainly), our bits of diligences, strenuous 
 and sometimes happy; — in fine the clear resolution 
 that we ought to go. I had been in correspondence 
 with London (chiefly with John Mill, Leigh Hunt,
 
 EDWARD IRVING 
 
 Mrs, Austin, etc.) ever since our presence there : 
 " Let us burn our ships," said my noble One, " and 
 get on march ! " — I went as precursor, early in May ; 
 ignorantly thinking this was, as in Scotland, the 
 general and sole term for getting Houses in London ; 
 and that after " May 26th" there would be none but 
 leavings ! . We were not very practically advised, 
 I should think, though there were counsellors many. 
 However I roved lustily about seeking Houses for 
 the next three weeks, while my Darling was still 
 busier at home, getting all things packed, and put 
 under way : what endless toil 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 respects, the 
 fittest ; and had seen nothing I thought so eligible 
 there as a certain oie 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 arrival, 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. Jameson, not 
 known to me before, but found by accident on a call 
 there, — we were proceeding towards Chelsea in the 
 middle of a bright May day, when I noticed, well
 
 212 REMINISCENCES 
 
 down in Kensington-Gardens, a dark male figure sit- 
 ting between two white female ones under a tree ; 
 male figure, which abruptly rose and stalked towards 
 me ; whom, seeing it was Irving, I hastily 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 be- 
 come an old man. His head, which I had left raven- 
 black, was grown grey, 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. Certainly in all England 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 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 laugh 
 from him, strangely genuine, though so lamed and 
 overclouded ; this was to me the most affecting thing 
 of all, and still is when I recal it. He gave me his 
 address in Bayswater ; his hours as near as might be ;
 
 EDWARD IRVING 213 
 
 and I engaged to try and find him there, — I, him, 
 which seemed the hkeher method, in our widely 
 diverse elements, both of them so full of bustle, inter- 
 ruption and uncertainty. And so adieu, my friend, 
 adieu ! Neither of us had spoken with the women of 
 the other ; and each was gone his several road again, 
 — mine not specially remembered farther. 
 
 It seems to me I never found Irving in his Bays- 
 water lodging ; I distinctly recollect seeing him, one 
 dusty evening about eight, at the door there, mount 
 his horse, a stout firm bay animal, of the kind called 
 Cob ; and set out towards Newman-Street, whither 
 he rode perhaps 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 recal of interview 
 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 
 courageously we marched together, my own brave 
 Darling (what a store of humble but high and sacred 
 memories to me !) victoriously carrying the flag. But 
 at length it struck me there was something question- 
 able 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 accordingly. I applied to 
 William Hamilton (excellent City Scotsman, mar- 
 ried, not over well I doubt, to a Sister of Mrs. Irving's) 
 with a brief statement of the case ; and had im- 
 mediate remedy : an appointment to dinner at New- 
 man-Street on a given day ; which I failed not to
 
 2 1 4 REMINISCENCES 
 
 observe. None but Irving and his wife besides my- 
 self were there ; the dinner (from a good joint of 
 roast-beef, in a dim but quiet comfortable kind of 
 room) was among the pleasantest of dinners to me ; 
 Madam herself wearing nothing but smiles; and 
 soon leaving us together 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 now never spoke, I went away gratified ; 
 and, for my own share, glad, — had not the outlooks 
 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, unless 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 
 he. forced to silence, the one salutary medicine for him, 
 in body and in soul ! I often thought of this : but 
 he had now no Brother, no Father on whom I could 
 practically 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 remember speaking to his Father-in-law, 
 at Hamilton's in Cheapside one evening, and very
 
 EDWARD IRVING 215 
 
 earnestly on the topic that interested us both : but 
 in Martin too there was nothing of help. " Grows 
 weaker and weaker," said he ; " and no Doctor can 
 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 journey slowly into 
 Wales, paying visits ; perhaps into Scotland : which 
 seemed the next best to what I would have pro- 
 posed ; 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 in this 
 world. It was towards sunset, — had there been any 
 sun, that damp dim October-^ day ; — he came ambling 
 gently on his bay horse ; sat 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 demeanour to her ; 
 
 ^ It must have been before October, for Irving, as already noted, 
 had left London in the beginning of September.
 
 2 1 6 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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 smiling, " You are like an Eve, and make 
 a little Paradise wherever you are !" His manner 
 was sincere, affectionate, yet with a great suppressed 
 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 Revolution now begun, 
 I suppose) ; study of History, he seemed to inti- 
 mate, was the study of things real, practical, and 
 actual, and would bring me closer upon all reality 
 whatsoever. With a fine simplicity of lovingness, he 
 bade 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 corner (at Wright's door, 
 or the Rector's back gardcji- 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 gone ; and, 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 recognisable 
 
 ^ Street at tlie top of Cheyne Row, Chelsea.
 
 EDWARD IRVING 217 
 
 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 recognisably hit, and the pretty Picture, to one 
 who knows, looks throughout 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 Annandale begins it, with 
 its homely honesties, rough vernacularities, safe, 
 innocently kind, ruggedly mother-like, cheery, whole- 
 some, like its airy hills and clear-rushing streams ; 
 prurient corrupted London is the middle part, with 
 its volcanic stupidities and bottomless confusions ; — 
 and 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 upon 
 a man ; yet not wrath alone, for his heart is 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 clean. 
 
 He sent from Glasgow a curious Letter to his 
 Gift-of -Tongues Congregation ; full of questionings, 
 dubieties upon the Tongues and such points ; full of 
 wanderings in deep waters, with one light fixed on
 
 2i8 REMINISCENCES 
 
 high, " Humble ourselves before God, and He will 
 show us !" — Letter indicating a sincerity as of very- 
 death ; which these New Church people (Henry 
 Drummond and Co.) first printed for useful private 
 circulation, and then afterwards zealously suppressed 
 and destroyed, till almost everybody but myself had 
 forgotten the existence of it. Luckily, about two 
 years ago, I still raked out a copy of it for " Rev. 
 Gavin Carlile" (Nephew of Irving, now editing 
 Irving's Select Worlds, or some such title) ;^ by whom 
 I am glad to know it has been printed and made 
 permanent, as a Document honourable 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 Drummond, what was mentioned here long 
 since, " 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 honourable 
 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 Germaii Romance, 1826,"^ 
 early ; the report is from my Brother John, to whom 
 Irving spoke on the subject, which with me he 
 always rather avoided. Irving did not much know 
 Goethe ; had generally a dislike to him, as to a 
 kind of Heathen tingo^Xy person and idle Singer, 
 who had considerably seduced me from the right 
 
 ^ See supra, p. 77. 
 
 2 German Romance: Specimens of its chief Authors, etc., was finished 
 in 1826, but not published until the following year (4 vols. Edinburgh, 
 1827).
 
 EDWARD IRVING 219 
 
 path, as one sin. He read WilJiclm Meistcrs Travels 
 nevertheless; and he said to John one day: "Very 
 curious, in this German Poet, here are some pages 
 about Christ and the Christian Rehgion, which, as I 
 study and re-study them, have more sense about 
 that matter than I have found in all the Theologians 
 I ever read !" Was not this a noble thing for such 
 a man to feel and say ? I have a hundred times 
 recommended that Passage in WilJielin Meister, to 
 inquiring and devout souls ; but, I think, never 
 elsewhere met with one who so thoroughly recog- 
 nised it. One of my last Letters, flung into the fire, 
 just before leaving London the other day, was from 
 an Oxford self-styled " religious inquirer," who asks 
 me, if in those pages of Meister, there is not a 
 wonderfully distinct foreshadow of Comte and 
 Positivism ? Phoebus Apollo god of the Sun ; 
 foresJiadozuing 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 fare- 
 well, 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, 2d January i 867, — looking 
 towards the eastward Hills, bathed in sunshine, under 
 a brisk west- wind ; two P.M.] 
 
 The following extracts from Carlyle's Journal 
 refer to this Paper on Edward Irving :
 
 REMINISCENCES 
 
 "■ 26tJi September \'^66. — . . . Writing, languidly, 
 something which I call ' Reminiscences of Edward 
 Irving ' ; — which turns out hitherto to be more about 
 myself than him. Perhaps not easy to help its being 
 so, especially thus far ? Continue it, at any rate ; 
 though good for little." 
 
 " 3<^ December. — . . . Have been writing (under 
 such perpetual interruptions) ' Reminiscences of 
 Edward Irving ' (turn out to be rather, of myself 
 and Edward Irving !) — many pages ; not yet finished ; 
 hardly once in the three days can I get to it of late. 
 — Ought probably to be burnt when done (and pos- 
 sibly enough shall) ; but in the meanwhile, the writ- 
 ing of it clears my own insight into those past days ; 
 has branches and sections still dearer to me than 
 Irvincr ; — and calms and soothes me as I eo on."
 
 LORD JEFFREY 
 
 (of FRANCIS JEFFREY, HON. LORD JEFFREY,^ 
 THE LAWYER AND REVIEWER) 
 
 Mentone, ■T,d January 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 
 9th November 1 809, 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 Ecclefechan ; my companion one " Tom 
 Smail," 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, insignificant, but strict- 
 minded orthodox creature, for whom, knowing him 
 to be of no scholarship or strength of judgment, I 
 privately had very small respect, though civilly fol- 
 lowing him about in things he knew better than I. 
 
 ^ Francis Jeffrey " took his seat on the Bench on the 7th of June 
 1834. The Scotch Judges are called Lords ; a title to which long usage 
 has associated feelings of reverence in the minds of the people, who 
 could not now be soon made to respect A/r. Justice. " — Cockburn's Life 
 oj Lord Jeffrey (2 vols., Edinburgh, 1852), i. p. 365.
 
 222 REMINISCENCES 
 
 As in the streets of Edinburgh, for example, on my 
 first evening there ! On our journey thither he had 
 been wearisome, far from entertaining ; mostly silent, 
 having indeed nothing to say, he stalked on gener- 
 ally some steps ahead ; languidly 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 Shoe- 
 maker," — 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-off 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, ever-loving 
 Mother and her tremulous affection ; my etc. etc. — 
 But we must get to Edinburgh, over Moffat, over 
 Eric-stane (Burnswark visible there for the last time, 
 and my poor little Sister Margaret " bursting into 
 tears " when she heard of this in my first letter 
 home) : I hid my sorrow and my weariness, but had 
 abundance of it, chequering the mysterious hopes 
 and forecastings of what Edinburgh and the Student 
 element would be. Tom and I had entered Edin- 
 burgh, 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 doubt- 
 less ; and Palinurus Tom sallied out into the streets 
 with me, to show the novice mind a little of Edin- 
 burgh before sundown. The novice mind was not
 
 LORD JEFFREY 223 
 
 excessively astonished all at once ; but kept its 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 Horse- Statue in 
 Parliament Square hard by ; — directly after which 
 Small, 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 cJiiarosciiro, and filled 
 with what I thought (exaggeratively) a thousand 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 enclosures, and steps leading up ; red -velvet 
 figures sitting in said thrones, and the black-gowned 
 eagerly speaking to them, — Advocates pleading 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, sat 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 unintelligibly above it, as if in the bitterness of
 
 224 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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 usually 
 are ; and doubtless there is something of fact in this, 
 such have been the curtailments and abatements 
 of Law Practice in the Head Courts since then, 
 and transference of it to the County jurisdictions. 
 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 almost dead. 
 
 Notable figures, now all vanished utterly, were 
 doubtless wandering about as part of that continual 
 hurlyburly, when I first set foot in it, fifty -seven 
 years ago. Great Law Lords This and That, great 
 Advocates alors ceVcbres (as Thiers has it) : Crans- 
 toun, Cockburn,^ Jeffrey, 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 where probably they were living substances, 
 some of them in a kind of relation to me afterwards. 
 Time with his tenses, what a miraculous Entity is he 
 always. The only figure I distinctly recollect, 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. 
 
 ^ Lord Cockburn became Jeffrey's biographer. Of him, of Jeffrey, 
 of Cranstoun and of Clerk, Lockhart gives an entertaining account in 
 Peter's Letters to his Kinsfolk (3 vols. Edinburgh, 1819), ii. 43-73. 
 The book contains portraits of Jeffrey and of Clerk.
 
 LORD JEFFREY 225 
 
 Possibly enough poor Small 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's, 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 recal it 
 for Jeffrey'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 Small too I may dismiss, as thoroughly 
 insignificant, conceitedly harmless ; he continued in 
 some comradeship with me (or with James Johnstone 
 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 Minister (somewhere in Galloway), 
 and has died only within few years. Poor Jamie 
 Johnstone, also my senior by several years, was far 
 dearer, a man of real merit, with whom about my 
 17th — 2 1st years I had much genial companionship : 
 but of him also I must not speak. The good, the 
 honest, not the strong eiioitgJi, much-suffering soul, — 
 he died as Schoolmaster of Haddington, in a time 
 memorable to me.'^ Ay de mi ! 
 
 It was about 1 8 1 1 when I began to be familiar 
 with the figure of Jeffrey, as I saw him in the 
 Courts ; it was in 1 8 1 2 or 1813 that he became 
 
 ^ Died towards the end of 1837. For Carlylc's Letters to Johnstone, 
 see Early Letters of Thomas Carlyk (Macmillan and Co., 18S6). 
 VOL. II, Q
 
 2-6 REMINISCENCES 
 
 universally famous, especially in Dumfriesshire, by 
 his saving from the gallows one " Nell Kennedy," a 
 country lass who had shocked all Scotland, and 
 especially that region of it, by a wholesale murder, 
 done on her next Neighbour 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 Ecclefcchan one after- 
 noon, purchased a quantity of arsenic ; walked back 
 with it towards Burnswark Leas, her Father's Farm ; 
 stopped at Burnswark Farm, which was " old Tom 
 Stoddart's," a couple of furlongs short of her own 
 home ; and there sat gossiping till she pretended it 
 was too late, and that she would ijow sleep here with 
 the maid. Slept, accordingly, old Tom giving no 
 welcome, only stingy permission ; rose with the 
 family next morning ; volunteered to make the por- 
 ridge for breakfast ; made it, could herself take none 
 of it, went home instead, " having headache ;" — and 
 in an hour or so after, poor old Tom, his Wife, maid, 
 and every living creature in the house (except a dog 
 who had vomited, and not except the cats who 
 couldn't) was dead or lay dying. Horror was uni- 
 versal in those solitary quiet regions ; — on the third 
 day, rny Father, finding no lawyer take the least 
 notice, sent a messenger express to Dumfries ; where- 
 upon the due " precognitions," due et-ceteras, due 
 arrestment of Helen Kennedy with strict questioning 
 and strict locking-up, as the essential clement. I 
 was in Edinburgh that summer of i 8 1 2 ; but heard 
 enough of the matter there ; in the Border regions, 
 where it was the universal topic, perhaps not one 
 human creature doubted but Nell was the criminal,
 
 LORD JEFFREY 227 
 
 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 the neighbourhood, it was understood, had 
 answered her, in a trying circumstance, " No, oh no, 
 I cannot marry you : Tom Stoddart has a Rill against 
 me of ;^5o ; I have no money, how can I marry?" 
 "Stoddart; i^5o ?" thought Nell to herself; and 
 without difficulty decided on removing that small 
 obstacle ! — 
 
 Jeffrey's Advocate -fame from this achievement 
 was, at last, almost greater than he wished, — as
 
 228 REMINISCENCES 
 
 indeed it might well be. Nell was, next year, 
 indicted again for murdering a child she had borne 
 (supposed 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 treasure -chest of these 
 three miraculous uncles, one night, and leave them 
 with their house on fire, and singular reflections on 
 so delectable a niece ; after which, for several years, 
 she continued wandering in the Border byways, 
 smuggling, stealing, etc. ; only intermittently heard 
 of, but steadily mounting in evil fame, till she had 
 become th.c facile pr 17 iccps of Border Devils, and was 
 considered a completely uncanny and quasi-infernal 
 object : was found twice over in Cumberland ships, 
 endeavouring 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 Amei'ica ; at least 
 vanished out of Annandale, and was no more talked 
 of there. I have seen her Father mowing at 
 Scotsbrig as a common day-labourer, 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 
 miraculous uncles were maternal, and come 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,
 
 LORD JEFFREY 229 
 
 and made him rather uncomfortable. Long after- 
 wards, at Craigenputtock, 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 
 uncertain 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 advocate : your intellect, your 
 highest heavenly gift, hung up in the shop-window, 
 like a loaded pistol for sale ; will either blow out 
 a pestilent scoundrel's brains, or . the scoundrel's 
 salutary sheriff'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 renown, both as Advocate and as Man of Letters 
 and Member of Society ; everybody recognising his 
 honourable ingenuity, sagacity, and opulent brilliancy 
 of mind ; and nobody ascribing his Felon help to 
 anything but a pitying disposition, and readiness to 
 exercise what faculty one has. 
 
 I seem to remember that I dimly rather felt 
 there was something trivial, doubtful, and not quite 
 of the highest type, in our Edinburgh admiration 
 for our great Lights and Law Sages, and for Jeffrey 
 among the rest ; but I honestly admired him in a
 
 230 REMINISCENCES 
 
 loose way, as my neighbours 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 
 speaking : uncommonly bright black eyes, instinct 
 with vivacity, intelligence and kindly fire ; roundish 
 brow, delicate oval face full of rapid expression ; 
 figure light, nimble, pretty, though so small, perhaps 
 hardly five feet four in height : he had his gown, 
 almost never any wig, wore his black hair rather 
 closely cropt, — 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 some- 
 thing of metallic in it, something almost plangent ; 
 never rose into alt, into any dissonance or shrillness, 
 nor carried much the character of humour, 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 Braxie,"^ " Peter 
 Peebles," and the like : — for the rest, his laugh was 
 small, and by no means Homeric ; he never laughed 
 loud (couldn't do it, I should think), and indeed 
 oftener sniggered slightly than laughed in any way. 
 
 ^ Lord Eraxfield (see infra, p. 262) ; in Peter^s Letters to his Kins- 
 folk, vols. ii. iii., there is a description of this coarse, vigorous and 
 grotesque old lawyer.
 
 LORD JEFFREY 231 
 
 For above a dozen or fourteen years I had been 
 outwardly familiar with the figure of Jeffrey, before 
 we came to any closer acquaintance, or indeed had 
 the least prospect of any. His sphere lay far away 
 above mine ; to him in his shining elevation, my 
 existence down among the shadows was unknown. 
 In May 18 14 I heard him once pleading in the 
 General Assembly, on some poor Cause there ;^ a 
 notable, but not the notablest thing to me, while I 
 sat looking diligently, though mostly as dramatic 
 spectator, into the procedures of that venerable 
 Church Court, for the first time, which proved also 
 the last. Queer old figures there, — Hill of St. 
 Andrews, Johnston of Crossmichael, Dr. Inglis with 
 the voice jumbling 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 
 abundantly 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 Mathematics, — 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 voraciously many other Books) 
 was greatly more endurable, nay in parts was genial 
 and spirited, though the paltry trade and ditto 
 
 ^ Jeffrey's age at this time was 41. He was born 23d October 1773.
 
 232 REMINISCENCES 
 
 environment for most part were always odious to 
 me. In late Autumn 1816, I went to Kirkcaldy, 
 in like capacity, though in circumstances (what with 
 Edward Irving's company, what with, etc. etc.) which 
 were far superior : there in i 8 i 8 I had come to the 
 grim conclusion that Schoolmastering must end, 
 whatsoever pleased to follow ; that " it were better 
 to perish," as I exaggeratively said to myself, " than 
 continue Schoolmastering." I made for Edinburgh,^ 
 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 abundance 
 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 notJiing. 
 This kind of humour, what I sometimes called of 
 ''desperate hope," has largely attended me all my 
 life. In short, as has been enough indicated else- 
 where, I was advancing towards huge instalments 
 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 the zvant of any extant or dis- 
 coverable fence 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 
 
 ^ Carlyle left Kirkcaldy for Edinburgh, 20th November 181 8.
 
 LORD, .JEFFREY 233 
 
 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 suffering, more than at first seems ; and 
 the spiritual agonies would not have been enough ? 
 These latter seem wholly blessed, in retrospect ; 
 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 18 19- 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 Contribu- 
 tion to the Edinburgh Revieiv. The idea seemed 
 great, and might be tried, though nearly desperate. 
 I had got hold somewhere (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 Dalgliesh of Annan, from whom I kept my 
 ulterior purpose quite secret): well do I yet remember 
 those dreary evenings in Bristo Street ; oh, what 
 ghastly passages, and dismal successive spasms of 
 attempt, at " Literary Enterprise " — Hevelii Seleno-
 
 234 REMINISCENCES 
 
 grapJiia} with poor Horrox's Venus in sole visa, 
 intended for some ghastly Life of the said Horrox, 
 — this for one other instance ! I read all Saussure's 
 four quartos of Travels in SwitzerlamP 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 reviezv of Pictet all fairly written 
 out, in George Dalgliesh's good clerk hand, I penned 
 some brief polite Note to the great Editor ; 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 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 considerations 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. 
 
 ^ Johannes Ilevelius (born at Dantzig 1611, died 16S8), one of the 
 most eminent astronomers of his time. His Sclenographia, Description 
 of the Moon, was published at Dantzig 1647. In 1662 he added to his 
 Mercurius in sole visits, Horrox's Dissertation on the Transit of Venus, 
 which Horrox was the first to observe, in 1639. Horrox died, only 22 
 years old, in 1641. 
 
 ' Saussure, Voyages dans les Alpes {4 vols., 4to, & Geneve, I779 to 
 1796). 
 
 ^ 24th January 1820.
 
 LORD JEFFREY 235 
 
 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 adventure 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 persist : and 
 perhaps it is no disadvantage if the door be several 
 times slammed in his face, as a preliminary. 
 
 In spring 1827, I suppose it must have been, a 
 Letter came to me at Comley Bank from Procter 
 (" Barry Cornwall," my quondam London acquaint- 
 ance) 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 
 sJiould 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
 
 236 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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 
 famous man then," thought I ; " and if he can do 
 nothing for me, why not /" I got ready admission 
 into Jeffrey's " study," or rather " office," for it had 
 mostly that air ; a roomy not over -neat apartment 
 on the ground floor, with [a big baize-covered table, 
 loaded with book rows and paper bundles ; on one 
 or perhaps two of the walls were book-shelves, like- 
 wise well filled, but with books in tattery ill-bound 
 or unbound condition, — " bad new Literature, these 
 will be," thought I ; " the table ones are probably on 
 Law!" Fire, pair of candles were cheerfully burn- 
 ing, in the light of which sat my famous little gentle- 
 man ; laid aside his work, cheerfully invited me to 
 sit, and began talking in a perfectly human manner. 
 Our dialogue was altogether human and successful ; 
 lasted for perhaps twenty minutes (for I could not 
 consume a great man's time), turned upon the usual 
 topics, what I was doing, what I had published, — 
 Geniian 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 unembarrassment ; 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 
 
 1 See supra, p. 218 «.
 
 LORD JEFFREY lyj 
 
 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 Paiil, a sturdy Piece, not without humour 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 Number, by the 
 more elaborate and grave article on German Litera- 
 ture ^ generally, which set many tongues wagging, 
 and some few brains considering, WJiat this strange 
 monster could be that was come to disturb their 
 quiescence, and the established order of Nature ! 
 Some Newspapers or Newspaper took to denounc- 
 ing "the Mystic School," — 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 " z^j," in the pretty ^^/m^-speech, which 
 she was always so ready to adopt, and which lent 
 such a charm to her talk and writing. She was 
 beautifully gay and hopeful under these improved 
 phenomena, — the darling soul ! Foreign Review, 
 Foreign Quarterly, etc., followed, 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 
 
 ^ Edinburgh Revie~u>, No. 91, June 1827. 
 
 ^ State of German Literatm-e ; for Ihis, and the Arlicle on Jean 
 Paul, see Carlyle's Miscellanies, vol. i.
 
 238 REMINISCENCES 
 
 sort, fairly launched upon Literature ; and had even, 
 to sections of the public, become a " Mystic School ;" 
 — -not quite prematurely, being now of the age of 
 thirty-two, and having had my bits 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 world ; 
 full of innocent rustic simplicity and veracity, yet 
 with the gracefullest 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 bidding 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 offence at it, and awkwardly 
 draw themselves up, — but without in the least put- 
 ting 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 dextrous light way. Considerable jealousy attended 
 the reigning queen of his circle, among the now non-
 
 LORD JEFFREY 239 
 
 reigning ; who soon detected her position, and gave 
 her the triumph of their sometimes half-visible spleen. 
 An airy environment of this kind was, wherever pos- 
 sible, 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 she saw good. They dis- 
 covered mutual old cousinships by the maternal side, 
 soon had common topics enough ; I believe he really 
 entertained a sincere regard and affection for her, in 
 the heart of his theoretic dangling, which latter con- 
 tinued unabated for several years to come, — with not 
 a little quizzing and light interest on her part, and 
 without shadow of offence on mine, or on anybody's ; 
 nay I had my amusements in it too, so naive, humor- 
 ous 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 nobleness 
 would have been mad in me ; — and could I grudge 
 her the little 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 Jcannie, 
 oh my bonny little Jeannie, how did I ever deserve 
 so quccn-like a heart from thee? Ah mc ! — 
 
 ^ " What I miss most in London are the four or five houses into which 
 you can go at all hours, and the seven or eight women with whom you 
 are quite familiar, and with whom you can go and sit and talk at your 
 ease, dressed or undressed, morning or evening, whenever you have any 
 leisure, or indisposition to be busy. Here I have only visiting acquaint- 
 ances, at least among that sex, and that does not suit or satisfy me." — 
 Jeffrey to his Father-in-law, 13th April 1822 {Cockbum, ii. 201).
 
 240 REMINISCENCES 
 
 Jeffrey's acquaintanceship seemed, and was for 
 the time, an immense acquisition to me ; and every- 
 body 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 admitted, and taken in tow, 
 by the world and its actualities. Jeffrey 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 almost daily, in intervals of 
 Court business ; a slow amble, easy to accompany 
 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; and seemed bent on, first of all, 
 converting me from what he called my " German 
 Mysticism," — back merely, as I could perceive, into 
 dead Edinburgh Whiggism, Scepticism, and Material- 
 ism ; what I felt to be a forever impossible enter- 
 prise. 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 
 
 ^ Cmigcrook, as already noted, is about three miles to the north- 
 west of Edinburgh, on the eastern slope of Corstorphine Hill. Jeffrey's 
 summers, from 1815 till his death in 1850, were spent there.
 
 LORD JEFFREY 241 
 
 we went on in brisk logical exercise, with all the 
 rest of the house asleep ; and parted usually in good 
 humour, though after a game which was hardly 
 worth the candle. I found him infinitely witty, in- 
 genious, 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, on 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 important employment 
 to me ; nor had they ever been my least trouble- 
 some undertakings, — plenty of small discrepancy 
 about details as we went along ; though no serious 
 disagreement ever, and his 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 disre- 
 spectful, I doubt there was at times an unembarrass- 
 mcnt and frankness of hitting and repelling, which 
 did not quite beseem our respective ages and posi- 
 tions. He never testified the least offence ; but, 
 possibly enough, remembered it afterwards, being a 
 thin-skinned, sensitive man, with all his pretended 
 pococurantism, and real knowledge of what is called 
 " the world." 1 remember pleasant strolls out to 
 Craigcrook (one of the prettiest places in the world), 
 VOL. II. R
 
 242 REMINISCENCES 
 
 where, on a Sunday especially, I might hope, what 
 was itself a rarity with me, to find a companionable 
 human acquaintance, not to say one of such quality 
 as this. He would wander about the woods with 
 me, looking on the Frith, and Fife Hills, on the 
 Pentlands and Edinburgh Castle and City, — no- 
 where was there such a view ; — perhaps he would 
 walk most of the way back with me ; quietly spark- 
 ling and chatting ; probably quizzing me in a kind 
 way, if his Wife were with us, as sometimes hap- 
 pened. If I met him in the streets, in the Parlia- 
 ment House or accidentally anywhere, there ensued, 
 unless 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 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 Craigcrook, 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 sun- 
 rise is often enough lovelier than noon : much in 
 this first stage was not yet fulfilment, and was 
 enhanced by the colours of hope ; there was the 
 new feeling, too, of what a precious conquest 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 Craigenputtock came
 
 LORD JEFFREY 243 
 
 to be fulfilled : — it seems to me, some six or eight 
 months ? The flitting to Craigenputtock took place 
 in May 1828; we staid a week in Moray Place 
 (Jeffrey's fine new house there) after our furniture 
 was all on the road, and we were waiting till it 
 should arrive, and render a new home possible amid 
 the moors and mountains. Jeffrey promised to 
 follow us thither, with Wife and Daughter, for three 
 days in vacation time ensuing, to see what kind of 
 a thing we were making of it. Which, of course, 
 was great news. Doubtless he, like most of my 
 Edinburgh acquaintances, had been strongly dis- 
 suasive of the step we were taking : but his or other 
 people's arguments availed nothing, and I have for- 
 gotten them ; the step had been well meditated, saw 
 itself to be founded on irrefragable considerations, of 
 health, finance, etc., etc., unknown to bystanders ; 
 and could not be forborne or altered. " I will come 
 and see you at any rate ! " said Jeffrey ; and dis- 
 missed us with various expressions of interest, and 
 no doubt with something of real regret. 
 
 Of our History at Craigenputtock 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 settle- 
 ment of Robinson Crusoe in his desert Isle, sur- 
 rounded mostly by the wild populations, not wholly 
 helpful or even harmless ; and requiring, for its 
 equipment into habitability and convenience, infinite 
 contrivance, patient adjustment, and natural ingenuity 
 in the head of Robinson himself. It is a History 
 I by no means intend to write, — with such or with
 
 244 REMINISCENCES 
 
 any object. To me there is a sacredness of interest 
 in it ; consistent only with silence. 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. Poverty and mean Ob- 
 struction had given origin to it, and continued to 
 preside over it ; but were transformed, by human 
 valour of various sorts, into a kind of victory and 
 royalty : something of high and great dwelt in it, 
 though nothing could be smaller and lower than 
 very 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 epie, that seven ^ 
 years' settlement at Craigenputtock ; very poor in 
 this world's goods, but not without an intrinsic 
 dignity greater and more important than then ap- 
 peared. Thanks very mainly to Her, and her facul- 
 ties and magnanimities ; without whom it had not 
 been possible ! I incline to think it the ^oox-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 favourable. And we were driven 
 and pushed into it, as if by Necessity, and its bene- 
 ficent though ugly little shocks and pushes, shock 
 after shock gradually compelling us thither ! ' For 
 a Divinity doth shape our ends, rough-hew them 
 
 ^ Six years ; May 1828 till May 1834.
 
 LORD JEFFREY 245 
 
 how we will :' often in my life, have I been brought 
 to think of this, as probably every considering person 
 is ; and, looking 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 trembling faith, and can 
 at least say with the Voices, " Wir hcissen eiich 
 hojfcn" — if it be the will of the Highest. 
 
 The Jeffreys failed not to appear at Craigcnput- 
 tock ; their big Carriage climbed our rugged Hill- 
 roads, landed the Three Guests (young Charlotte, 
 " Sharlie," with Pa and Ma) and the clever old 
 Valet-maid that waited on them ; stood three days 
 under its glazed sheeting in our little back-court, — 
 nothing like a house yet ready for it, and indeed all 
 the outhouses and appurtenances still in a much 
 unfinished state ; and only the main House quite 
 ready and habitable. 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 Shilling-land and Craigenvey ; and took 
 a view of Loch-Orr and the black moorlands round 
 us, with the granite mountains of Galloway over- 
 hanging in the distance ; not a beautiful landscape, 
 Ijut it answered as well as another. Our party, the 
 head of it especially, 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.
 
 246 REMINISCENCES 
 
 without fuss or bustle, to cover everythins^ [with a] 
 coat of hospitality and even elegance 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 opu- 
 lent plenty by a mother that could bear no part- 
 nership in house -keeping, she, finding it become 
 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 ! Twirl 
 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 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 back yard, — to 
 which bit of pathos Jeffrey answered by a friendly 
 little sniff of quasi-mockcry, 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 inter- 
 vening year) ; and passed a night with them in the 
 King's Arms Inn there, which I well enough recol- 
 lect: huge ill-kept "Head-Inn ;" bed opulent in bugs ; 
 waiter, a monstrous baggy unwieldy old figure, hebe- 
 tated, dreary, as if parboiled ; upon whom Jeffrey
 
 LORD JEFFREY 247 
 
 quizzed his Daughter at breakfast, " Comes all of 
 eating eggs, Sharlie ; poor man as good as owned it 
 to me !" — After breakfast, 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 accord- 
 ingly there had been some embarrassment, I after- 
 wards 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. Empson . . .) ; 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 
 
 ' Miss Wilkes (daughter of Mr. Charles Wilkes, Ixmker in New 
 York, who was nephew, not brother, of the famous John) had, in 1810, 
 ]:)aid a visit to some friends in Edinburgh, where Jeffrey became 
 acquainted with her. They were married in New York in 181 3, and 
 returned to Scotland early in 1814. The "War of 1812" was then 
 being carried on between England and America. Before leaving the 
 United Stales, Jeffrey had to apply for a cartel for his return home, 
 when he was drawn into conversation with the Secretaiy of State, Mr. 
 Monroe, as to the war, its provocations, principles and probable re- 
 sults. Afterwards, the same day, he dined with the President, Mr. 
 Madison, when the same topics were discussed for nearly two hours (see 
 Coclchirn, i. 227-229). Jeffrey's reports of these conversations could not 
 fail to produce some effect in England at the time. 
 I" In 1805, in the fourth year of her married life.
 
 REMINISCENCES 
 
 the Trent' some years ago ; and almost involved us 
 in war with Yankeeland, during that beautiful Nigger 
 Agony or " Civil War " of theirs ! She was a round- 
 ish-featured, not pretty but comely, sincere and 
 hearty kind of woman, with a great deal of clear 
 natural insight, often sarcastically turned ; to which 
 a certain nervous tic or jerk of the head gave new 
 emphasis or singularity ; for her talk went roving 
 about in a loose random way, and hit down, like a 
 flail, unexpectedly on this and that, with the jerk for 
 accompaniment, in a really genial fashion. She and 
 I were mutual favourites ; she liked my sincerity, as 
 I hers. . . . 
 
 The "Old -Love" business finished, our friends 
 soon rolled away ; and left us to go home at leisure, 
 — in our good old Gig (value ;^ii), 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 pleasant mile till Craigen- 
 puttock 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 candour, not with enthusiasm, during that short 
 "Old -Love" absence. Next year^ (it must have 
 been) they all came again to Craigenputtock ; and 
 with more success than ever. 
 
 One of the nights, there, on this occasion, en- 
 couraged possibly by the presence of poor James 
 Anderson, an ingenuous simple youngish man, and 
 our nearest gentleniaji neighbour, — Jeffrey, in the 
 Drawing-room, was cleverer, brighter and more 
 
 ^ September 1830.
 
 LORD JEFFREY 24g 
 
 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 perfection 
 of imitation as I never saw equalled, and had not 
 given him credit for before. Our cosy little Drawing- 
 room, bright-shining, hidden in the lonely wilder- 
 nesses, how beautiful it looked to us ; become 
 suddenly, as it were, a Temple of the Muses ! The 
 little man strutted about, full of electric fire, with 
 attitudes, with gesticulations, still more with winged 
 words, oftener dro/^en- winged, amid our admiring 
 laughter ; gave us the windy-grandiloquent specimen, 
 the ponderous -stupid, the airy -ditto, various speci- 
 mens, as the talk, chiefly his own, spontaneously 
 suggested them, of which there was a little prepara- 
 tory interstice between each two ; and the mimicry 
 was so complete, you would have said, not his mind 
 only, but his very body became the specimen's, his 
 face filled with the expression represented, and his 
 little figure seeming to grow gigantic if the person- 
 age 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 boulders ; and ended in total 
 downbrcak, 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 nothingness and dumbness, was 
 one of the most ticklincr and gcnialh' ludicrous
 
 2 50 REMINISCENCES 
 
 thino^s I ever saw ; and it prettily winded up our 
 little drama.^ I often thouj^ht of it afterwards ; and 
 of what a part mimicry 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 Shakspeare 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 HazHtt ; to the effect, and almost 
 in the words, " Dear Sir, I am dying : can you send 
 me ;^io, and so consummate your many kindnesses 
 to me ? W. Hazlitt." This was for Jeffrey ; my 
 Brother's Letter to me, enclosing this, would of 
 course elucidate the situation. Jeffrey with true 
 
 ^ " It may appear an odd thing to say, but it is true, that the listen- 
 er's pleasure was enhanced by the personal littleness of the speaker. A 
 large man could scarcely have thrown off Jeffrey's conversational flowers 
 without exposing himself to ridicule. But the liveliness of the deep 
 thoughts, and the flow of the bright expressions, that animated his talk, 
 seemed so natural and appropriate to the figure that uttered them, 
 that they were heard with something of the delight with which the 
 slenderness of the trembling throat, and the quivering of the wings, 
 make us enjoy the strength and clearness of the notes of a little bird." — 
 Cockhurn, i. 364.
 
 LORD JEFFREY 251 
 
 sympathy, at once wrote a cheque for ^^50 ;^ and 
 poor Hazh'tt died, in peace from duns at least. He 
 seemed to have no old friends about him ; to be 
 left, in his poor Lodging, to the humanity of medical 
 people, and transient recent acquaintances ; and to 
 be dying in a grim stoical humour, 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 
 Napoleou'^ which at least recorded his own loyal 
 admiration 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 pills, 
 which irrecoverably wasted his last remnants of 
 strength, and brought him to his end in this sad 
 way. Poor Hazlitt, he was never admirable to me ; 
 but I had my estimation of him, my pity for him ; — 
 a man recognisably of fine natural talents and 
 aspirations, but of no sound culture whatever, and 
 flung into the roaring cauldron of stupid prurient 
 anarchic London, there to try if he could find some 
 culture for himself! 
 
 1 Cfirlyle has mentioned this before (see supra, i. 85). The sum 
 requested was ;({^ioo, and Jeffrey's ;^50 never reached HazHtt. In a 
 letter, dated i8th September 1830, to his brother John, in London, 
 Carlyle says: "He [Jeffrey] has got a letter from Ilazhtt, strangely 
 requesting ^loo from him, and determines to consult you on the sub- 
 ject, and in the meantime to send ;^5o through your hands." Dr. 
 Carlyle's reply to this letter, dated 25th October 1S30, says that Jeffrey's 
 kind gift did not arrive until after Jlazlilt's death, which occurred on 
 the 1 8th Septcml)er 1830. 
 
 - Hazlitt's Life of Napoleon (4 vols. London, 1S27).
 
 252 REAflNISCENCES 
 
 This was Jeffrey's last visit to Craigenputtock ; 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 incommoded in health, — had bad 
 sleep, cared not how late he sat ; 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 incompatibility 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 oftencr. Besides, 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 exist- 
 ence, 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 insight, 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. On all subjects, I had 
 to refuse him the title of deep ; and secretly to 
 acquiesce in much that the new Opposition Party 
 (Wilson, Lockhart, etc., who had broken out so out- 
 rageously in Blackwood for the last ten years) were 
 alleging against the old excessive Edinburgh 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
 
 LORD JEFFREY 253 
 
 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 
 no-thing, — 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 
 cannot 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 sit- 
 tings," 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 
 " Edinburgh 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 Craigenputtock, after nightfall 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 
 
 ^ " The authority of our own opinion," Jeffrey says in 1790, "though 
 perhaps the least dangerous of any, still participates in those incon- 
 veniences which all species of authority create, and while a man's 
 powers are unimpaired, it were a lucky thing if he could every day for- 
 get the sentiments of the former, that they might receive the correction 
 or confirmation of a second judgment." — Cocklntrn, i. 25. 
 
 " Now in the possession of Lord Jeffrey's daughter, Mrs. Empson ;
 
 254 REMINISCENCES 
 
 indeed neither Hers nor mine were ever of much 
 importance except for the passing moment. I ought 
 to add that Jeffrey, about this time (next summer, I 
 should think) generously offered to confer on me an 
 annuity of i^ioo ; — 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 [declined] from Jeffrey : " Re- 
 publican Equality the silently fixed law of human 
 society at present ; each man to live on his own re- 
 sources, and have an Equality of economies with 
 every other man ; dangerous, 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 alto- 
 gether. It was not mere pride of mine that frus- 
 trated this generous resolution ; but sober calculation 
 as well, and correct weighing of the results probable 
 in so dangerous a copartnery as that proposed. In 
 no condition well conceivable to me could such a 
 proposal have been accepted ; and though I could 
 not doubt but Jeffrey had intended an act of real 
 generosity, for which I was and am grateful, perhaps 
 there was something in the manner of it that savoured 
 
 having been given to her at her request, shortly after the publication 
 o{ these jReminiscences, in iS8i.
 
 LORD JEFFREY 255 
 
 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 determination 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 case I should 
 accept it, totally insensible to him : I therefore 
 endeavoured all the more to be thankful ; and if the 
 heart would not quite do (as was perhaps the case), 
 forced the intellect to take part, which it does at 
 this day. Jeffrey's beneficence was undoubted ; and 
 his gifts to poor people in distress were a known 
 feature of his way of life. I once, some months 
 after this, borrowed iJ^ioo from him (my pitiful bits 
 of " Periodical -Literature " incomings having gone 
 awry, as they were too liable to do), but was able, I 
 still remember with what satisfaction, to repay 
 punctually within a few weeks : — and this was all of 
 pecuniary chivalry we two ever had between 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 dread- 
 fully in earnest " ! And now the time of the Reform 
 Bill was coming on ; Jeffrey and all high Whigs 
 getting summoned into an Official 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 honours : that was the fatal cir- 
 cumstance, which rendered all the others irredeem- 
 able. He was not what you could call ambitious,
 
 2 56 REMINISCENCES 
 
 rather the reverse of that ; though he reHshed public 
 honours, 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 anything of this Reform agitation ; 
 and my surprise at the real delight he showed in this 
 proof of general regard from his fellow Advocates. 
 But now, ambitious 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 remem- 
 
 1 Elected Dean of the Faculty of Advocates, 2d July 1S29. — Cock- 
 burn, i. 283. 
 
 2 In December 1830. — "There is no situation native to Scotland of 
 greater trust or dignity than that of Lord-Advocate. ... In so far as 
 each is the legal adviser of the crown in their respective countries, the 
 Lord-Advocate is in Scotland something like the Attorney-General in 
 England. But, practically, their positions are veiy different. The 
 total official emoluments of the Lord-Advocate are, on an average, not 
 above ;^3000 a-year ; in addition to which, his only other reward, or 
 hope of reward, consists in the chance of judicial promotion. His 
 direct patronage is exceedingly slender, and for the patron, patronage 
 is more of a torture than of a reward. For these considerations he has 
 to obtain a seat, or seats, in Parliament ; which, between December 
 1830 and May 1832, cost Jeffrey about ;^io,ooo. Then he has to go 
 to London, and to return so often, or to remain so long, that his prac- 
 tice is greatly injured and generally extinguished . . . if an eminent 
 lawyer, without parliamentary ambition, and with no taste for sweltering 
 in London, but making a respectable income, and living at home in 
 peace, wishes to be sleepless all night, and hot all day, and not half 
 so useful as he might be, let him become Lord- Advocate." — Cockbuni, 
 i- 307, 309-
 
 LORD JEFFREY 257 
 
 ber, in his correspondence, considerable misgivings, 
 and gloomy forecastings, about all this, which, in my 
 inexperience, and the general exultation then pre- 
 valent, I had treated with far less regard than they 
 merited. He found them too true ; and, what I as 
 bystander could not quite see till long after, that 
 his worst expectations were realised. 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 him, — rendered his life com- 
 pletely miserable ; and gradually broke down his 
 health altogether. He had some momentary glows 
 of exultation, — and dashed off triumphant bits of 
 Letters to my Wife, which I remember we both of 
 us thought somewhat juvenile and idyllic (especially 
 one written in the House of Commons Library, just 
 after his 'Great Speech,'^ and "with the cheers of 
 that House still ringing 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 feel- 
 ing 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 hurlyburly, compar- 
 able in certain features to a huge Sorcerers' Sabbath 
 prosperously 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 spec- 
 tators in the shilling gallery or the two-shilling ! — 
 
 ' Speech on tlie Reform Dill, delivered March 1831. See infra, 
 p. 261 n. 
 
 VOL. II. S
 
 2 58 REMINISCENCES 
 
 About the middle of August [i 83 i], 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 cheer- 
 ful. He lived in Jermyn Street, Wife and Daughter 
 with him; in lodgings at £\\ a week, in melan- 
 choly 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 ante-room, or waiting-room, into 
 which I was once or twice shown if important com- 
 pany were upstairs. The Secretary never spoke ; 
 hardly even answered when spoken to, except 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 Advocate'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 liini 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, 
 
 •^ Letters for Carlyle addressed to Jeffrey's care, — Letters to Members 
 of Parliament being conveyed free of cost in those days.
 
 LORD JEFFREY 259 
 
 after tearing open several Packets, not one of which 
 was internally for himself. 
 
 Later in the day you were apt to find certain 
 Scotch people dangling about, on business or other- 
 wise, — Rutherfurd the advocate ^ 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 recognised more 
 than I did, how to me he strove always to be cheer- 
 ful and obliging, though himself so heavy-laden and 
 internally wretched. One day he did my Brother 
 John, for my 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's Circus), under way into his new Roman 
 locality, and what proved his new career.^ My Dar- 
 ling 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 Macaulay's 
 swaggering Articles in the Edinburgh Review, and 
 
 ^ Afterwards The Right Hon. Andrew Rulherfurd, Jeffrey's successor 
 as Lord-Advocate. 
 
 - See supra, p. 201 ;/.
 
 26o REMINISCENCES 
 
 an insolent response to it in Blackivood : "horse- 
 whipped by a Duke," Macaulay had said, of his 
 victim, in the Article ; — " Duke, quotha," answered 
 Blackwood ; " such a set of Dukes ! " — and hinted 
 that " Duke Macaulay " and " the Duke of Craig- 
 crook " 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 recal 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 tremu- 
 lous and fitful, though eternal star of hope, lie 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 Judgvient-Bar of 
 the Almighty following it, may well be terrible to 
 the bravest ; Death, with nothing of that kind follow- 
 ing it, — one readily enough finds cases where that 
 is insignificant to very mean and silly creatures. 
 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 
 
 ^ See stipra, i. 51 //.
 
 LORD JEFFREY 261 
 
 superstitiously now, but only understand it and the 
 superstition) : it is visible in Friedrich 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 no\v 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 (" 4 Ampton Street, Gray's Inn Lane;" a 
 place I will go to see if 1 return !), Jeffrey's appear- 
 ances were more frequent and satisfactory : very 
 often in the afternoon he came to call, for her sake 
 mainly I believe, though mostly I was there too ; — 
 I perceive now, his little visits to that unfashionable 
 place were probably the golden item of his bad and 
 troublous day; poor Official man begirt with empty 
 botherations ! I heard gradually that he was not 
 reckoned " successful " in Public Life ; that as Lord 
 Advocate, the Scotch with their multifarious businesses 
 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, unadaptcd to the place,^ — and, what was itself 
 very mortifying, that the Reporters had complained 
 of his " Scotch accent " to excuse themselves for 
 
 ^ See stipi-a, p. 257 71. — " It is certainly general, and too much 
 above the common grapple of parliamentary contention ; but out of the 
 whole speeches that were delivered throughout the two years that the 
 question was discussed, no better argument in favour of the principle 
 and necessity of the measure, on its general grounds, is extractable. 
 Still, as a debating speech, it fell below the expectations both of his 
 friends and of himself. " — Cocklmrn, i. 314.
 
 262 REMINISCENCES 
 
 various omissions they had made ! His accent was 
 indeed singular, but it was by no means Scotch : 
 at his first going to Oxford (where he did not stay 
 long),^ he had peremptorily crushed down his Scotch 
 (which he privately had in store, in excellent con- 
 dition, to the very end of his life, producible with 
 highly ludicrous effect on occasion), and adopted 
 instead a strange swift, sharp-sounding, fitful modu- 
 lation, part of it pungent, quasi-latrant, other parts 
 of it cooing, bantery, lovingly quizzical ; which no 
 charm of his fine ringing voice {metallic tenor, of 
 sweet tone), and of his vivacious rapid looks and 
 pretty little attitudes and gestures, could altogether 
 reconcile you to ; but in which he persisted through 
 good report and bad. Old Braxie (Macqueen, ' Lord 
 Braxficid,' 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 reading of the fact, his vowels and 
 syllables being elaborately English (or English and 
 more, e.g. " heppy," " My Lud," etc. etc.), while the 
 tjuie 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 
 azimuths) ; but I have more than once led him back 
 
 ^ Nine months.
 
 LORD JEFFREY 263 
 
 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 Ministerial 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 blufT candour); more 
 sparingly, what the aspects and likelihoods were : in 
 which my too Radical humour but little sympathised. 
 He was often unwell ; hidden for a week at Wimble- 
 don 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 recollect, ah 
 me ! . . . 
 
 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 explanation, 
 I think, partly was, That I myself expressed no 
 trace of aspiration that way ; that his grand literary 
 or other figures were clearly by no means so ador- 
 able to the rustic, hopelessly Germanised soul, as an 
 introducer of me might have wished ; — and chiefly 
 that in fact Jeffrey did not consort with literary or 
 
 other grand people, but only with s and bores 
 
 in this bad time ; that it was practically the very 
 worst of times for him, and that he was himself so 
 heartily miserable as to think me and his other 
 fellow-creatures happy in comparison, and to have no 
 care left to bestow on us. I never doubted his real
 
 264 REMINISCENCES 
 
 wish to help me, should an opportunity ofifer ; and 
 while it did not, we had no want of him, but plenty 
 of Society, of resources, outlooks, and interests other- 
 wise. Truly one might have pitied him, in this his 
 influx of unexpected Dignities, — as I hope I, in 
 silence, loyally, sometimes did. So beautiful and 
 radiant 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 himself to a 
 sedan-chair, and on whom the mischievous chairmen, 
 giving 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-chair !" said the Irish gentle- 
 man, 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 beauti- 
 ful SJie was to me !), I wrote it, by her side for most 
 part ; pushing my way through the mud elements, 
 with a certain glow of victory now and then. This 
 finished, this and other little objects and arrange- 
 ments (Jeffrey much in abeyance, to judge by my 
 memory now so blank), we made our adieus (Irving, 
 Badams, Mill, Leigh Hunt, who was a iiezv acquaint- 
 ance, but an interesting), and, by Birmingham, Liver- 
 pool, Scotsbrig, with incidents all fresh in mind to 
 me just now, arrived safely home, well pleased with 
 our London sojourn, and feeling our poor life to a 
 certain degree made richer by it. Ah me, so strange, 
 so sad, the days that are no more ! 
 
 ^ Adapting and arranging.
 
 LORD JEFFREY 265 
 
 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 then 
 of an idle hour, in intervals of worry. My time, with 
 little Goethe papers and excerptings {Das MdhrcJien 
 etc.), printing of Sartor piecemeal in Fraser, and 
 London correspondings, went more prosperously than 
 heretofore ; — had there been good servants procurable, 
 as there were not, one might almost have called it a 
 happy time, this at Craigenputtock, 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 something so unlucky that it proved to be, 
 essentially, death instead ! The case was this : We 
 heard copiously, in the Newspapers, that the Edin- 
 burgh people, in a meritorious scientific spirit, were 
 about remodelling their old Astronomical Observa- 
 tory ; 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 scientifi- 
 cally useful and notable. I had hardly ever looked 
 through a telescope, 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 were 
 eagerly desirous of some humblest anchorage, in the 
 finance way, among our fellow-creatures ; — my heart's
 
 266 REMINISCENCES 
 
 desire, for many years past and coming, was always, 
 To find any honest employment by which one might 
 regularly gain one's daily bread ! Often, long after 
 this (while hopelessly writing the FrencJi Revolution, 
 for example, hopelessly of money or 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 engineering 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 Astronomical employment ; fancied my- 
 self in the silent midnight interrogating the eternal 
 Stars etc., with something of real geniality, — in addi- 
 tion to financial considerations ; — and, after a few 
 days, in the light friendly tone, with modesty and 
 brevity, applied to my Lord Advocate for his coun- 
 tenance as the first or preliminary step of procedure. 
 Or perhaps it was virtually in his own appointment? 
 Or perhaps 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 answer was prompt and 
 surprising ! Almost or c^uite 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
 
 LORD JEFFREY 267 
 
 soon found, for his old Jermyn Street secretary (my 
 taciturn friend, with the blear eyes) ; and it was in- 
 deed a plain inconvenience that the like of me should 
 apply for it, but not a crime or an insolence by any 
 means. " The like of me ?" thought I ; and my pro- 
 vocation 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 own 
 for wishing a provisionary settlement 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 ; thank- 
 ing briefly for at least the swift dispatch ; affirming 
 the maxim, bis dat qui cito dat even in case of re- 
 fusal ; and good-humouredly enough leaving the 
 matter to rest on its own basis. Jeffrey returned to 
 it, evidently somewhat in repentant mood (for his 
 tone had really been splenetic, sputtery and improper, 
 poor worried man) ; but I took no notice : and only 
 marked, for my own private behoof, what exiguous 
 resource of practical help for me lay in that quarter, 
 and how, there as elsewhere, the economically useful 
 would always override the sentimental and orna- 
 mental. I had internally no kind of anger against 
 my 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 re- 
 spect ; perhaps only a clearer view how little respect
 
 268 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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 subsequently I 
 exchanged one or two little Notes of business with 
 Jeffrey ; 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 eftusive 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 But our own struggle with 
 the world was now become stern and grim ; not fitly 
 to be interrupted by these theoretic flourishes of 
 epistolary trumpeting ; — and (towards the finale of 
 French Revolution, if I recollect) my Dearest also 
 gave him up, and nearly altogether ceased corre- 
 sponding. 
 
 What a finger of Providence, once more, was 
 this of the Edinburgh Observatory ; to which, had 
 Jeffrey assented, I should certainly 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 furtherance asked 
 or given ; and indeed, on other occasions, seemed to 
 recollect the Astronomical catastrophe, in a way 
 which touched me, and was of generous origin or 
 indication. He was quitting his Lord Advocateship, 
 and returning home to old courses and habits ; a 
 solidly wise resolution. He always assiduously 
 called on us, in his subsequent visits to London ; 
 and We had our kind thoughts, our pleasant reminis-
 
 LORD JEFFREY 269 
 
 cences, and loyal pities of the once brilliant man 
 and friend : but he was now practically become 
 little 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, 
 perhaps 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 advancing, 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 Truim 
 in Inverness-shire, and my Ashburton visit there (in 
 1849): he was then, at least for the time, with- 
 drawn from Judging, and was reported very weak 
 in health ; his Wife and he, sauntering together 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 
 together ; but there was no longer stay possible, 
 such the evident distress and embarrassment Craig- 
 crook was in : I had got breakfast, on very kind 
 terms, from Mrs. Empson with Husband and three 
 or four children . . . ; Jeffrey himself, on coming 
 down was very kind to me, but sadly weak ; much 
 worn away in body, and in mind more thin and 
 sensitive than ever. He talked a good deal,
 
 270 REMINISCENCES 
 
 distantly alluding once to our changed courses, 
 in a friendly (not a very dextrous way) ; was 
 throughout friendly, good, but tremulous, thin, al- 
 most affecting, in contrast with old times. Grown 
 Litnar now, not Solar any more ! He took me, 
 baggage 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 accidentally learned from some Newspaper or 
 miscellaneous fellow-passenger, as the news of the 
 morning, That Lord Jeffrey at Edinburgh was dead.^ 
 Dull and heavy, somewhere in the Basingstoke 
 localities, the tidings fell on me, — awakening frozen 
 memories not a few. He had died, I afterwards 
 heard, with great constancy and firmness ; lifted 
 his finger, as if in cheerful encouragement, amid the 
 lamenting 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 months 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,^ — ' correcting 
 proof sheets of the Edinbiwgh Review^ 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 
 
 ^ Jeffrey died at Craigcrook, 26th January 1S50; JMrs. Jeffrey died 
 at Haileybury, i8th May following. 
 
 - Professor William Empson died at Haileybury, loth December 
 1852, aged 62.
 
 LORD JEFFREY 271 
 
 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 reputa- 
 tion about 1 8 1 6 ; his Edbiburgh Review a kind of 
 Delphic Oracle, and Voice of the Inspired, for great 
 majorities of what is called the "Intelligent Public"; 
 and himself regarded universally as a man of con- 
 summate penetration, and the facile princcps in the 
 department he had chosen to cultivate and practise. 
 In the half-century that has followed, what a change 
 in all this : the fine gold become dim to such a 
 degree ; 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 
 Heaven and Earth by appeal to Molicrcs Maid ; 
 " Do jw/ like it ? Doiit you like it ?" — a style which 
 in hands more and more inferior to that sound- 
 hearted old lady and him, has since grown gradually 
 to such immeasurable lengths among us ; — and 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 mis- 
 chievous precocious babes and sucklings, you will 
 arrive at singular judgments by degrees ! — Jeffrey 
 was by no means the Supreme in Criticism or in 
 anything else ; but it is certain there has no Critic 
 appeared among us since who was worth naming 
 beside him ; — and his influence, 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
 
 REMINISCENCES 
 
 suffering, darkly sinning " Demos," come to call its 
 old superiors to account, at its maddest of tribunals : 
 nothing in my time has so forwarded all this as 
 Jeffrey and his once famous EdinhiwgJi 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 in 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 Review 
 (at the dull opening of our now so tumultuous 
 Century), — and become Coryphmis of his generation 
 in the waste, wide-spreading and incalculable course 
 appointed // 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 anecdotes of old Scotch Brax- 
 fields, 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 humour, of real comic 
 mirth, much beyond what was noticeable in him 
 otherwise ; not to speak of the perfection of the 
 mimicry, 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 beautiful Comedies, and aerial pictures, 
 true and poetic, of Human Life in a far other way !"
 
 LORD JEFFREY 273 
 
 — There was something of Voltaire in him ; some- 
 thing even in bodily features : those bright-beaming, 
 swift and piercing hazel -eyes, with their accom- 
 paniment of rapid keen expressions 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 majestueiise,'^ 
 Duvernet calls it. The culture, and respective natal 
 scenes, 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 be more than a potential Voltaire ; 
 say " Scotch Voltaire " ; with about as much reason 
 (which was not very much) as they used in Edin- 
 burgh to call old Playfair the " Scotch D'Alembert." 
 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. 
 
 [^Finishcd dl Mentone, this Saturday, 19 January 
 1867; day bright as June (while all from London 
 to Avignon seems to be choked under snow and 
 frost), other conditions, especially the internal, not 
 good, but baddish or bad !] 
 
 The following extracts from Carlyle's Journal 
 VOL. II. T
 
 274 REMINISCENCES 
 
 show under what conditions the Reminiscences of 
 Irving and of Jeffrey were written : 
 
 " Mentone, on the Riviera, 20tJi January 1867. — 
 ... I have finished the Edtuaj'd Irving ' Reminis- 
 cences '; and, yesterday, a short Paper on Jeffrey 
 ditto ; — both of them now lie labelled in bottom 
 drawer of the big Looking-glass Press of my bedroom. 
 It was /icr connexion with them that chiefly impelled 
 me ; both are superficially, ill and poorly done, 
 especially the latter : but there is something of value 
 for oneself in reawakening the Sleep of the Past, and 
 bringing old years carefully to survey again by our 
 new eyes ; a certain solemn tenderness, too, in these 
 two cases, dwells in it for me ; — and, in fine, doing 
 anything not wicked is better than doing nothing. 
 I must carefully endeavour to find out some new 
 work for myself ; — but as yet am quite at a loss. 
 Unless the forepart of my day is passed in writing, 
 I feel too discontented with it, as if it had been idle 
 altogether. What sJiall I take to ? Perhaps better, 
 with this Jiead and liver to go into the open air, and 
 consider ! 
 
 " 2 1st January. — . . . This morning I feel dread- 
 fully in want of some Task again ; and cannot find 
 one. . . . Some minutes past noon ; Day rapidly 
 going whether it have a ' task ' or none ! 
 
 '^ 2d)th Jaiiuary. — Whole week spent in writing 
 letters, mostly bad, factitious, hitting wide, and all 
 invohmtary, which indeed is perhaps the JatJier of 
 all their ill qualities ! . . . Task being undiscoverable, 
 am about beginning (Paper laid out, all ready) a 
 Quasi -Task, Reminiscences of Sundry Notable or 
 Noted Persons"
 
 REMINISCENCES OF SUNDRY 
 
 [Begun at Mentone (Alpes Maritimes), Monday, 
 28th January 1867.] 
 
 Many Literary, and one or two Political or other- 
 wise 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 transient remembrance, loud as the 
 talk about them once may have been ; and certainly 
 none of them, what is more to the purpose here, 
 ever vitally interesting or consummately admirable 
 to myself : so that if I do, for want of something 
 else to occupy me better, mark down something of 
 what 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 candour, 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.
 
 276 REMINISCENCES 
 
 [SOU THEY] 
 
 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 politically 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 ab- 
 horrence, and called him not only Tory, but " Rene- 
 gade," 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 Letter to W. Smith, M.P. of Norwich, a 
 small Socinian personage, conscious of meaning 
 grandly and well, who had been denouncing him as 
 " renegade " (probably contrasting the once Wat 
 Tyler with the now Laiweateship) in the House of 
 Commons ; a second back-stroke, which, in the irri- 
 tating circumstances of the Wat itself (republished 
 by some sharking Bookseller) had driven Southey 
 to his fighting gear, or polemical pen. The Pam- 
 phlet itself we did not see, except in Review quota- 
 tions, which were naturally the shrillest and weakest 
 discoverable, — with citations from Wat Tyler to 
 accompany : — but the slash Reviewer understood 
 his trade ; and I can remember how we all cackled 
 and triumphed over Southey along with him, as
 
 SOUTHEY 277 
 
 over a slashed and well slain foe to us and to man- 
 kind : for we were 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, con- 
 sidered 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 further 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 invoked 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 recognised 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 valour 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 Quarterly, which were the most 
 accessible productions. In spite of my Radicalism, 
 I found very much in these Toryisms, which was 
 greatly according to my heart ; things rare and
 
 278 REMINISCENCES 
 
 worthy, at once pious and true, which were always 
 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 there. 
 In this manner our innocently pleasant relation, as 
 writer and written-for, had gone on, without serious 
 shock, though, after Kehajna, not with much growth 
 in quality or quantity, for perhaps ten years. 
 
 It was probably in 1836 or 7,^ 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, constant 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 him- 
 self, a solid, sound-headed, faithful, but not a well- 
 read or wide-minded man, though of marked veracity, 
 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, and considered 
 that, in Wordsworth and the rest of them, was em- 
 bodied all of pious wisdom that our Age had, and 
 could not doubt but the sight of Southey would be 
 welcome to me. I readily consented 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 miscel- 
 1 It was in 1835. See injra, p. 283 n.
 
 SOUTHEY 279 
 
 laneously about, in bachelor's lodgings, or sometimes 
 for a month or two during " the season " [in the 
 house of his relative. Miss Fenwick] where he 
 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 character 
 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 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 wJiile seated ; features finely 
 cut ; eyes, brow, mouth, good in their kind ; ex- 
 pressive all, and even vehemently so, but betokening 
 rather keenness than depth either of intellect 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 legible 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 electioneering 
 then afoot ?) — on my mentioning the Candidate at 
 Bristol, with his " I say ditto to Mr. Burke !" Southey 
 eagerly added, " Hah, I myself heard that " (had been 
 a boy listening when that was said) ! His contempt 
 
 ^ Southey (born 1774) was sixty-one in 1835.
 
 28o REMINISCENCES 
 
 for the existing set of Parliaments was great and 
 fixed ; especially for what produced it, the present 
 electoral temper ; — though in the future too, except 
 through Parliaments and elections, 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 exhibit- 
 ing no trace of genius. Partly in response, or rather 
 as sole articulate response, I asked who had made 
 those verses ? Southey answered carelessly, " Praed 
 they say, Praed, I suppose." My notion was, he was 
 merely putting me off, and that the verses were his 
 own, though he disliked confessing to them. A year 
 or two ago, looking into some revieiv of a Reprint of 
 Praed's Works, I came upon the verses again, among 
 other excerpts of a similar genus ; and 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 
 now spoke and wrote without scruple against the 
 late illustrious Reform Bill, and sovereign Reform 
 Doctrine in general, great things were expected of 
 him by his Party, now sitting cowed into silence ; 
 and his name was very current in the Newspapers 
 for a few months ; till suddenly (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 Reprint, and Biographical Sketch, by some 
 
 ^ W. M. Praed, born 1S02, died 1839. His Works were published 
 in 1864.
 
 sou THEY 281 
 
 pious and regretful old friend of his. That Southey 
 had some of Pracd's verses by heart (verses about 
 Hon. Mr. This moving, say, to abolish Death and 
 the Devil ; Hon. Mr. B., to change, for improve- 
 ment's sake, the Obliquity of the Ecliptic, etc. etc.) 
 is perhaps a kind of honour to poor Praed, — whose 
 inexorable fate, cutting short his " career of am- 
 bition " 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 enter- 
 taining. Nothing had happened throughout that was 
 other than moderately pleasant ; and I returned home 
 (I conclude) well enough content with my evening. 
 Southey's sensitiveness I had noticed on this first 
 occasion as one of his characteristic qualities ; but 
 was nothing like aware of the extent of it till our 
 next meeting. 
 
 This was a few evenings afterwards ; Taylor 
 giving some dinner, or party, party in honour of his 
 guest ; — if dinner I was not at that, but must have 
 undertaken for the evening sequel, as less incom- 
 modious to me, less unwholesome more especially. 
 I remember entering, in the same house, but up- 
 stairs this time, a pleasant little drawing-room, in
 
 REMINISCENCES 
 
 which, in well-lighted, serene enough condition, sat 
 Southey in full dress, silently reclining ; 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 with more 
 than I really felt, " Do you know De Ouincey ?" 
 (the Opimn-cater, whom I knew to have lived in 
 Cumberland as his neighbour). " Yes, sir," answered 
 Southey, with extraordinary animation ; " and if you 
 have opportunity, I'll thank you to tell him he is 
 one of the greatest scoundrels living !" I laughed 
 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 looked at it, 
 was become of slate-colour, the eyes glancing, the 
 attitude rigid ; the figure altogether a picture of 
 Rhadamanthine rage, — that is, rage conscious 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 on 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 Ouincey was then, 
 and for some time past, writing in [Taifs] Magazine 
 something of Autobiographic nature, a series of 
 Papers on the Lake period of his life, — merely for 
 sake of the highly needful trifle of money, poor soul, 
 and with no wish to be untrue (I could believe) or 
 to hurt anybody, though not without his own bits of 
 splenetic convictions also ; — to which latter, in regard
 
 SOUTH EY 283 
 
 of Coleridge in particular, he had given more rein 
 than was agreeable to parties concerned. I believe 
 I had myself read the Paper on Coleridge ; one 
 Paper on him I certainly had ; and had been the 
 reverse of tempted by it to look after the others ; 
 finding in 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 
 applying it ; which seemed to me a miserable con- 
 tradiction 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 rumour, I had paid 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 poignancy. Or perhaps there 
 had been other more criminal Papers which Southey 
 knew of, and not I ? In few minutes he let the 
 topic drop, I helping what I could ;^ and seemed to 
 
 ^ There is a slight mistake here as to the occasion of this conversa- 
 tion with Southey. Carlyle writes: "Went last night (in bad wet 
 weather) to Taylor's to meet Southey ; who received me kindly. A 
 lean gray-white-headed man, of dusky complexion ; unexpectedly tall 
 when he rises, and still leaner then. The shallowest chin ; prominent 
 snubbed-Roman nose ; small care-lined brow, huge brush of white-gray 
 hair, on high crown, and projecting on all sides ; the most vehement 
 pair of faint-hazel eyes I have ever seen. Our talk was of Dutch Poets 
 (Vondel etc., whom he had read), of Orators, Colonies, Schools, Swift, 
 Sterne, Berkeley, Burke : all in the touch-and-go way. A well-read, 
 honest, limited (strait-laced even), kindly-hearted, most irritable man. 
 We parted kindly ; with no great purpose on either side, I imagine, to 
 meet again. De Quincey was mentioned in answer to a question of
 
 284 REMINISCENCES 
 
 feel as if he had done a little wrong ; and was bound 
 to show himself more than usually amiable and social, 
 especially with me, for the rest of the evening, which 
 he did in effect ; — though I quite forget the details ; 
 only that I had a good deal of talk with him, in the 
 circle of the others ; and had again more than once 
 to notice the singular readiness of the blushes,' — 
 amiable 7'cd blush, beautiful like a young girl's, when 
 you touched genially the pleasant theme ; and ser- 
 pent-like 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 surprising. I said to myself, " How has this 
 man contrived, with such a nervous-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 didn't fancy myself 
 
 mine: 'Yes I do know him,' answered Southey, 'and know him to 
 be a great rascal ; and, if you have opportunity, I will thank you to 
 tell him so :' his brown-dun face was overspread suddenly almost with 
 black. I ' trusted ' in return that ' Some other than I might be the 
 bearer of that comfortable message, as I had no intercourse with De 
 Quincey, and had not seen him for seven years.' The fault was some 
 stuff poor De Quincey had been writing in Tail's Magazine about 
 Coleridge. I got the thing at last wound up with a hearty laugh. — 
 Southey believes in the Church of England : this is notable ; notabler 
 (and honourable) that he has made such belief serve him so well." — 
 Carlyle's _/<?«;'««/, 26th February 1S35.
 
 SOUTH EY 285 
 
 to have made personally the least 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, — impru- 
 dently, 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 
 labour ; but, far worse, his poor Wife had sunk into 
 insanit}^ and moreover he would not, such his feel- 
 ing on the 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 garland and crown of " victory " provided 
 for an old man, when he arrives, 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 my Annandale journey to recover 
 from this adventure, that I heard of Southey's being 
 in Town again. His Collective Edition was com- 
 plete, 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 
 
 ' Mrs. Southey died 1837,
 
 286 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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 FrcncJi Revohitioft, 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 fellow- 
 ship 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 taliter qiialiter 
 was actually done ; and my humour 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 land- 
 ing there : Brother Alick must have met me at the 
 Steamboat Harbour, I suppose ; at any rate we were 
 walking towards Scotsbrig together, and at Mount- 
 Annan^ Gate, bottom of Landheads Hamlet, he had 
 left me for a moment till he called somewhere ; I 
 stood leaning against a stone or milestone, face 
 towards Annan, of which with the two miles of 
 variegated cheerful green slope that intervened, and 
 then of the Solway Frith far and wide, from Gretna 
 to St. Bees Head, and beyond it, of the grand and 
 lovely Cumberland mountains, with Helvellyn and 
 even with Ingleborough in the rearward, there was 
 
 ^ The house of General Dirom ; Carlyle had been tutor to his sons 
 there in 1S14.
 
 sou THEY 287 
 
 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 onward ; 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 expressiveness 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 utter 
 grimness, and fixed contemptuous disbelief in the 
 future. Hope of having succeeded, of ever succeed- 
 ing, 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 just so, then!" A foolish 
 young neighbour, not an ill-disposed, sent me a 
 Number of the AtJicncBiiuL (Literary Journal of the 
 day) in which I was placidly, with some elaboration, 
 set down as blockhead and strenuous failure : the 
 last words were, " Readers, have we made out our
 
 288 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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 
 neighbour, who was " filing the AtJiencEiim " (more 
 power to him !), found a lacuna 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 exultation : " 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 Jiave written it ; 
 that is all my result." Nothing now strikes me as 
 affecting 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 confirmatory anecdotes and nar- 
 ratives ; " Oh, it has had a great success, Dear ! " — 
 and not even she could irradiate my darkness, beau- 
 tifully as she tried for a long time, as I sat at her 
 feet again by our own parlour-fire. "Ah, you are 
 an unbelieving creature !" 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 my 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 humour at that time, 
 fancy my surprise at finding Southey full of sym-
 
 SOUTH EY 289 
 
 pathy, 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 
 tended to interpret exactly as I, — the suicidal ex- 
 plosion of an old wicked world, too wicked, false 
 and impious for living longer ; — and seemed gratified, 
 and as if grateful, that a strong voice had at last 
 expressed that meaning. My poor French Rcvobi- 
 tion evidently appeared to him a Good Deed, a 
 salutary 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 emi- 
 nence 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. Thus, when poor 
 Sartor got passed through Frascr, and was done up 
 from the Eraser 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 whisper even of 
 receipt ; — a thing disappointing more or less to 
 human nature, 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 
 VOL. II. U
 
 290 REMINISCENCES 
 
 ?/;diterary cases more. The Plcbs of Literature 
 might be divided in their verdicts about me (though, 
 by count of heads, I always suspect the " Giiiltics " 
 clean had it) ; but the Conscript 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 great gloom 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 over-measure, 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 char- 
 acters, Danton, Camille, etc., and contrasts and 
 comparisons of them with their (probable) English 
 congeners of the day, — yielded pleasant and copious 
 material for dialogue when we met. Literature was 
 hardly touched upon ; our discourse 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 full 
 of gloomy bewilderment and incurable sorrow. He 
 had got to be about sixty-three ; had buried all his 
 suffering loved ones, wound up forty years of in- 
 cessant, vehement labour, much of it more or less 
 ungenial to him ; and in fact, thoueh he knew it
 
 SOUTHEY 291 
 
 not, had finished his work in the world ; and might 
 well be looking back on it with a kind of ghastly 
 
 astonishment 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 [whose guest Taylor sometimes 
 was] for a month or two in the Town Season, a 
 Miss Fenwick, 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 confitures 
 that I individually cared for ; which made her 
 doubly diligent and punctual about it. (Ah mc, 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 
 parlour-fire ; and was there victoriously boiling it, — 
 when it boiled over, in huge blaze, set the chimney 
 on fire ; — and I (from my writing upstairs, I suppose) 
 had been suddenly summoned to the rescue. What 
 
 ^ " Saw Southey, once here, another time at Miss Fenwick's ; veiy 
 kind to me ; and fond of talking, especially about French Revolution, 
 book and thing. The excitablest man I ever saw. Very strange that 
 I should be a tolera/iis, a laudahis with him." — Carlyle's /ourtta/, 13th 
 April 1838.
 
 292 
 
 REMINISCENCES 
 
 a moment, what an outlook ! The kindling of the 
 chimney -soot was itself a grave matter, involving 
 fine of £io, 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 pulling down the back-window, which 
 would have completed the temporary settlement,- — 
 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 other greatest, pre- 
 sence, forsook her. I remember how daintily she 
 made the salutations, brief quizzical bit of explana- 
 tion, got the wreck to vanish ; and sat 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, except 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 admiration of Shelley either for talent or 
 conduct ; spoke of him and his Life, without bitter- 
 ness, but with contemptuous sorrow, and evident 
 aversion mingled with his pity. To me also poor
 
 sou THEY 293 
 
 Shelley always was, and is, a kind of ghastly object ; 
 colourless, pallid, tuneless, without health or warmth 
 of vigour ; the sound of him shrieky, frosty, as if a 
 ghost were trying to " sing " to us ; the temperament 
 of him, spasmodic, hysterical, instead of strong or 
 robust ; with fine affections and aspirations, gone all 
 such a road : — a man infinitely too zueak for that 
 solitary scaling of the Alps which he undertook in 
 spite of all the world. At some point of the dia- 
 logue I said to Southey, " A haggard 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 -[four] ; 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 
 volwitecred to marry him, " for the purpose of con- 
 soling," 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 com- 
 pleting 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 under sepulchral lamps, 
 and as if in the forecourt of the charnel-house ! 
 ' Miss Bowles was twelve years younger tlian Southey.
 
 294 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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 demo- 
 cracy, 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 (see Goethe's Com- 
 posite King) would all be eaten out, and noble Eng- 
 land would have to collapse in shapeless ruin, 
 whether forever or not none of us could know. 
 Our perfect consent on these matters gave an ani- 
 mation to the Dialogue, which I remember as 
 copious and pleasant. Southey's last word was in 
 answer to some tirade of mine about universal 
 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 cheer- 
 ful tone in his seriousness, " It will not, and it cannot 
 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
 
 SOUTHEY 295 
 
 already shaken hands, and now answered from be- 
 yond the door of the apartment, " Ah, yes ; thanks, 
 thanks!" httle 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 undeniable, that his mind was going 
 or gone, memory quite, and the rest hopelessly follow- 
 ing it. The new Mrs. Southey had not succeeded 
 in " consoling and comforting " him ; but far the 
 reverse. We understood afterwards that the grown- 
 up Daughters and their Stepmother " had agreed 
 ill," that perhaps neither they nor she were very 
 wise, nor the arrangement itself very wise or well- 
 contrived. Better perhaps that poor Southey was 
 veiled from it ; shrouded away in curtains of his 
 own, and deaf to all discords 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 altogether 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. Vty degrees 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 private 
 
 ' 4th June 1839. - 2 1st March 1843.
 
 296 REMINISCENCES 
 
 friends do other than, in silence, mournfully yet 
 almost gratefully acquiesce. There came out by 
 and by tzvo Lives of him ; one by his widow, one by 
 his son (such the family discrepancies, happily in- 
 audible 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 con- 
 siderable genius in him, considerable faculty of speed 
 and rhythmic insight, and with a morality that shone 
 distinguished 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 im- 
 petuously 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 dili- 
 gence 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 quality, 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 per- 
 mitted to smoke in their damp cellar, and think that 
 a rich recompense !) — with inconceivable velocity
 
 I VORDS WOR TH 297 
 
 turn those huge grinding-stones, screaming harshly 
 victorious, harshly glad ; and shooting out, each of 
 them, its big sheet of fire {yelloiv, star-light, 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-rir?/ of its low- 
 stooping fated 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 grinding its fastest, it flies off altogether, 
 and settles some yards from you, a grinding-stone no 
 longer, but a cartload of quiet sand. — [Finished at 
 Mentone, 8th February 1867.] 
 
 [IVORBSIVORTH^] 
 
 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 little knowledge ; 
 and any feeling he had towards me, I suspect, was 
 
 ^ Carlyle, when beginning this Paper, writes in his Jotinial, under 
 date 3d March 1867 : " Fallen into a sad abeyance ; caught a baddish 
 cold etc. ; incapable of anything which even I can call 'work,' for two 
 weeks past, — cannot even touch upon the poor babble about Wordsworth 
 (till to-day with effort) : — am, in brief, below, not equal to, the paltry 
 complexities of my situation ; and for most part miserable, dismal, 
 oftenest sad as the grave. Pure sadness of that kind, when it comes 
 pure, is in fact my tolerablest mood ; all bitterness and discontent then 
 taken away ! — Shakspeare has been my common readint^ ; far the best 
 for me I can fall upon here."
 
 298 REMINISCENCES 
 
 largely blended with abhorrence and perhaps a kind 
 of fear. His works I knew ; but never considerably- 
 reverenced, — could not, on attempting it. A man 
 recognisably of strong intellectual powers, strong 
 character ; given to meditation, and much con- 
 temptuous of the ?/;/meditative 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 ivantiiig 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 adorable, by any 
 means, as a great Poetic Genius, much less as the 
 Trismegistus of such ; whom only a select few could 
 even 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 
 signifying : " Poverty and Peasanthood, then ; 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 recognise 
 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 
 worshippers ; or, if the topic turned up, would listen 
 with an acquiescing air. But to my private self 
 his divine reflections and unfathomabilities seemed 
 stinted, scanty ; palish and uncertain ; — perhaps in 
 part a feeble re'^lcx (derived at second hand through 
 Coleridge) of the immense German fund of such ? —
 
 J VORDS I VOR TH 299 
 
 and I reckoned his Poetic Storehouse to be far from 
 an opulent or well furnished apartment ! 
 
 It was perhaps about i 840 that I first had any 
 decisive meeting with Wordsworth, or made any 
 really personal acquaintance 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 (prob- 
 ably before, as it was in my earlier days of Sterling 
 acquaintanceship, when Sterling used to argue much 
 with me), Wordsworth 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 plea- 
 sure did my endeavour 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 these, 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 break- 
 fast, — to which I was invited for the given day and 
 hour. We had a pretty little room ; quiet, though 
 looking street-ward (Tavern's name is quite lost to 
 me) ; the morning sun was pleasantly tinting the 
 opposite houses, a balmy, calm and bright morning ; 
 Wordsworth, I think, arrived just along with me ; 
 
 ^ Carlylc notes in \\hJonnial, under date 1st June 1S36, that he has 
 "seen Wordsworth again."
 
 300 REMJNISCENCES 
 
 we had still five minutes of sauntering and mis- 
 cellaneous 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. Break- 
 fast 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. corre- 
 spondents 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 and miscellanies, 
 "Countess of Pembroke" (antique She -Clifford, 
 glor}^ 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.) 
 now the only memorable item under that head : 
 these were the first topics. Then finally about 
 Literature, literary laws, practices, observances, — at 
 considerable length, and turning wholly on the 
 mechanical part, including 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 was joyfully 
 reverent of the " wells of English undefiled," — though 
 stone dumb as to the deeper rules, and wells of 
 Eternal Truth and Harmony 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
 
 WORDSWORTH 301 
 
 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 tradesman would of his tools 
 and workshop, — and as no unwise one could. His 
 voice was good, frank and sonorous, though practic- 
 ally clear, distinct and forcible, rather than melodious ; 
 the tone of him business-like, sedately confident, 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 intelligent, 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 inulta tacerc loqnive paratJis, in a 
 world where he had experienced no lack of contra- 
 dictions 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, with a fine rustic simplicity 
 and dignity about him, and a veracious strength 
 looking through him which might have suited one of 
 those old steel-gray Markgrafs {Gv2i{= Gi-mt, "Steel- 
 gray ") whom Henry the Fowler set up to ward the
 
 302 REMINISCENCES 
 
 " 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 dinners, in 
 evening parties ; and we grew a little more familiar, 
 but without much increase of real intimacy or affec- 
 tion springing up between 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, prob- 
 ably 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 failure I was pre- 
 pared for ; less for the narrowish limits visible in 
 Milton and 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 limita- 
 tions : — gradually it became apparent to me that of 
 transcendent and unlimited there was, to this Critic, 
 probably but one specimen known, Wordsworth him- 
 self! He by no means said so, or hinted so, in 
 words ; but on the whole it was all I gathered from 
 him in this considerable tctc-a-tcte 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, ////appealing, like a dim old lichened crag on
 
 / VORDS I VOR TH 303 
 
 the wayside, the private meaning of which, in con- 
 trast with any public meaning it had, you recognised 
 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 higher 
 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 dialogues 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 was the 
 Literary topic between us, set him on giving me 
 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 willing to speak, 
 wherever able on the terms. He had been in France 
 in the earlier or secondary stage of the Revolution ; 
 had witnessed the struggle of Gb'ondins and Moun- 
 tain, 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 seemed to 
 retain something : " Where will it end, when you have 
 set an example in tJiis kind ? " I knew well about 
 Gorsas ; but had found, in my readings, no trace of 
 the public emotion his death excited ; and perceived 
 now that Wordsworth might be taken as a true sup- 
 plement 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"
 
 304 REMINISCENCES 
 
 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 Biographic Portraitures of them. Never, or 
 never but once, had I seen a stronger 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 and 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- 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 Wilbcr- 
 forcc in Yorkshire (" force " signifying torrent or angry 
 brook, I suppose, 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," 
 added Wordsworth, " he took into the Oil trade " (I 
 suppose the Hull whaling) ; which lively phrase, and 
 the incomparable historical tone it was given in : " tJic 
 Oil Trade," as a thing perfectly natural, and proper 
 for such a man, — is almost the only point in the de- 
 lineation which is now vividly present to me. I 
 remember only the rustic Picture, sketched as with a
 
 WORDSWORTH 305 
 
 burnt stick on the board of a pair of bellows, seemed 
 to me completely good; and that the general effect 
 was, one sazv the great Wilberforce 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 ; 
 oneself and telescope of natural (or perhaps preter- 
 natural) size ; but the object, so great to vulgar eyes, 
 reduced amazingly, with all its lineaments recog- 
 nisable. I found a very superior talent in these 
 Wordsworth delineations. They might have re- 
 minded 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 simul- 
 acra in all their equipments, being still so pathetically 
 vivid to me. My Father's, in rugged simple force, 
 picturesque ingenuity, veracity and brevity, were, I 
 do judge, superior to even Wordsworth's, as bits of 
 human Portraiture ; zuithout flavour of contempt, too, 
 but given out with judicial indifference ; — and inter- 
 mixed here and there with flashes of the Poetical and 
 soberly Pathetic (e.g. the death of Bell of Dunnaby, 
 and zvhy 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 -honoured Peasant 
 Father, where among the Grandees, Sages, and rc- 
 VOL. II. X
 
 k 
 
 306 REMINISCEA'CES 
 
 cognised Poets of the 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 reflec- 
 tions, in the whirlpools of this mad world ! 
 
 During the last seven or ten years of his life, 
 Wordsworth felt himself to be a recognised 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 qnalcs. The 
 places where I met him oftenest, were Marshall's 
 (the great Leeds 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 \h& first Lord 
 Stanley's of Alderley (who then, perhaps, was still 
 Sir Thomas Stanley). Wordsworth took his bit of 
 lionism very quietly, with a smile sardonic rather 
 than triumphant ; and certainly 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 ridiculously assiduous to 
 secure her proper place of precedence at Table.^ One 
 evening at Lord Monteagle's — Ah, zvJio 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 sat by 
 
 According to Sir Henry Taylor, Mrs. Wordsworth was "rather 
 tall," and was in all respects so unlike this description that he says " I 
 cannot but think there was simply a mistake of one person for another." 
 — Nineteenth Centujy for June iSSi.
 
 WORDSWORTH 307 
 
 one another ; but there came from him nothing con- 
 siderable, 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 
 humour. Hardly above once (perhajDs at the 
 Stanleys') do I faintly recollect something of the 
 contrary on his part for a little while ; which was 
 not pleasant or successful while it lasted. The light 
 was always afflictive to his eyes ; he carried in his 
 pocket something like 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 little 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 (in the Stanley 
 Drawing-room, I remember, he hit a stool, and kicked 
 it over in striding forward to shake hands) ; — 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 did get him afloat, on some Cumber-
 
 3o8 REMINISCENCES 
 
 land 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 Daughters ;" as to the now 
 ownership of which, "It" etc.; "and then it came 
 into the hands of a Mr. Crackenthorpe ;" — the sound 
 of these two phrases is still lively and present with 
 me ; meaning or sound of absolutely nothing more. 
 i^iU more memorable is an ocular glimpse I had in 
 one of these Wordsworthian lion-dinners, very sym- 
 bolic to me of his general deportment there, and far 
 clearer than the little feature of opposite sort, ambigu- 
 ously given above (recollection of that viz. of unsuc- 
 cessful exertion at a Stanley Dinner being dubious 
 and all but extinct, while this is still vivid to me as 
 of yesternight). Dinner was large, luminous, sump- 
 tuous ; I sat a long way from Wordsworth ; dessert 
 I think had come in ; and certainly 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, logical 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 looked upwards, leftwards, 
 the coast luckily being for a moment clear : there, 
 far off, beautifully screened in the shadow of his 
 vertical green circle, which was on the farther side of 
 him, sat Wordsworth, silent, in rock-like indifference, 
 slowly but steadily gnawing some portion of w'hat I
 
 U 'ORDS IVOR TH 309 
 
 judged to be raisins, with his eye and attention 
 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 or when, 
 these Wordsworth Appearances 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 saw 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 miser- 
 able interruptions, catarrhal and other, at Mentone, 
 8th March 1867.] 
 
 On the same day Carlyle writes in \\\s Journal : 
 " Finished the rag on Wordsworth to the last 
 tatter ; won't begin another : Cut bono, it is weari- 
 some and naught even to myself ... I live mostly 
 alone ; with vanished Shadows of the Past, — many 
 of them rise for a moment, inexpressibly tender ; 
 
 ' Wordsworth clicil 23d April 1S50.
 
 3IO REMINISCENCES 
 
 One is never long absent from me. Gone, gone, 
 but very dear, very beautiful and dear ! Eternity, 
 which cannot be far off, is my one strong city. I 
 look into it fixedly now and then ; all terrors about 
 it seem to me superfluous ; all knowledge about it, 
 any the least glimmer of certain knowledge, impos- 
 sible to living mortal. The universe is full of love, 
 and also of inexorable sternness and veracity : and 
 it remains for ever true that ' GOD reigns.' Patience, 
 
 silence, hope !"^^^^^^^^lE Ll^P.^i?^ 
 
 cF New York,
 
 INDEX 
 
 Advocate morality, II. 229. 
 
 Airy, Professor, II. 153-5. 
 
 Aitken, Mary Carlyle, I. 270, 275, 
 277. 
 
 Annan School, II. 16. 
 
 Argyll, Duke of, II. 37, 50. 
 
 Aristocracy, certain of the, still 
 really noble, I. 117, 118 note ; 
 gatherings of the choicest at 
 Bath House, 128. 
 
 Arundell, Mr. Hunter, I. 83 note. 
 
 Ashburton, Lady (Lady Harriet 
 Baring), I. 118-9 ; railway jour- 
 ney to Edinburgh, 205. 
 
 Ashburton, Lord ; extract from his 
 letter to Carlyle on Lady Ash- 
 burton's death, I. 119 note ; men- 
 tioned also, 211. 
 
 Ashburton, Louisa, Lady, ' kind- 
 ness itself to Mrs. Carlyle, I. 
 238 ; mentioned also, 276 ; II. 
 196. 
 
 Auldgarth Bridge, I. 35-7. 
 
 Austin, Mrs., I. 172; II. 211. 
 
 Badams, Carlyle's Birmingham 
 friend, I. 93 ; II, 134, 144 ; his 
 well-ordered establishment, 145- 
 8. 
 
 Baring, the Hon. Mary Florence, 
 I. 276. 
 
 Barjarg, near Craigenputtock, I. 
 83 note. 
 
 Barnes, Dr., I. 215. 
 
 Barnet, Mrs., and family, II. 145-6. 
 
 Bell, John, and the first steamship, 
 II. 49, 50. 
 
 Bentinck, Lord George, II. 170. 
 
 Blakiston, Dr., I. 223-4, 227. 
 
 Brand, Robert, I. 40. 
 
 Braxfield, Lord, II. 230, 262. 
 
 Brewster, II. 93, 105. 
 
 Britain, different kinds of citizens 
 of, IL 10, 55. 
 
 Bromley, Miss Davenport, I. 233, 
 241. 
 
 Brown, James, touring with Car- 
 lyle and Irving, II. 43-53. 
 
 Brown, William, I. 32. 
 
 Bryden, Rev. Mr., II. 1S6. 
 
 Buller, Charles, II. 63 ; he and his 
 brother with Carlyle in Edin- 
 burgh, 103-5 ; ^t Kew Green, 
 141 ; end of the engagement, 
 142. 
 
 Buller, Mr. and Mrs., T. 187 ; II. 
 102-7, 141- 
 
 Burns, contrasted with Carlyle's 
 Father, I. 12-14 ; Mrs. Mon- 
 tagu's recollection of, II. 129. 
 
 Campbell, Mr. (the Argyll Fac-
 
 312 
 
 INDEX 
 
 tor), and his two sisters, II. 
 50. 
 
 Campbell, Thomas, II. 137, 184. 
 
 Carlile, Sir Anthony, II. 133. 
 
 Carlile, Warrand, II. 77, 87. 
 
 Carlyle, Adam, of Bridekirk, I. 23 
 note. 
 
 Carlyle, Alexander, I. 96, 99, 123, 
 272 ; II. 92, 178, 194. 
 
 Carlyle, James. See Carlyle's 
 Father. 
 
 Carlyle, James, Jun., I. 241, 248, 
 272 ; II. 66, 209. 
 
 Carlyle, Janet, I. 272; II. 177. 
 
 Carlyle, Jean, I. 120, 272 ; II. 92, 
 177. 
 
 Carlyle, John, I. 41. 
 
 Carlyle, John Aitken, at St. Leon- 
 ards, I. 227, 230, 232, 233-4; 
 with Carlyle in London, 253 ; 
 appointed Executor, 266 - 73 ; 
 death, I. 277 note ; youthful days 
 at home, II. 92 ; visits Craigen- 
 puttock with a letter of Goethe's 
 for his brother, 193 ; Travelling 
 Physician to the Countess of 
 Clare, 201, 259 ; letter concern- 
 ing Hazlitt's death, 251 note. 
 
 Carlyle, Margaret, I. 8 note ; her 
 beautiful character and early 
 death, II. 193-5; mentioned 
 also, 222. 
 
 Carlyle, Mary (Carlyle's sister), 
 ever kindly helpful, I. 120, 234, 
 272, 194. 
 
 Carlyle, Mrs. (Jane Baillie Welsh), 
 born July 14th, 1801, I. 53; Miss 
 Jewsbury's mythical account of 
 her (written at Lady Lothian's 
 request), 54-69 ; Carlyle's correc- 
 tions and comments, 69-82, 89- 
 99; her love for her Father, 71-2, 
 144; childhood anecdotes, 76-8 ; 
 
 at Comley Bank, 79, 85 ; at 
 Craigenputtock, 80-90 ; II. 243- 
 5 ; friendship for Jeffrey, I. 86, 
 89 ; II. 238-9, 265 ; kindness to 
 poor old Esther, I. 87-8 ; first 
 visit to London, 92 ; II. 201- 
 3 ; terrible headaches ; very 
 hearty for London, I. 97 ; settled 
 in Cheyne Row; "her life 
 brighter and braver than my 
 own," 100 ; II. 211 ; helpful 
 sympathy on learning that the 
 first volume of the French Revo- 
 lution was burnt, I. 106-9 > 
 esteem for Mazzini, 1 10 ; Gode- 
 froi Cavaignac, iii ; Mr. and 
 Mrs. Sterling, 112; her one 
 soiree ; the two wax candles, 
 115, 255-6 ; intercourse with the 
 aristocracy, 1 16-19, 128-32, 244 ; 
 first impression of Lady Ashbur- 
 ton ; visit to Addiscombe, 119: 
 visit to Carlyle's mother, 121 ; 
 II. 180; her own mother's death, 
 I. 121 ; bitter grief and many 
 loving remorses,' 122-3 > settles 
 life-rent of Craigenputtock on 
 her mother, 123 ; interest in the 
 Duke of Wellington, 129 ; an- 
 cestors, 133 - 5 ; her paternal 
 grandmother's runaway match, 
 138 ; affection for her old grand- 
 father, 139 ; her last parting 
 with her mother, 150 ; love for 
 her maternal grandfather, old 
 Walter Welsh, 151, 159; and 
 for his son, her ' Uncle John,' 
 166 ; liked London constantly, 
 171 ; esteem for Erasmus Dar- 
 win, 173 ; visits Harriet Mar- 
 tineau's soirees under difficulties, 
 178 ; does not always partici- 
 pate in her husband's lionings.
 
 INDEX 
 
 182 ; tablet to her memory, 184 
 note ; intercourse with the Ster- 
 lings, 186 ; at Troston Parson- 
 age with Mrs. BuUer, 187 ; 
 wonderful how she maintained 
 her cheerfulness, 188-90, 197-8, 
 201, 216, 240, 242 ; architectural 
 talent, 193 ; extinguishes two 
 demon fowls, 194 ; sufferings 
 during the time of Friedrich, 
 200-3 ; the 7tadir of her suffer- 
 ings, 203-4 '■> accompanies Lady 
 Ashburton to Edinburgh, 205 ; 
 visits her Aunts, and the 
 Donaldsons at Haddington, 207; 
 her Letters, 208-10; a serious 
 accident and its consequences, 
 210-5; partial recovery, 216; 
 renewed illness, 218 ; scene with 
 a Catholic nurse, 221-3 '■> to St. 
 Leonards in an " invalid car- 
 riage, "224; partial recovery once 
 more, 230 ; to Mrs. Forster in 
 Kensington, 233 ; to Annandale, 
 234 ; to Nithsdale, 235 ; in 
 Chelsea again, continually im- 
 proving, 236 ; with Mrs. Ewart 
 at Nithbank, 239 ; kind interest 
 in her poor old laundress, 243 ; 
 the Edinburgh address ; her af- 
 fectionate encouragement and 
 anxiety, 245-7 ; plain victory, in 
 the sight of her own people, and 
 of all the world, 248-9 ; sudden 
 and painless death, 250-1; buried 
 in her Father's grave at Had- 
 dington, 254 ; her Mother's two 
 wax-candles to be lighted and 
 burned, 255-6. 
 Carlyle, receives tidings of his 
 Father's death, L 1-3; marks 
 down the main things he can 
 recollect of him, 4 ; a sacred 
 
 pride in his peasant Father, 1 1 ; 
 characteristic feelings towards 
 his parents, 15-6, 19; tradition 
 of his forefathers at Burrens, 27; 
 his uncles, 33 ; his early life not 
 a joyful, but a safe and whole- 
 some one ; earliest recollections 
 of his father, 44-6 ; taken by 
 him to Annan Academy ; always 
 generous in his school expenses, 
 46-7 ; their last meeting, 51. 
 Introduction to the Reminiscences 
 of his wife, 53 ; repudiates Miss 
 Jewsbury's myths, 68-9 ; his own 
 corrections and comments, 69- 
 82, 87, 90 ; somehow it solaces 
 me to write of her, 78, 116, 132, 
 166, 171, 184, 189, 193, 257 ; 
 n. 220, 274 ; life at Comley 
 Bank, I. 79 ; at Craigenputtock, 
 80-90 ; n. 243-5 '■> correspond- 
 ence with Goethe, I. 85 ; futile 
 visit to London with Sartor 
 Rcsartiis, 91-2 ; his wife joins 
 him there, 92 ; the return home, 
 95-6 ; resolves to settle in Lon- 
 don, 96 ; his departure, and part- 
 ing from his family, 98 note; 
 searching for a house, 99 ; again 
 joined by his wife ; decides upon 
 Cheyne Row, 100 ; 11. 211 ; 
 writes French Revobitio7i, L 103, 
 105-9, 170 ; the first volume 
 burnt, 106 ; the whole at last 
 completed, 108 ; timely aid from 
 Emerson and America, 112; 
 disappointment about the Lon- 
 don Review, 113 ; change 
 worked in him by study of 
 Cromwell, 114; lectures in Ed- 
 ward-Street, 114, 185; getting 
 noticed by select individuals of 
 the aristocracy, 116-9; yearly
 
 314 
 
 INDEX 
 
 visits to his mother, 121 ; many 
 weeks at Templand, on the occa- 
 sion of Mrs. Welsh's death, 122; 
 the pinch of poverty relaxing, 
 124; Ow;/tyt'// published ; Lat- 
 ter-Day Fa/nphleis a great relief 
 to my own conscience, 125 ; 
 popularity occasioned by the 
 Edinburgh Address, 126; friends, 
 not a few, I have had all along, 
 127 ; for many years met the 
 choicest of the English aristo- 
 cracy at Lord Ashburton's, 128 ; 
 Wellington, 129-31; death of 
 John Sterling, 131 ; first visit at 
 Mrs. Welsh's house, 146-7 ; his 
 laughter inherited from both 
 parents, 153-4 ; visits to Temp- 
 land, 163-5, 168-70 ; ■ London 
 acquaintances: Mrs. Austin, 172; 
 Leigh Hunt, 174-5 ; Allan Cun- 
 ningham, 175-6; Harriet Mar- 
 tineau, 176-80; three days in 
 Cromwell's country, 187 ; the 
 Letters and Speeches, 188 - 9 ; 
 Latter-Day Parnphlet time very 
 sad and heavy, 190- 1 ; Life of 
 Sterlitig, 192 ; like to be driven 
 mad by the demon fowls, 194 ; 
 visit to his mother's death-bed, 
 195-6; twice in Germany, 196-7; 
 "our books our only children, 
 and in a true sense they were 
 verily ours," 198 ; his unfortunate 
 "sound-proofroom, 198-200; 
 the Friedrich affair by far the 
 worst we ever had, 200-3 5 Battle 
 of Mollwitz, 202 ; in Lady Ash- 
 burton's railway carriage to Edin- 
 burgh, 205-6; his Wife's Letters, 
 20S-10; her severe illness, 210- 
 24 ; working at St. Leonards, 
 228 ; his daily rides there, 229- 
 
 30 ; back to Chelsea, 235 ; 
 Edinburgh Rectorship, 244 ; the 
 Address, 247-8 ; intelligence of 
 his Wife's sudden death, 249-52; 
 his return home, 253 ; the fune- 
 ral at Haddington, 253-4 ; for- 
 bids the publication of the Note- 
 book as it stands, 257 ; Deed 
 bequeathing Craigenputtock to 
 the University of Edinburgh, 
 161-6; Will and Codicil, 257-77. 
 Carlyle first sees Irving at the An- 
 nan school, n. 16 ; becomes 
 Mathematical Master there, 18, 
 231 ; thoroughly detested his 
 function and position, 19; his La- 
 tin Exegesis, 20 ; makes Irving's 
 acquaintance in Edinburgh, 21-4 ; 
 welcomed by him to Kirkcaldy, 
 24-7 ; no two Kaisers more 
 kingly, 26 ; Irving's Library of 
 great use, 28 ; pleasant and pro- 
 fitable talk, 29 ; farewell sym- 
 pathy for Mr. and Mrs. Glen, 
 32-3, 37 ; last feeble tatter of 
 connection with clerical outlooks 
 allowed to snap, 39 ; influence 
 of the old English writers, 41 : 
 tour to the Trosachs, etc., with 
 Irving and others, 43-53 ; through 
 Yarrow and Moffatdale, 53-6 ; 
 Irving's high appreciation first 
 led him to compare his father 
 with other men, 56 ; life at 
 Kirkcaldy ; Margaret Gordon, 
 56-9 ; tired of schoolmastering, 
 but with very dubious prospects, 
 59-61 ; timorously aiming to- 
 wards literature, 60, 232-5; 
 Sympathy with the Radical 
 "rising" in Glasgow, 68-9; visits 
 to Irving, always with friendliest 
 welcome, 70-2 ; meetings with
 
 INDEX 
 
 315 
 
 Dr. Chalmers, 72-5 ; George- ' 
 Fourth flunkeyism in Edinburgh, 
 85 ; first visit to Haddington, 
 85-7 ; rehgious confidences with 
 Irving in Drumclog Moss, 88-90; 
 unwearied kindness 'at his own 
 Father's house, 91-2 ; Irving's 
 voice, when he visited Annan- 
 dale, always one of blessedness 
 and new hope, 97 ; generous, 
 wise, beneficent, all his dealings 
 and discoursings with me were, 
 98 ; Carlyle the last friend he 
 took farewell of before going to 
 London, 99 ; becomes tutor to 
 Charles and Arthur Buller in 
 Edinburgh, 102-5; dyspepsia, 
 107, no, 113, 115, 140; rumours 
 of Irving's boundless popularity, 
 108 ; meets him on his wedding 
 tour, 109 ; writes Schiller, en- 
 couraged by Irving, who intro- 
 duced it to the London Maga- 
 zine, 113 ; extract from the 
 Life of Schiller in the Times, 
 114; Wilhehn Meister, 115; 
 visits to Irving in London, 116 ; 
 received by all with the old 
 friendliness, and introduced to 
 many warm friends of distinc- 
 tion and influence, 117-34, 140, 
 142, 166, 168; "air -castles," 
 before taking to In-cnch Revolu- 
 tioti, 122 ; visits to Coleridge, 
 130-2 ; to Campbell, 137 ; " ob- 
 stinacy as of ten mules," but 
 with something worthily human 
 in it too, 140 ; with Charles 
 Buller at Kew Green, 141 ; throws 
 up the Buller engagement, 
 141-2; stage-coach to Birming- 
 ham, 143 ; the guest of Mr. 
 Badams, 145-55 ; in a coal- 
 
 mine with Professor Airy, 154; 
 trip to Paris, 156-65 ; back to 
 London, Schiller stitched into 
 a book, 166 ; sees Irving in the 
 distance, 167 ; resolves to re- 
 nounce all "ambitions;" offers 
 to release Miss Welsh from 
 their tacit engagement, 168 ; 
 Allan Cunningham, 169 ; first 
 letter from Goethe, 169 ; boat- 
 ing from London Bridge to 
 Twickenham, 171-3 ; prepares 
 to return home, 174 ; passes 
 through Lancashire, 176; his 
 sisters meet him at Ecclefechan, 
 177 ; at Hoddam Hill, a russet- 
 coated Idyll in his memory, 
 177-81 ; here first realised what 
 the old Christian people meant 
 by " conversion," by God's 
 Infinite Mercy to them, 180; a 
 visit from Irving at Comley 
 Bank, 185 ; and at Craigenput- 
 tock, 186-9; Irving's "heresies," 
 189-90 ; Public Dinner in Dum- 
 fries, 190 ; the drive home, ten 
 miles of it soundly asleep, 191 -2 ; 
 death of his sister Margaret, 
 193-5 ; along letter from Goethe, 
 193 ; journey to London, 195 ; 
 again sees Irving, brotherly as 
 ever in his reception, 196 ; col- 
 loquies on Democracy, 197 ; 
 Sartor Resartus locked away in- 
 to fixity of silence, 200-1 ; un- 
 expected news of his Father's 
 death, 203 ; expostulation with 
 Irving concerning the strange 
 course he was entering on, 206- 
 8 ; last sad, yet loving inter- 
 views, 212-5. 
 
 First journey to Edinburgh, 
 and sight of the Law Courts,
 
 3i6 
 
 INDEX 
 
 221-5 '■> fi^'st visit to Jeffrey, 
 235-7 ; articles in the Edinburgh 
 Review, 237 ; Jeffrey's visits at 
 Coinley Bank, 238-9 ; his ac- 
 quaintance an immense acquisi- 
 tion, 240 ; ready to have tried 
 anything in practical help, 241 ; 
 his visits to Craigenputtock, 
 245-50 ; a return visit to Craig- 
 crook ; sharp fencing bouts 
 night after night, 252-3 ; Jef- 
 frey's generous offer of pecuniary 
 help, 254-5 ; visits at Ampton 
 Street, 161-3 ; Carlyle's old en- 
 thusiasms not dead ; eagerly 
 desirous of some humblest an- 
 chorage, 265 ; disappointed hope 
 as to the Edinburgh Observa- 
 toiy, 266-8 ; often felt, while 
 writing the French Revolution, 
 that he conld learn to do almost 
 anything, from engineering and 
 architecture, up to still higher 
 things of the physical or spiritual 
 kind, — yet forbidden to try any 
 of them, 266 ; his condition of 
 mind while writing the Remi- 
 niscences of Irving and Jeffrey, 
 274. 
 
 Dreadfully in want of some 
 Task again, 274-5 ; first acquaint- 
 ance with Southey's Books, 
 276-8 ; Southey introduced to 
 him by Henry Taylor, 278-85 ; 
 wild excitation of nerves, after 
 finishing that grim book, the 
 French Revolution, 2S6 ; the 
 Athenczuvi' s placid condemna- 
 tion of it, 287 ; Thackeray's 
 laudation of it in the Times ; 
 Mrs. Carlyle's vain attempts 
 to cheer and irradiate his dark- 
 ness, 288 ; Southey's sympathy. 
 
 assent, and recognition of it, as 
 a salutary bit of "scriptural" 
 exposition for the public and 
 mankind, 289 ; the other Con- 
 script Fathers of Literature, as 
 with Sartor, had declined to 
 vote at all, 289-90 ; Southey 
 at Cheyne Row, 291-2 ; mutual 
 estimates of Shelley, 292-3 ; last 
 interview with Southey, 294 ; 
 tidings of his last illness and 
 death, 295. 
 
 Incapable of anything to be 
 called "work" for two weeks 
 past, 297 note; indifference to 
 Wordsworth's poetry ; a fine 
 limpid vein of melody in it, but 
 stinted, palish and uncertain, 
 297-8 ; meets him at Henry 
 Taylor's, 299 ; tries to talk with 
 him about our great poets, 302 ; 
 interested in his clear sketches 
 of the notable men he had seen 
 in life, 303-5; greatly struck with 
 his luminous and veracious power 
 of insight in such matters, 304 ; 
 and also with his equanimity 
 and rock - like indifference as 
 literary lion, 307-9 ; Why should 
 I continue these melancholy 
 jottings? I live mostly alone with 
 vanished Shadows of the Past, 
 309 ; for ever true that ' God 
 reigns,' 310. 
 
 Carlyle, Rev. Gavin, II. 77, 218. 
 
 Carlyle's Aunt Fanny, I. 32. 
 
 Carlyle's Father ; his peaceful 
 death, I. i ; II. 260 ; he, exclu- 
 clusively, determined to educate 
 his son, I. 3, 18, 46 ; a man of 
 the largest natural endowment, 
 5 ; never spoke of what was 
 disagreeable and past, 6 ; would
 
 INDEX 
 
 317 
 
 leave nothing till it was done, 7 ; 
 any talk that had meaning in it 
 he could listen to, but to no 
 other, 8 ; irascible, but with a 
 sincerity that compelled belief 
 and regard, 9 ; man's face he 
 did not fear, God he always 
 feared, 10 ; by no means an 
 insubordinate man, 11 ; a grave 
 natural politeness in him, 12 ; 
 indifference to Burns and his 
 poetry ; wholly a man of action, 
 13 ; education the most limited, 
 14 ; his heart seemed as if 
 walled-in, 15 ; a merciful heart 
 to real distress ; a wisely gener- 
 ous economist, 16-7, 19 ; singu- 
 larly free from affectation and 
 envy, 17 ; liked to listen to a 
 good argument, 18 ; a man of 
 strength and a man of toil, 20 ; 
 his sorrow at leaving Brown- 
 knowe, 21 ; stinted childhood, 
 21-2, 28 ; a good son, 23 ; 
 boyish quarrels ; liked to speak 
 of his father, 24-5 ; early force 
 of conscience, 29-30; John Orr 
 his sole teacher in schooling, 
 32 ; he and his brothers learn 
 to be masons, 33 ; assists in 
 building Auldgarth Bridge, 35 ; 
 his visit there in after years, 
 36, 84 ; a dim picture of his 
 youth and opening manhood, 
 37-40 ; religious influences, 40 ; 
 death of his first wife, 41-2; 
 marries Margaret Aitken, 42 ; 
 well established in Ecclefechan, 
 43 ; early recollections of him, 
 44-6 ; his tender consideration, 
 47, 51 ; his sympathy with the 
 sufferings of the poor, 48 ; quits 
 the mason trade, and becomes a 
 
 farmer, 49 ; visits Craigenput- 
 tock, 50, 84; a father to be loved 
 and honoured, 52 ; his hearty 
 laughter, 153 ; Irving's clear 
 recognition of, and appreciation 
 by him, II. 56 ; his talk com- 
 pared with Wordsworth's, 305. 
 
 Carlyle's Grandfather and his 
 family, I. 21-8. 
 
 Carlyle's Mother ; her resignation 
 in trouble, I. 2 ; free loving 
 nature, 15-6 ; 47, II, 66, 83 ; 
 frugal without stinginess, I. 19 ; 
 married in 1795, 42 ; motherly 
 self-control, 98 tiote ; her son's 
 yearly visits, 121 ; her beautiful 
 sportive laughter, 154; her 
 pious life and death, 195-6 ; her 
 son's heterodoxy, II. 92. 
 
 Cavaignac, Godefroi, at Cheyne 
 Row, I. 110-28, 
 
 Chalmers, Dr., II. 30, 108; hears 
 Irving preach, 61 ; Carlyle's 
 interviews with, 72-5. 
 
 Charles X., seen by Carlyle in 
 the Louvre, II. 162. 
 
 Chezy, M. de, Carlyle's interview 
 with, in Paris, II. 164. 
 
 Chorley, John R. , a warm and 
 faithful friend to Carlyle, and 
 one of the best read men in 
 London, I. 198 note. 
 
 Christison, Professor, II. 26. 
 
 Church, Mr., of Hitchill, II. 19, 85. 
 
 Clerk, John, II, 224-5. 
 
 Coleridge, and his influence, II, 
 41, III, 198, 283; Carlyle's 
 visits, 130-2. 
 
 Comley Bank, I. 79 note. 
 
 Comte and Positivism, II. 219. 
 
 Craigcrook, I. 86 note. 
 
 Craigenputtock, I. 80 note, 87 ; 
 Mrs. Carlyle gives it in liferent
 
 3i8 
 
 INDEX 
 
 to her mother, 122 ; bequest of, 
 by Carlyle, to the University of 
 Edinburgh, 124 note, 261-6. 
 
 Craik, Miss Mary, I. 228, 231, 235. 
 
 Criticism and its value, I, 126-8. 
 
 Cunningham, Allan, I. 175-6; II. 
 169; dinner to, at Dumfries, 
 190-1. 
 
 Darwin, Charles, I. 173. 
 Darwin's, Erasmus, visits to 
 
 Cheyne Row, I. 173. 
 Davis, President, I. 239. 
 Democracy, forbidden, inevitable, 
 
 II. 197. 
 De Quincey, and his review of 
 
 Wilhebn Meisfer, II. 151-3 ; 
 
 Southey's rage against him, 
 
 282-3. 
 Dickens, Charles, I. 248 ; II. 250. 
 Dickson, Mrs., Irving's eldest 
 
 sister, II. 95, iSi, 184-5. 
 Dinwiddie, Mr., zealous friend of 
 
 Irving's, II. 121. 
 Dixon, Frank ; his sunny career, 
 
 with tragic thunders waiting it, 
 
 II. 62-7. 
 Donaldson, Irving's assistant at 
 
 Kirkcaldy, II. 32. 
 Donaldson, the Misses, I. 203, 207. 
 Dow, Rev. David, II. 1S6. 
 Drummond, Henry, I. 103 ; II. 
 
 loi, 218 ; Carlyle's description 
 
 of 187, 198-9. 
 Duncan, Rev. Henry, of Ruth- 
 well, II. 19. 
 
 EccLEFEClHAN Meeting - House, 
 
 11. 15- 
 
 Ellice, Edward, M.P. for Coventry, 
 
 I. 206. 
 Emerson's visit to Craigenputtock, 
 
 I. 85 ; in America, first printed 
 
 Sartor Rcsartus in book form, 
 gonote; sent Carlyle ^^150 
 from sales of French Rcvoliitiou, 
 112. 
 
 Empson, Mrs., II. 247, 269, 270. 
 
 Empson, William, II. 269, 270. 
 
 Esther's, old, last days, I. 87-9. 
 
 Erskine, Thomas, I. 247-8 ; II. 
 75 note. 
 
 Fearn, Mr., II. 132. 
 
 Fenwick, Miss, Sir Henry Taylor's 
 cousin, II. 279, 291-2. 
 
 Fleming, Dr. ,of Edinburgh, II. 103, 
 
 Forster, John ; his devoted friend- 
 ship to Carlyle, I. 190, 226, 248, 
 250, 266, 276 ; his unexampled 
 kindness, 251, 253; appointed 
 one of Carlyle's Executors, 
 266-73. 
 
 French, Rev. Mr., entertains Car- 
 lyle, Irving, and Warrand Car- 
 lile, II. 88. 
 
 French Revolution, the, a suicidal 
 explosion of an old wicked world, 
 too wicked, false and impious 
 for living longer, II. 289. 
 
 Froude, Mr. ; editorial inaccur- 
 acies, see Preface, also I. 54 ; 
 his loving promise to take 
 precious charge of the "Letters 
 and Memorials," 270; Executor, 
 in place of John Forster, de- 
 ceased, 274 ; mentioned also, 
 189, 210, 266. 
 
 George IV. 's visit to Edinburgh, 
 
 II. 84. 
 Gibbon, II. 28. 
 Glasgow Radicals, rising of the, 
 
 II. 68 ; Life in Glasgow, 70-2. 
 Glen, Mr. and Mrs., of Annan, 
 
 II. Zi-Z, 37, 231.
 
 INDEX 
 
 319 
 
 Godby, i\Irs., I. 210. 
 
 Goethe, I. 1 1 ; his correspondence 
 
 with Carlyle, 85 ; II. 169, 193 ; 
 
 Carlyle's endless debt to him, l8o. 
 . . . ^/^ v.- 
 
 Gomm, Sir William, I. 238. 
 
 Gordon, Margaret, II. 57-9. 
 
 Gorsas, execution of, II. 303. 
 
 Graham, Sir James, I. 165. 
 
 Graham, William, of Burnswark, 
 
 I. 89 ; II. 71 ; account of him 
 and his family, 78-84. 
 
 Grant, Captain, II. 122. 
 
 Hales-Owen, and its nail forges, 
 
 II. 149. 
 
 Hall, Captain Basil, II. 60. 
 
 Hall, Dr., of Leicester, II. 151. 
 
 Hamilton, William, Mrs. Irving's 
 brother-in-law, II. 121. 
 
 Harvard College, bequest of books 
 to, in remembrance of many kind- 
 nesses received from America, 
 I. 268-9. 
 ^Jfelitt,n>^ n. 111,132, 250-1. 
 
 Henderson, Robert, I. 39. 
 
 Hevelius, Johannes, II. 234 note. 
 
 Hoddam Hill, Carlyle for a year 
 tenant of, II. 177-8. 
 
 Holland, Lady, I. 117. 
 
 Hope, Adam, Irving's schoolmaster 
 at Annan, II. 6-14; his uncle 
 David, 10; his wife's death, 24. 
 
 Hope, David, Adam's cousin, II. 
 
 71, 77. 
 Horrox, II. 234. 
 Houghton, Lord, I. 247. 
 Hunt, Leigh, at Chcyne Row, I. 
 
 loi ; described, 104, 174-5. 
 Huxley, Professor, I. 247. 
 
 iNCiiKErrii, and its Lighthouse, 
 
 n. 35-7- 
 Inglis, Dr., II. 231. 
 
 Irving, Edward ; his reverence for 
 Dr. Welsh, I. 74, 143 ; his one 
 visit to Cheyne Row, 103 ; II. 
 
 I, 215 ; always so hoping and 
 so generous, I. 135 ; takes Car- 
 lyle to Mrs. Welsh's house, 146; 
 
 II. 85 ; his kindred cheerfully 
 quiet, rational and honest people, 
 2-6 ; his mother a tall black- 
 eyed handsome woman, 5 ; his 
 remarkable schoolmaster, Adam 
 Hope, 6-14 ; early religious life, 
 1 1-5 ; visits Annan school, 16-8; 
 slight tiff with Carlyle in Edin- 
 burgh, 22-4 ; heartily welcomes 
 him to Kirkcaldy, 24-7; a pleas- 
 ant and profitable time, 29 ; 
 walks and talks together, 29-32; 
 the Inchkeith adventure, 32-7 ; 
 visits to Edinburgh, 38 ; his 
 early earnest style of preaching, 
 40-3 ; tour to the Trosachs, etc., 
 with Carlyle, Pears, and James 
 Brown, 43-53; with Carlyle 
 through Yarrow and Moffatdale, 
 53-6; ever - increasing esteem 
 between Irving and Carlyle's 
 Father, 56 ; looking forward to 
 a Clerical career, 59-61; negotia- 
 tion with Dr. Chalmers, 61 ; 
 accepted by the great Doctor and 
 his Congregation, 67; his friendly 
 sympathy with the poor Glasgow 
 weavers, 70 ; life in Glasgow, 
 71 ; characteristics of his ser- 
 mons, 75-77 ; takes Carlyle to 
 Haddington, 85 ; with Carlyle 
 on Drumclog Moss, 88 ; his 
 happy visits to his happy home 
 in Annandale, 96 ; very generous 
 to everybody's talent, 97 ; his 
 position at Glasgow not without 
 its embarrassments, 98 ; invitetl
 
 320 
 
 INDEX 
 
 to London, 99 ; huge content- 
 ment of his congregation and of 
 all onlookers, loo ; recommends 
 Carlyle as Tutor to Charles 
 Buller and his brother, 102 ; 
 rumours in Scotland of his 
 boundless popularity, 108 ; on 
 his wedding tour, superlatively 
 happy, 109-13 ; introduces Car- 
 lyle's Schiller to the London 
 Magazine, 113; warmly wel- 
 comes him in London, and in- 
 troduces him to London society, 
 116-134, 140, 142, 166, 168; 
 drawing-room furnished as if by 
 beneficent fairies, 1 18; a pretty 
 group of merry girls, 120; his 
 preaching at Hatton Garden, 
 134 ; Christian Religion to be a 
 truth again, and not a mere 
 paltry form, 135 ; his popularity 
 and endless patience with people 
 crowding about him, 136-7, 
 140 ; laying the foundation of 
 the Caledonian Chapel, 142 ; at 
 Dover with Carlyle and the 
 Stracheys, 155-6, 165 ; " Pulpit 
 Popularity," 167, 173 ; Interpret- 
 ations of Prophecy, 174-5, 187; 
 address to the Missionary Society, 
 182; a touch of rash ostentation, 
 183 ; brief visit to his father and 
 mother at Annan, 183-4; visit 
 to Comley Bank, 185; must go 
 then, and suffer persecutions as 
 my fathers have done, 186 ; visit 
 to Craigenputtock, franker and 
 happier than for a long time, 
 186-9 ; deposed from the Scot- 
 tish Established Kirk, 189-90, 
 208-9 ; removes to a larger house 
 in Judd-Street, 196; talk with 
 Carlyle ; getting deep in pro- 
 
 phecy and other aberrations ; 
 condemnation of Democracy, 
 197 ; Gift of Tongues, 204-5 5 
 Carlyle's earnest and friendly 
 expostulation, met by him with 
 a modesty and friendly magna- 
 nimity which no mortal could 
 surpass, 206-8 ; the last time he 
 ever preached in Annandale, 
 209 ; met by Carlyle in Kensing- 
 ton Gardens ; his hair grown 
 gray, his elasticity and strength 
 gone, but himself as kind and 
 loving as ever, 212 ; at New- 
 man Street, 214 ; his first, and 
 farewell visit to Cheyne Row, 
 215-6; his last letters to his 
 Wife, of almost apocalyptic im- 
 pressiveness, 217. 
 
 Irving, George, with his brother 
 at Kirkcaldy, II. 27. 
 
 Irving, Washington, II. 161. 
 
 Jeffrey, Lord, I. 79 ; visits to 
 Craigenputtock, 85-6, 89 ; II. 
 245-8; the cleverest of advocates, 
 I. 141 ; II. 226; introduces Car- 
 lyle to Murray, 200 ; one of 
 the Scotch Judges, 221 7iote, 
 224 ; singular instance of his 
 Advocate skill, 225-9 ; personal 
 characteristics, 230-1, 262; Car- 
 lyle's first visit, 235-7 ; return 
 visit ; much taken with Mrs. 
 Carlyle, 238-9, 265 ; long dis- 
 cussions, and argumentative 
 thrustings and parryings be- 
 tween him and Carlyle, 240-2 ; 
 his singular talent for mimicry, 
 248-50 ; sends ^50 for Hazlitt, 
 251 ; receives Mr. and Mrs. 
 Carlyle at Craigcrook ; in- 
 curable divergence of opinions.
 
 INDEX 
 
 321 
 
 252-3 ; generously presses upon 
 C'arlyle an annuity of ;^ioo, 
 which could not be accepted, 
 254 ; lends >^ioo, punctually 
 repaid within a few weeks, 
 255 ; parliamentary wear and 
 tear, 256-7 ; his apartments in 
 Jermyn Street, 258; recommends 
 Dr. John Carlyle as Travelling 
 Physician to Lady Clare, 259 ; 
 frequent visits to Ampton Street, 
 261-3; offends Carlyle about the 
 appointment to the Edinburgh 
 Observatory, 265-8 ; returns to 
 Edinburgh ; seldom a better 
 Judge, said everybody, 269; his 
 peaceful death, 270; his influence 
 on Literature, 271-3. 
 Jeffrey, Mrs., previously Miss 
 
 Jewsbury's, Mfss, nfytnical account 
 of Mrs. Carlyle, L 54-69 ; Car- 
 lyle's corrections, 69-84, 89-90 ; 
 her account of the burning of 
 the candles, 255. 
 
 Johnston, Rev. John, of Eccle- 
 fechan, I. 40-1 ; IL 13. 
 
 Johnston, Mr. and Mrs., of the 
 Grange, Annandale, IL 83, 181. 
 
 Johnstone, James, IL 225. 
 
 Kennedy, Nell, defended by 
 Jeffrey, II. 226-8. 
 
 Kirkcaldy, Carlyle and Irving at, 
 II. 29-37 ; Irving preaches in 
 Kirkcaldy Kirk, 42. 
 
 Kirkpatrick, Miss, a great favour- 
 ite with Irving and his Wife, II. 
 117-8,123; her interesting char- 
 acter, 125 ; her trip, with Mr. 
 Strachey and Carlyle, to Paris, 
 156-8. 
 
 Knox, John, I. 133. 
 VOL. IL 
 
 Lamk, Charles, as he appeared to 
 Carlyle, I. 94 ; II. 132. 
 
 Laplace, seen by Carlyle in Paris, 
 IL 163. 
 
 Larkin, Henry, sent for by Mrs. 
 Carlyle, I. 215. 
 
 Laughter, characteristic kinds of, 
 
 I. 153-4- 
 Laurie, Sir Peter, 1 1. 121-2, 162. 
 Legendre, Carlyle's brief interview 
 
 with, II. 163. 
 Leslie, Professor, II. 17, 26. 
 Londo7i Reviezv, starting of the, I. 
 
 "3- 
 
 London University, the, progress- 
 ing towards fulfilment, II. 184. 
 Lothian, Lady, I. 69, 132. 
 Lyttelton, Lord, II. 150. 
 
 Macbeth, Rev. Mr., Irving's com- 
 passion for, II. 137-9. 
 
 Macculloch, Ramsay, I. 165. 
 
 Macdonald, Grace, I. 80. 
 
 Macleod, Sandy, at Brownknowe, 
 I. 28. 
 
 Malcolm, Lieutenant, meets Car- 
 lyle in Paris, II. 159 ; hanging 
 looselyby literature in Edinburgh, 
 160; disgust for War, 160-1. 
 
 Marshalls, the, of Leeds, I. 117, 
 181-4 ; II. 306. 
 
 Martineau, Harriet, I. 176-180. 
 
 Martin, Rev. Mr., Minister at Kirk- 
 caldy, II. 39, 153, 215. 
 
 Mason, a noble craft that of a, I. 
 
 37- 
 Masson, David, I. 266, 276. 
 Maxwell, Sir W., " like one of the 
 
 Gentlemen in Goethe," I. 11. 
 Mazzini ; his visits at Cheyne Row, 
 
 I. IIO-II. 
 Mentone, Carlyle at, II. 196. 
 Methodism, II. 188. 
 
 Y
 
 322 
 
 INDEX 
 
 Miles, Eliza, I. 68, 92, 102 ; II. 
 
 202. 
 Millar, Mr., Laird of Dalswinton, 
 
 and builder of the first model 
 
 steamship, II. 49. 
 Mill, John Stuart, one of Carlyle's 
 
 most interesting visitors, I. 92 ; 
 
 introduces Mrs. Taylor, 104 ; 
 
 very helpful about the French 
 
 Revolution, 105 ; burning of the 
 
 first volume, 106-7. 
 Moffatdale, with its green holms 
 
 and hill ranges, II. 55. 
 Moir's, G. , sketches of Craigen- 
 
 puttock, I. 85. 
 Molesworth, Sir William, I. 113. 
 Moncreiff, Sir Harry, his high 
 
 regard for Irving, II. 99. 
 Montagu, Basil, his parentage and 
 
 household, II. 126-30. 
 Montagu, Mrs., I. 92; II. 112, 
 
 127-30, 181. 
 Monteagle, Lord (Spring-Rice), I. 
 
 116, 183, 187 ; II. 306. 
 Morley, Mr., teacher of mathe- 
 matics, II. 17. 
 Muirkirk smelting-furnace, tragedy 
 
 at, II. 90-1. 
 Murray the publisher, II. 2CO-i, 
 
 258. 
 
 Neuberg, Joseph, for more than 
 twenty years, ever-loyal, ever- 
 patient, ardent, ever-willing to 
 do service in every kind, I. 191 
 note. 
 
 Nichol, mathematical teacher in 
 Edinburgh, II. 32. 
 
 Oliphant, Mrs., I. 73, 249 ; II. 
 136 ; her Life of Irving, 216. 
 
 Orr, John, schoolmaster of Hod- 
 dam, at Brownknowe, I. 29 ; 
 
 his devout yet irregular life, 
 30-2. 
 Owen, Robert Dale, II. 52. 
 
 Parkks, Joe, of Birmingham, II. 
 150. 
 
 Parr, Dr., II. 144, 148-9. 
 
 Pears, fellow-tourist with Carlyle 
 and Irving, II. 43-53 ; leaves 
 Kirkcaldy, 59. 
 
 Pictet's, M., Theory of Gravitation, 
 
 - II. 233-4. 
 
 Poor, the condition of the, growing 
 worse and worse, 1. 48 ; II. 68-9. 
 
 Posterity, II. 204. 
 
 Praed, W. M., II. 280-1. 
 
 Procter, B. W., II. 133-4; intro- 
 duces Carlyle to Jeffrey, 235. 
 
 Publishers' accounts, II. 170. 
 
 QuAiN, Dr., I. 223-4 ; writes an 
 authentic account of Mrs. Car- 
 lyle's death, 250 ; his kindness 
 to Carlyle, 251. 
 
 Queensberry, the Duke of, and his 
 well-contented farmers, II. 4, 79. 
 
 Rennie, George, I. 70. 
 
 Repentance, Tower of, II. 177. 
 
 Ridiculous, sense of the, I. 154. 
 
 Robinson, Crabbe, first of the 
 ' Own Correspondents,' II. 132. 
 
 Rothes, Countess of, II. 32. 
 
 Russell, Dr., I. 235. 
 
 Russell's, Lady William, friend- 
 ship for Mrs. Carlyle, I. 118, 
 244. 
 
 Rutherfurd, Andrew, II. 259. 
 
 St. Leonards, I. 229. 
 Sandwich, the Dowager Lady, I. 
 
 118, 131. 
 Sartor Resartus, written at Craig-
 
 ■Sc^vM^'' C^ i/(C/ INDEX 
 
 3^3 
 
 enputtock, I. 90; declined by 
 the publishers, 91-2 ; II. 200 ; 
 first genesis of, 190- 1 ; not the 
 smallest whisper of recognition, 
 ^-. 289. 
 
 Scotsbrig, a farmhouse in the 
 parish of Middlebie, I. I note. 
 
 Sharpe, General, I. 50. 
 
 Shelley, Southey's and Carlyle's 
 estimate of, II. 292-3. 
 
 Sinclair, Sir John, met by Carlyle 
 and Irving, II. 175. 
 
 Skirving, author of Preston- Pan's 
 Battle ; his answer to a military 
 challenge, II. 86 note. 
 
 Small, Tom, Carlyle's first com- 
 panion to Edinburgh, II. 221-5. 
 
 Smith, W., M.P. for Norwich, II. 
 276. 
 
 Smollett's Pillar, II. 47. 
 
 Southey as a Writer, II. 276-8 ; 
 Carlyle introduced to hirn by 
 Henry Taylor, 278-85 ; personal 
 characteristics, 279, 281 -2, 283 
 note, 284 ; his contempt for the 
 existing set of Parliaments, 280 ; 
 his rage against De Quincey, 
 282-3 '■> overwhelmed in domestic 
 misery, 285 ; further interviews 
 with Carlyle, 285 ; his ample 
 recognition of the true purpose o' 
 French Revolution, 289 ; visit to 
 Carlyle in Cheyne Row, 291-3 ; 
 could not rise into admiration of 
 Shelley, 292 ; his second mar- 
 riage, 293, 295 ; Carlyle's last 
 interview ; earnest talk of the 
 steady decline of morality in 
 England, 294 ; Southey's last sad 
 days, 295. 
 
 Spedding, James, I. 182 ; II. 300. 
 Stephen, Sir James, and the Col- 
 onial Office, I. 186. 
 
 Stephen, Sir J. F., one of Carlyle's 
 
 Executors, I. 275. 
 Sterling, John, I. 131, 186; II. 
 
 299 ; Carlyle's Life of, I. 
 
 192. 
 Sterlings, the, at Cheyne Row, I. 
 
 109, 112, 186. 
 Story, Rev. Robert, of Roseneath, 
 
 II. 48. 
 Strachey, Mr., II. 124, 156-7, 
 
 164. 
 Strachey, Mrs., II. 49, iSi ; her 
 
 beautiful character, 102, 118, 
 
 123 ; at Dover with the Irvings, 
 
 155-6 ; gifts to Carlyle, 176. 
 Style in writing, II. 41. 
 Sweetheart Abbey, I. 164 note, 
 
 266. 
 
 Tait, Robert, I. 276. 
 
 Talma, Carlyle sees, act at Paris, 
 
 II. 165. 
 Taylor, Sir Henry, I. 109, 115; 
 
 Carlyle's description of, II. 
 
 278 ; introduces him to Southey 
 
 and Wordsworth, 279, 281, 
 
 299. 
 Tennent, Sir Emerson, II. 159. 
 Thackeray's review of the French 
 
 Revolution, II. 288. 
 Thompson, publisher of Burns's 
 
 Songs, II. 94. 
 Thomson, Rev. Andrew, II. 61-2. 
 Twisleton, Hon. Edward, I. 253. 
 Tyndall, Professor, accompanies 
 
 Carlyle to Edinburgh, I. 246-8 ; 
 
 and to Mentone, II. 196. 
 
 Warren, Mrs., I. 255-6, 268. 
 
 Waugh, Dr., Carlyle's predecessor 
 at the Annan school, II. 21 ; 
 Carlyle and Irving meet at his 
 liouse in Edinburgh, 22-3.
 
 324 
 
 INDEX 
 
 Wellington, the Duke of, at Bath 
 House, I. 129 ; his Funeral 
 Procession ; characteristics of 
 his speaking, 130; mentioned, 
 172. 
 
 Welsh, Benjamin, Dr. Welsh's 
 youngest brother, I. 146. 
 
 Welsh, Dr. ; tender affection for 
 his daughter, I. 71 ; Irving's 
 reverential feeling for him, 74, 
 143-4 ; his death, 74 ; purchased 
 Craigenputtock, 80 note, 138; 
 his parentage, 133 ; born at 
 Craigenputtock, 141 ; schooling, 
 and steady success in his profes- 
 sion, 142-5 ; a kind heart, 145 ; 
 marries Grace Welsh of Caple- 
 gill, 145 ; their married life loyal 
 and happy, sunnier than most, 
 149. 
 
 Welsh, Jeannie, old Walter Welsh's 
 excellent and devoted daughter, 
 I. 157 ; her death, 160. 
 
 Welsh, John, minister of Ayr, and 
 son-in-law to John Knox, I. 
 
 133-4- 
 
 Welsh, John, Mrs. Carlyle's ma- 
 ternal uncle, I. 95 ; a prosperous 
 merchant in Liverpool, 156 ; 
 assists his old father, 157; al- 
 most ruined by the treachery of 
 his partner, 158 ; all his father's 
 veracity and integrity ; kind, 
 munificent and frank, 166-7; 
 his creditors all honourably 
 and gratefully paid, 168 ; 
 his visits to Craigenputtock, 
 170. 
 
 Welsh, John, Mrs. Carlyle's pa- 
 ternal grandfather, I. 133 ; pro- 
 babilities as to his descent from 
 John Knox, I. 1 33-4 ; clearness, 
 decision, and integrity of cha- 
 
 racter, 135 ; his grandfather's 
 adventure with the Dragoons, 
 etc., 136; his runaway match, 
 138 ; sells Craigenputtock to his 
 son, Dr. Welsh, and prospers as 
 a farmer, 138-40. 
 
 Welsh, Miss Margaret, Mrs. Car- 
 lyle's cousin, I. 206, 208, 219, 
 224, 254, 268. 
 
 Welsh, Mrs. ; her death, I. 121 ; 
 little faults of character, 123 ; 
 Carlyle's first visit, 146 ; a most 
 generous, honourable, affection- 
 ate turn of mind, 148-51 ; takes 
 unwearied care of her old 
 father, 161. 
 
 Welsh, old Walter, and his little 
 grandchild, I. 77 ; Mrs. Carlyle's 
 maternal grandfather, 151 ; mi- 
 crocosm of old Scottish Life as 
 it had been, 152; 'his radiant 
 ever-young Apollo' laugh, 153 ; 
 married and settled at Caplegill, 
 154 ; lost it at last by the treach- 
 ery of a neighbour, 155 ; after 
 that had no more farming pros- 
 perity, 1 56 ; peaceful life atTemp- 
 land, 157-63. 
 
 Welsh, Robert, at Craigenputtock, 
 I. 84, 134. 
 
 Whewell, Professor, I. 173, 183. 
 
 Wilberforce the philanthropist, II. 
 
 304-5- 
 Wilhelm Mcister, IL II5, 219. 
 Wilkie's Rent Day, II. 73-4. 
 Will and Testament, Carlyle's 
 
 Last, I. 267-77. 
 Wilson, I. 79 ; II. in. 
 Wilson's, Miss, interest in Carlyle's 
 
 Lectures, I. 115, 185. 
 Wordsworth, Carlyle's and Sir 
 
 Henry Taylor's estimates of, II. 
 
 297-8 ; their several meetings,
 
 INDEX 
 
 325 
 
 229 ; talked with veracity, easy 
 brevity, and force, 300-1 ; per- 
 sonal characteristics, 301 ; his 
 limiting abatements of our great 
 poets ; seemed to know but one 
 supreme specimen, 302 ; his 
 clear eye for the notable men he 
 
 had met, 303-5 ; his perfect 
 equanimity as a literary lion, 
 306-9. 
 
 Yarrow and its shepherds, hap- 
 piest of peasant labourers, II. 
 54- 
 
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