LIFE OF 
 
 MRS CARLYLE 
 
LIFE OF 
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 
 
 BY / 
 
 MRS AI.EXANDER IRELAND 
 
 K-v-CK-J 
 
 • All at once they leave you ; and you know them ' 
 
 Browning's Paracelsus 
 
 WITH A PORTRAIT AND FACSIMILE LETTER 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 CHARLES L WEBSTER & COMPANY 
 1891 
 

 Copyright, 1891, 
 
 By CHARLES L. WEBSTER & CO. 
 
 {^All rights reserved J) 
 
 PllESS OF 
 
 Jenkins & McCowan, 
 
 HEW yoE5. 
 
6f ^ 
 
 . PREFACE 
 
 I HA^E wished for some years to write about Jane Welsh 
 Carlyle, were it only to echo from my heart the opinions of 
 those who were privileged to know her — those whose eyes 
 were open to her deep, isolated nature, her shining gifts, her 
 unique charm, and her life of pain. 
 
 My first step was to apply to Mr. Carlyle's literary 
 executor, Mr. Froude, for permission to avail myself of his 
 exhaustive volumes, without which my task could not pos- 
 sibly have been attempted. This permission was most kindly 
 granted me, and it must be observed that all quotations, 
 passages from letters, &c., in this memoir — unless specially 
 indicated as drawn from other sources — may be referred to 
 Mr. Froude's pages. 
 
 I am indebted to Mr. D. G. Ritchie, Fellow and Tutor 
 of Jesus College, Oxford, for valuable aid. Through his 
 courtesy I secured the consent of his publishers, Messrs. 
 Swan Sonnenschein, to use certain passages from the 
 'Early Letters of Jane Welsh Carlyle.' He has kindly made 
 the Index to the present volume. 
 
 Mr. Ritchie also gave me information which resulted in 
 my obtaining access to the hitherto unpublished letters from 
 Mrs. Carlyle to Mrs. Dinning, the * Grace Rennie ' of the old 
 Haddington days. For the permission to publish these letters, 
 
VI PREFA CE 
 
 as well as for the sight of the originals, I am directly in- 
 debted to Mrs. Anthony F. Nichol, of Bradford House, 
 Belford, Northumberland. This lady is a grand-daughter of 
 Mrs. Dinning. 
 
 I have received much aid, in more directions than one, 
 from Mr. Henry Larkin, the devoted friend of both Mr. and 
 Mrs. Carlyle. He it is whose article, * A Ten Years' Remin- 
 iscence ' — published some years ago in the ' British Quarterly 
 Review' — shows such understanding and sympathy. To Mr. 
 Larkin I also owe the letter of Mrs. Carlyle to himself, which 
 is here given in facsimile. 
 
 Mr. John Stores Smith, of The Laurels, Chesterfield, 
 literary executor to the late Miss Jewsbury, kindly placed 
 in my hands the letter from Mrs. Carlyle to this beloved 
 friend of hers. The letter, though undated, and without 
 post-mark, bears indisputable testimony as to the time at 
 which it was written, namely within a very few months of 
 Mrs. Carlyle's death. ^ 
 
 I am also grateful to Mr, David Douglas, publisher, 
 Edinburgh, for permission to use certain extracts of singular 
 interest from Lieutenant-Colonel Davidson's ' Memorials of a 
 Long Life.' 
 
 The Collotype photograph has been executed by Messrs. 
 Elliott & Fry, from a portrait of Mrs. Carlyle, taken about 
 the year 1850. It is pronounced by one who knew her well, 
 to be one of the most characteristic presentments possible. 
 
 ANNIE E. IRELAND. 
 
 May i8gi. ■ 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PART I 
 GIRLHOOD 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 A. D. 1801-1819 
 
 PAGE 
 Early days in Haddington — The Welsh family — Dr. John Welsh 
 — His marriage — John Welsh of Liverpool — The home at 
 Haddington — The only child — Her beauty and talent — The 
 rival grandfathers — Schooldays at Haddington — Jeannie's love 
 of danger and adventure — Edward Irvmg as private tutor — 
 Early signs of originality in the ' only child ' i 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 A. D. 1819-1821 
 
 Strong attachment between the father and daughter — The last 
 talk — Sudden illness and death of Dr. John Welsh — Jeannie's 
 ' Paganism ' — Serious thoughts — ' Early letters ' to Eliza 
 Stodart — Boarding-school in Edinburgh — Active tendencies — 
 Teaching — Characteristics more plainly shown — The loss of 
 the father's influence — Haddington felt to be dull — Earlv^ 
 lovers — Power of language 16 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 A. D. 18121 
 
 First meeting with Thomas Carlyle — Introduction by Edward 
 Irving — The May evening — Irving's attachment to Miss Welsh 
 — Carlyle and Margaret Gordon — Isabella Martin — George 
 Rennie— Miss Welsh's early impressions of Carlyle — Literary 
 ambitions and projects — Irving's engagement to Miss Isabella 
 Martin — Miss Welsh's hesitation in accepting Carlyle as a 
 lover — Miss Welsh's readings of Rousseau — George Rennie's 
 departure — Visit of Carlyle to Haddington — Possibilities, ... 25 
 
 vii 
 
Vlii CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 A. D. 1821-1825 
 
 PAGE 
 Miss Welsh's German studies — Projected literary work — Irving's 
 anxieties as to Miss Welsh's reading — Remonstrances — Ir- 
 ving goes to London — He introduces Carlyle to the Bullers — 
 The tutorship — More intimate correspondence between Car- 
 lyle and Miss Welsh — Friendship the footing prescribed by 
 Miss Welsh — Irving's marriage to Miss Martin — Continuation 
 of the Buller engagement — Carlyle's wooing, and its results 
 — Stoical acceptance of repulse — Dr. Fyffe — Miss Welsh's ad- 
 miration for genius — The letter from Goethe to Carlyle — Sym- 
 pathy on Byron's death — ' Benjamin B ' — Miss Welsh does 
 
 not pay a visit to the Irvings in London , 34 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 A. D. 1825 
 
 Carlyle in London — Thoughts of marriage — Difficulties — Mrs. 
 Montagu — 'Barry Cornwall' — Allan Cunningham — The break- 
 ing off of the Buller engagement — Irving's hospitality — Seri- 
 ous reflections — Consultations with Miss Welsh — The idea of 
 ' living on a farm ' — Miss Welsh's very different project — Car- 
 lyle's independent spirit — Exceptional position of affairs — 
 Miss Welsh's delicate health — The proposal to farm Craigen- 
 puttock — Final decision left to Miss Welsh — Suspense — Dis- 
 cussion — Modest wants of Carlyle — Miss Welsh demurs at 
 the essential conditions, but still proffers friendship — Carlyle's 
 renewed professions of attachment 43 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 A. D. 1825 
 
 Carlyle at Hoddam Hill — Miss Welsh's transference of Craigen- 
 puttock to her mother — Carlyle's personal appearance at this 
 time — Miss Welsh's beauty — Letter from Mrs. Montagu to 
 Miss Welsh — Reference to Edward Irving — An independent 
 spirit — Second letter of Mrs. Montagu — Results — Miss Welsh 
 informs Carlyle of her old attachment to Irving — A woman's 
 appeal — Carlyle's reply — Imperfect understanding — Exciting 
 correspondence — Engagement of Miss Welsh and Thomas 
 Carlyle — Visits to Hoddam Hill and Mainhill — Difficulties as 
 to future residence — Incompatibility between Carlyle and Mrs. 
 Vv^elsh — Misgivings — Correspondence with the Carlyle family 
 — Their removal to Scotsbrig 60 
 
CONTENTS IX 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 A. D. 1825-1826 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Loyalty of Miss Welsh — Her sense of being bound to the engage- 
 ment with Carlyle — Proposal to live at Scotsbrig — The actual 
 versus the ideal — Miss Welsh's mind made up — Carlyle's de- 
 termination not to live in the house with Mrs. Welsh — A 
 daughter's devotion and appeal — Renunciation of the cherished 
 wish — The point yielded 71 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 A. D. 1S2O 
 
 Mrs. Welsh decides to further the marriage — Herdecision to live 
 with her father at Templand — The Carlyle parents see the im- 
 possibility of their son's bride living at Scotsbrig — A new 
 home to be chosen — Impossible conditions — Blindness of Car- 
 lyle to the actual situation — Trying uncertainty — The idea of 
 the home at Haddington as a residence for the newly-married 
 pair — Painful objections — The idea abandoned — Recurring 
 failure of plans — And a dissimilarity in ideas — The proposed 
 cottage in Annandale 77 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 A. D. 1826 
 
 The home at Haddington broken up — Comely Bank furnished by 
 Mrs. Welsh — Immediate difficulty over — Miss Welsh happier 
 — Her pride in Carlyle's genius — Her estimate of him — The 
 marriage at Templand — Natural cravings for the affection of 
 Carlyle on the part of his bride-elect — Her unconventionality 
 — State of mind as to the approaching ceremony — Miss Welsh 
 prepares to put off her mourning for the occasion — The ' three 
 cigars ' — Good resolutions — White gowns — A post-chaise to 
 Comely Bank 83 
 
 PART II 
 EARLY MARRIED LIFE 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 A. D. 1826 
 
 Comely Bank — Good resolutions — Social opportunities — A wifely 
 letter — Narrow income — Visit of Dr. John Carlyle — The daily 
 life — The little ' Wednesday evenings ' — Friendship with 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 Jeffrey — Brighter prospects — Household activities on Mrs. 
 Carlyle's part — Renewed ideas of living at Craigenputtock — 
 Its unsuitability to Mrs. Carlyle's needs — Carlyle visits it 
 with his brother Alick — The tenant about to leave — Letter 
 from Mrs. Carlyle — Loving response 95 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 A. D. 1827 
 
 Alexander Carlyle and his sister Mary go to live at Craigen- 
 puttock — The visit of the Carlyles to Templand, Scotsbrig, 
 &c. — Prospect of some professorship for Carlyle — Disappoint- 
 ment — Decision for Craigenputtock — A sacrifice — Bleak and 
 barren situation of the new home — Jeffrey's disapproval of 
 the plan — Mrs. Carlyle's courage — House-moving — Carlyle's 
 despair — Correspondence of Mrs. Carlyle with her old friend, 
 Miss Eliza Stodart — Ideals of married life relinquished — Car- 
 lyle's frequent depression and absorption in his work — The 
 wife's isolation 103 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 A. D. 1827-1829 
 
 Cares of bread ' — The first loaf — Visit of the Jeffreys to Craigen- 
 puttock — Mrs. Carlyle's preparatory ride to Dumfries — 
 Friendly advice of Jeffrey to Carlyle — Invitation to Moray 
 Place — The two mountain ponies — Mrs. Carlyle's loneliness — 
 ' Brother Alick ' — A visit to Templand — Letter from the wife 
 to the husband — Visit of the Carlyles to Edinburgh — 22 George 
 Square — Return to ' The Desert ' — Serious illness of Mrs. 
 Carlyle — Visit of Mrs. Welsh — Permanently weakened 
 health no 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 A. D. 1830-1831 
 
 Alexander Carlyle leaves Craigenputtock — Second visit of the 
 Jeffreys to the Carlyles in their solitude — Mrs. Carlyle con- 
 fesses her unhappiness to Jeffrey — The eventless life again 
 sets in — The Jeffreys go to London — Carlyle's generosity to 
 his brothers — He accepts help from Jeffrey, and goes to Lon- 
 don to push his literary enterprises — A hard and sad time 
 for Mrs. Carlyle — Ill-health and anxiety — Her verdict on 
 'Sartor' — Letters from Carlyle to his wife — Irving in the 
 region of the supernatural — Caution of publishers — Good ap- 
 pointment for Dr. John Carlyle — Thoughts of living in Lon- 
 
CONTENTS XI 
 
 PAGE 
 
 don — Tender letters from Carlyle — Solitude doing its work 
 on the delicate constitution of Mrs. Carlyle — Kindness of 
 Carlyle's mother — Mrs. Carlyle's determination to join her 
 husband in London — Encouragement ii8 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 A. D. 1831 
 
 Mrs. Carlyle's arrival in London — Ampton Street — The Irvings 
 — Ill-health of Mrs. Carlyle — Position with Mrs. Montagu — 
 Meetings with congenial spirits — Carlyle still restless — Death 
 of his father — Impending return to Craigenputtock — Mis- 
 givings — A sad return — Solitary habits — Realisation of the 
 actual by Mrs. Carlyle — Jeffrey's anxiety about Mrs. Carlyle. 125 
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 A. D. 1832-1834 
 
 Carlyle's letter to his mother — Mrs. Carlyle's overstrained nerves 
 and failing strength — Her letter to Eliza Stodart — Mrs. 
 Welsh's delicate health — Death of Walter Welsh of Templand 
 
 , — The Carlyles plan a long visit to Edinburgh — The home at 18 
 Carlton Street, Stockbridge — The ' disgraceful home march' 
 — An ' angel's visit ' at Craigenputtock — Meeting of Emerson 
 and the Carlyles — The relapse into solitude — Living in Lon- 
 don seriously contemplated — Preparations 133 
 
 PART III 
 LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 A. D. 1 834-1 836 
 
 The new, yet old life — Unalterable conditions — The removal to 
 London — Leigh Hunt — John Stuart Mill — Allan Cunningham 
 — The circle of friends — Edward Irving's visit — George Rennie 
 and his sister — Eliza Miles — Burning of the MS. of Vol. I. of 
 ' French Revolution ' — Wifely sympathy — ' The Sterlings ' — 
 Sprinklings of foreigners — Domestic difficulties — Visit of 
 Mrs. Welsh — Maternal counsels from Scotsbrig — Godefroi de 
 Cavaignac 145 
 
Xll CONTENT'S 
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 A. D. I 836-1 840 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Retrospect on the Scotch journey — Return to Chelsea — Mrs. 
 Carlyle's letter to Sterling — Carlyle's supposed ' lady- 
 admirers ' — The lectures — Success and congratulations — 
 Second visit of Mrs. Welsh — Flight of Carlyle into Annandale 
 — ' The bird and the watch ' — Regrets and ill-health of Mrs. 
 Carlyle — Cheque from Emerson, being proceeds of ' French 
 Revolution ' — John Sterling's health — Reflections thereon — 
 Carlyle again in Scotland — Letter to John Forster : ' Why do 
 women marry ? ' — The ' Lion's wife ! ' 154 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 A. D. I 841-1846 
 
 Trouble at Templand — Sudden alarm — Summons too late — Mrs. 
 Carlyle receives the news of her mother's death when on her 
 way to nurse her — Carlyle goes to Templand to wind up the 
 estate — Mrs. Welsh buried at Crawford — Heartstricken letter 
 to Mrs. Russell of Thornhill — Troston Rectory and the BuUers 
 — Lady Harriet Baring — Mrs. Carlyle's return to Cheyne Row 
 — First meeting with Miss Jewsbury and the Paulets — ' The 
 three-cornered alliance' — Household 'earthquaking' in 
 Cheyne Row — Mrs. Carlyle's first expressed judgment of Lady 
 Harriet Baring — Stay at Ryde — Father Mathevv — Loss of 
 strength — Need of a quiet place for Carlyle to write in — 
 Failure of the attempt — Letter to John Welsh of Liverpool — 
 Carlyle's hopefulness of his wife's health — Her visit to Liver- 
 pool and Seaforth (the Paulets) — Visit to the Grange — Painful 
 thoughts — ' Cromwell ' concluded 168 
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 A. D. 1846-1847 
 
 The dark cloud — Carlyle's anxiety — Mrs. Carlyle seeks counsel 
 — Mazzini's honourable and noble advice — The flight to Sea- 
 forth — Birthday gift and gentle words — Renewed counsels — 
 Renewed bitterness — Lord Houghton's estimate of Lady Har- 
 riet Baring — Contrasts — Sad thoughts — Clough's Poem — Visit 
 to W. E. Forster — Again at Addiscombe — Hopeless misunder- 
 standing — The healing of the wound rendered impossible. . . . 186 
 
CONTENTS Xlll 
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 A. D. 1 847-1 849 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Return to Cheyne Row — Renewed illness — Bitter reflections — 
 Disappointment — Confidences to Uncle John Welsh — A win- 
 ter's visit of Carlyle to the Barings — Mrs. Carlyle remaining 
 at Cheyne Row — Remonstrances of Miss Jewsbury — Long 
 illness of Mrs. Carlyle — Consultations with John Forster — 
 Visit to Addiscombe — Death of Lord Ashburton — Carlyle's 
 tour in Ireland — The forgotten plaid — Mrs. Carlyle visits Lady 
 Harriet Baring (now Lady Ashburton) at Alverstoke — Bril- 
 liant society but no sleep — Death of John Sterling — Declining 
 health of Jeffrey — Haddington — Betty Braid, the ' old nurse' 
 — Scenes of childhood revisited — 'Mathew Baillie ' — Mrs. Car- 
 lyle visits her father's grave — Sunny Bank — Sad and loving 
 meetings — ' Old Jamie ' — Manchester and Miss Jewsbury — 
 Illness of Helen Welsh of Liverpool 197 
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 A. D. 1849-1851 
 
 Introduction to James Anthony Froude — Arthur Clough — Sped- 
 ding — Froude's impressions — Mutual loneliness of the Car- 
 lyles — Mrs. Carlyle's letter to Mrs. Aitken — Note to John 
 Forster — Visit to the Grange by Carlyle — ' Nero ' and ' Shandy' 
 — Nero's letter — Failing ideas — Society felt to be hard work 
 by Mrs. Carlyle — Latter-day pamphlets concluded — Carlyle 
 in Wales — Renewed household ' earthquakings ' at 5 Cheyne 
 Row — Failing strength of Mrs. Carlyle — Sad thoughts — Fruit- 
 less regrets and good resolutions 207 
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 A. D. 1851-1853 
 
 Carlyle's visit to the Marshalls — Tennyson and his bride — Dis- 
 gust at the Exhibition of 1851 — Visit to Malvern — Verdict 
 thereon — Miss Gully's letter — Mrs. Carlyle again at the 
 Grange — Repairs at Cheyne Row — Visit to Macready — Car- 
 lyle's ' Life of Frederick ' — He sails for Rotterdam — A seri- 
 ous undertaking — Mrs. Carlyle visits Lady Ashburton — Car- 
 lyle's second German tour — Discomforts — Return to 5 Cheyne 
 Row of Mrs. Carlyle — Further ' earthquakings ' — A second 
 visit of Mrs. Carlyle to the Lady Ashburton — Sleeplessness 
 — Depression — The old letter — Carlyle's return — Commence- 
 jnent of ' Frederick ' — Mrs. Carlyle with the John Carlyles at 
 Moffat — Return to softer conditions at Chelsea 219 
 
XIV CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 A. D. 1853-1856 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Declining health of old Mrs. Carlyle at Scotsbrig — Mrs. Carlyle 
 hastens to her — Womanly tenderness — The danger staved off 
 — Return to Chelsea — Death of John Welsh of Liverpool — 
 Visit of the Carlyles to the Grange — The ' soundless ' room at 
 Chelsea— Return of Mrs. Carlyle — Noises — Death of Helen 
 Welsh — Death of Carlyle's mother — Wifely sympathy — Miss 
 Jewsbury comes to live in London — Miss Fox — Mazzini's 
 farewell — Mrs. Carlyle's Journal — Deep misery — Sympathy — 
 Budget of a ' Femme Incomprise ' 229 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 A. D. 1856-1858 
 
 Position between Mrs. Carlyle and Lady Ashburton — The Scotch 
 journey — Carlyle at ' The Gill ' — Mrs. Carlyle at Auchter- 
 tool — ' Seeking and finding ' — Sunny Bank — Tender Remem- 
 brances — The return to London — Death of Lady Ashburton 
 — Tribute to her — Bitter reflections — Scotland again — First 
 readings of a portion of ' Frederick ' — Wifely pride — Mrs. 
 Carlyle's return to Cheyne Row — Discouragement — The 
 kindness of Mr. Henry Larkin — Another visit to Germany — 
 Mrs. Carlyle at Lann Hall — Holm Hill — Letters to Mr. Lar- 
 kin — Cheyne Row once more — Second marriage of Lord Ash- 
 burton — Mrs, Carlyle's thoughts of her mother — The visit to 
 ' Humbie ' and Auchtertool — Carlyle again in Annandale 
 with his own people 243 
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 A. D. 1 859-1 860 
 
 Life in Cheyne Row — Mrs. Carlyle's return — George Rennie's 
 death — Letters of Mrs. Carlyle on the subject to Mrs. Dinning 
 of Belford, Northumberland — Carlyle at Thurso Castle — Mrs. 
 Carlyle, with Lady Stanley of Alderley, eji roicte for Scotland 
 — Holm Hill — Misunderstanding as to date of Carlyle's return 
 — Mrs. Carlyle returns to Cheyne Row unnecessarily — Car- 
 lyle's remorse — Two servants kept 249 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 A. D. 1861-1863 
 
 Mrs. Carlyle's craving for her ' one little maid-servant ' — Death 
 of Arthur Hugh Clough — Mrs. Carlyle's visit to Ramsgate 
 with Miss Jewsbury — Sleeplessness — Longings to visit Mrs. 
 
CONTENTS XV 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Russell — Estimate of men — Miss Barnes' marriage — Deaths 
 of dear friends — Folkestone — Mrs. Carlyle accomplishes her 
 visit to Holm Hill and Craigenvilla — ' Old Betty' — Visit to 
 Auchtertool — Home again — Illness of Lord Ashburton in 
 Paris — Mrs. Carlyle's wish to go and be useful — Sad letter to 
 ' Old Betty ' — The Carlyles at the Grange — Neuralgia or 
 rheumatism causing Mrs. Carlyle increasing pain — The acci- 
 dent soon after the return to Cheyne Row — Carlyle's account 
 — Mr. Froude's account — Mr. Larkin's account 267 
 
 CHAPTER XXVH 
 
 A. D. 1863-1864 
 
 Consequences — The first re-appearance of the invalid — Mr. and 
 Mrs. Froude spend a bright evening with the Carlyles — Mr. 
 Simmonds — Ominous signs — Death of Grace Welsh — Decreas- 
 ing strength of Mrs. Carlyle — Passage from the ' Reminiscen- 
 ces ' — Unaidable pain — Maggie Welsh — The strange nurse — 
 Invitation to St. Leonarcs 278 
 
 CHAPTER XXVHI 
 
 A. D. 1864 
 
 Mrs. Carlyle's resolution — Mr. Larkin — The terrible journey — 
 Maggie Welsh — Carlyle at Chelsea — Regrets — Despair — The 
 furnished house — Maggie Welsh recalled to Liverpool — Mary 
 Craik — Sad bulletins — Carlyle's visits — Calls of friends — The 
 sufferer too weak to see them — Mrs. Carlyle writes to her 
 r^ aunts — Insomnia — Heavy days — Futile plans of change — Mrs, 
 ^ Carlyle's horror of returning to Chelsea — Miss Bromley's 
 kindness — Mrs. Carlyle starts for Scotland with Dr. John 
 Carlyle — Spending a night in London on her way — Mrs. Aus- 
 tin — Removal of Mrs. Carlyle to Holm Hill — Her dread of 
 travelling home — The return — The worst over 285 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 A. D. I 864-1 865 
 
 The brougham — Mrs. Carlyle's joy at her husband's gift — Illness 
 again — Visit of the Carlyles to Lady Ashburton at Seaton, 
 Devon — Soothing impressions — Discomfort again at Cheyne 
 Row — The 'hereditary housemaid' — At Holm Hill once more 
 — Suffering health — Erskine of Linlathen — Home duties at 
 Cheyne Row — Depression — Letter to Miss Jewsbury 294 
 
XVI CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 A. D. 1865-1866 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Carlyle offered the Lord Rectorship of Edinburgh University — 
 His wife's wish that he should accept it — His election — His 
 journey northwards with Professor Tyndall — The last parting 
 — Professor Huxley — Mr. Erskine of Linlathen and Carlyle's 
 brothers gathered in Edinburgh — The great day — Immense 
 success — The telegram — The dinner at Forster's — Interview 
 with Professor Tyndall — Excitement — The projected tea- 
 party — The afternoon drive — Sudden death of Mrs. Carlyle — 
 Carlyle receives the news at Dumfries — The unopened letter 
 — Funeral at the Abbey Kirk of Haddington — Epitaph — Re- 
 flections 301 
 
 APPENDIX 
 
 I. The Welsh Ancestry 309 
 
 II. Dr. John Welsh 310 
 
 III. The Death of Dr. John Welsh 311 
 
 IV. Mrs. Carlyle and De Quincey 313 
 
 V. Carlyle's Account of the Baking of the First Loaf. . 314 
 
 VI. Verses by Mrs. Carlyle 3^5 
 
 VII. Carlyle Localities in Edinburgh 316 
 
 VIII. A Remembrance of Sunny Bank 3^9 
 
 IX. Letter to Mrs. Carlyle from her Husband 320 
 
 X. Extract from a Letter to Mr. Carlyle on his Wife's 
 
 Death 321 
 
 XL Carlyle at the Grave of his Wife 323 
 
 INDEX 325 
 
LIFE OF 
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 
 
 PART I 
 GIRLHOOD' 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 A. D. iSoi— i8ig 
 
 Early days in Haddington — The Welsh family — Dr. John Welsh — His 
 marriage — John Welsh of Liverpool — The home at Haddington 
 — The only child — Her beauty and talent — The rival grandfathers 
 — School-days at Haddington — Jeannie's love of danger and ad- 
 venture — Edward Irving as private tutor — Early signs of orig- 
 inality in the ' only child.' 
 
 Human beings whose gifts and qualities barely reach the 
 average level of mediocrity are, now and then, apt to acquire, 
 during their lifetime, a factitious halo of importance or of 
 interest, attaching to them less through any special merit of 
 their own, than through some circumstance of a passing or 
 local nature extraneous to their veritable character. Possibly, 
 however, it is of more frequent occurrence that those who 
 are really remarkable, who are undoubtedly ' giants among 
 the pigmies' by virtue of surpassing intellectual and moral 
 attributes, fail of a true appreciation among their fellows, or 
 receive but partial recognition, even at the hands of those 
 privileged to intimacy with them. It would seem that these 
 brilliant natures, specially open to unfavourable influences as 
 they too often are, seldom realise their own highest possibil- 
 ities — do not come to blossoming, but, obeying an ironical 
 
2 GIRLHOOD 
 
 decree of fate, veil their bright presence in some mysterious 
 cloud of suffering or inevitable misinterpretation, and so 
 move amongst us, hidden from our true sight, till the end 
 comes, when they suddenly stand revealed to our unobserv- 
 ant eyes. Such has been the case, to a large extent, with 
 the subject of this memoir. 
 
 Nearly a quarter of a century has passed away since the 
 death of Jane Welsh Carlyle, and, except among those who 
 knew her intimately — a sadly-diminished number, alas! — 
 there has been comparatively scant recognition of her brilliant 
 powers and altogether unique and charming personality. 
 The publication by Mr. Froude, in 1883, of the 'Letters and 
 Memorials,' gave us a revelation. These letters, so truly 
 remarkable for style and power, for humour, pathos and orig- 
 inality, were read with the deepest interest. In their con- 
 ciseness and keen intellectuality, in their vivid word-painting, 
 in their fearless frankness, they present a Rembrandt-like 
 portrait of a woman, touched with strongest lights and deepest 
 tragic shades — a faithful and an unerring portrait, self- 
 depicted. 
 
 Jane Baillie Welsh was born at Haddington on July 14, 
 1801. Her ancestors on the father's side could be traced 
 back to a certain famous John Welsh, minister of Ayr, who 
 married the youngest daughter of John Knox. Then came a 
 long line of John Welshes who, through many generations, 
 had been lairds of Craigenputtock, that ' Hill of the Hawk ' 
 so impressed on our minds, the high moorland farm standing 
 bleak on the Dunscore Moors, sixteen miles from Dumfries, 
 with its dark sheltering pines and its few acres of grass-land 
 — a green island set in a wilderness of heathery hills, sheep- 
 walk, and undrained peat-bog. 
 
 In the rebellion of 1745, the then John Welsh, laird of 
 Craigenputtock, was among the sympathizers, and narrowly 
 escaped comniitting himself. The son of this same laird died 
 young, leaving his widow at Craigenputtock with one child, 
 another John Welsh, whom she, by-and-by, sent to a tutor 
 
Lairds of craigenputtocjc x 
 
 in Nithsdale, and afterwards to Tynron school, which was in 
 good repute in those days. But the young laird's education 
 ended somewhat abruptly with his marriage, at seventeen 
 years of age, to a Miss Hunter, a year younger than himself, 
 daughter of the farmer with whom he boarded whilst attend- 
 ing Tynron school. This girl-bride was the grandmother, in 
 later days, of Jane Baillie Welsh, and her bridegroom was 
 afterwards John of Penfillan — that grandfather so beloved by 
 his bright little granddaughter. 
 
 In the early days, Craigenputtock was the home of this 
 very youthful couple. In that solid, gaunt farmhouse, with 
 a small income and many struggles, the adventurous pair 
 contrived to bring up their large family of fourteen children. 
 We are not surprised that pecuniary straits compelled the 
 young man to sell part of the estate, namely Nether Craigen- 
 puttock, in order to pay his sister's portion, and, long years 
 afterwards, Craigenputtock proper, to his own eldest son, 
 John Welsh, then Dr. John Welsh of Haddington, and father 
 of Jane Baillie Welsh.* 
 
 This eldest son was born at Craigenputtock in 1776, and 
 early went to Edinburgh University, where his intelligence 
 and distinguished merits were not overlooked. He was ap- 
 prenticed to one of the celebrated brothers, John or Charles 
 Bell; Mr. Froude thinks most probably to Dr. John Bell, as 
 Sir Charles Bell was only two years the senior of John Welsh. 
 When but twenty years of age, the young surgeon was rec- 
 ommended for a commission in the Perthshire Fencibles, a 
 post which he held for two years. In 1798 he came to Had- 
 dington, and shortly thereafter joined Mr. George Somner, a 
 surgeon in that town, in partnership. The practice was car- 
 ried on very successfully, under the title of Somner Welsh. 
 Mr. Somner, however, died in June 1815, Dr. Welsh having 
 previously assumed as a partner Mr. Thomas Howden, a 
 former apprentice, of the firm. An annuity of 200/. a year 
 was paid by Dr. Welsh to his retired partner for some years, 
 * See Appendix I. 
 
4 GIRLHOOD 
 
 and on the death of Dr. Welsh, Mr. Howden assumed as a 
 partner Benjamin Welsh, M. D., the younger brother. This 
 partnership continued till 1826, when Dr. Benjamin Welsh 
 died. 
 
 Dr. John Welsh was a surgeon of great skill, always ready 
 to relieve suffering humanity; he was greatly loved and 
 esteemed by all who came in contact with him. He was a 
 man of fine disposition, stately presence and gentle manners, 
 unselfish and noble-minded. He rapidly made a fortune, 
 and, as we have seen, in order to help his numerous brothers 
 and sisters, actually purchased the family estate of Craigen- 
 puttock before it should come to him by inheritance, paying 
 off all incumbrances, with the intention of retiring to it him- 
 self, on relinquishing his medical practice. He, no doubt, 
 looked forward to carrying on the family tradition by 
 settling in his birthplace, and in due time leaving another 
 John Welsh there to succeed him. But this was never 
 realised. 
 
 In the year 1800 Dr. John Welsh married. He chose a 
 wife who was also a Welsh, though the families were entirely 
 unrelated. Miss Grace Welsh boasted as famous an ancestry 
 as himself, if tradition could be trusted. Dr. John Welsh 
 could trace his descent to John Knox, and the lady he mar- 
 ried traced her pedigree, through her mother, once the 
 beautiful Miss Baillie, back to William Wallace. Grace 
 Welsh's father, Walter Welsh, was a prosperous stock-farmer, 
 then living at Capelgill, on Moffat Water. When his 
 daughter Grace, or, as the Scotch sometimes call this pretty 
 name, 'Grizzie,' married her young doctor, and went to live 
 at Haddington, old Walter moved into Nithsdale, and took 
 the farm then known as Templand, near Penfillan. Thus 
 the two grandfathers of the yet unborn Jane Baillie Welsh, 
 connected only through the marriage of their children, became 
 close neighbours and friends. 
 
 The beautiful Miss Baillie, Walter Welsh's wife, died early. 
 She it was who came of Wallace. It was a son of hers and 
 
THE DOCTOR AND HIS BRIDE ^ 
 
 Walter's, another John Welsh, who went into business in 
 Liverpool, where, after a time of prosperity, he fell into 
 trouble through the dishonesty of a partner, who, alas! was 
 also his brother-in-law-elect. Left to bankruptcy, with a 
 debt of 12,000/., John Welsh gallantly remade his fortune, 
 and after eight hard years' struggle invited his creditors to 
 dinner, and each man found under his cover a cheque for the 
 full amount of his claim. There must have been good fight- 
 ing material, and honour withal, in the Welsh blood that came 
 of Wallace. 
 
 But let me turn to the home in Haddington, where Dr. 
 John Welsh brought his beautiful bride; for, by all accounts, 
 Mrs. Welsh must have been a lovely woman, 'tall, aquiline, 
 and commanding.' In character she seems to have been 
 emotional and sensitive, easily saddened, and variable, per- 
 haps, in her moods. More is known of Dr. John Welsh, who 
 must in every way have realised his wife's preconceived 
 ideals, of which, doubtless, she had many and lofty ones. 
 From the description of him handed down by those who 
 knew him, he was of noble, distinguished presence, tall, highly 
 graceful, self-possessed, dignified, strikingly handsome, 
 with black hair, bright hazel eyes, and lively and expressive 
 features. More noteworthy, however, were his moral charac- 
 ter and his medical sagacity, which combined in the consist- 
 ent and honourable man, faithful at all points, and universally 
 esteemed. The home in Haddington was not only com- 
 fortable and well appointed — elegance and refinement were 
 added to ease of circumstances. 
 
 Dr. Welsh led a busy life in his profession, his fatigues 
 being much increased by the many miles of riding incidental 
 to a country practice, which caused him to have never less 
 than three strong saddle-horses at his command. He was 
 punctual to a minute in the keeping of appointments, inflex- 
 ible where right was concerned, and possessed of the strong 
 pride of independence. He was a loving and wise husband 
 to his beautiful Grace, and a devoted father to the one child 
 
6 GIRLHOOD 
 
 born to them — the little Jeannie, whose birth, on July 14, 
 1 801, has been already chronicled. 
 
 This only child must have shown to the eyes of those who 
 loved her, very early indications of her uncommon nature 
 and qualities — points no less noticeable than, and far out- 
 weighing in importance, the unusual beauty apparent from 
 the beginning. She was the child of remarkable people, and 
 traced her ancestry through generations of original and strik- 
 ingly superior characters; it was not wonderful that she 
 should present a remarkable, almost unique type in her own 
 person. Her curling black hair, large black eyes, now shining 
 with soft mockery, now softly sad; clear pale skin, broad 
 forehead, and nose the least bit retrousse^ give us a picture of 
 this arch, gay, mobile little creature, with her slight, airy, 
 and graceful figure in harmony with the spiritual face. 
 Those who knew her, speak of her as beautiful to the very 
 end of her life. Such beauty as could call forth this uni- 
 versal tribute must have been undeniably pronounced. Such 
 beauty as could survive in triumph the long martyrdom of 
 suffering to which this bright creature was predestined, must 
 have traced its truest source to the spirit within, whence it 
 could still shine forth amid ruins. Even in early childhood 
 it was felt by those around her that the most remarkable 
 gifts of this fairy-like Jeannie were those of the mind. Her ex- 
 treme intellectual vivacity startled them all. And no wonder! 
 It does not seem, however, that the lively child was spoiled 
 by over-indulgence, had the mother inclined to that fault. 
 
 Dr. John Welsh v/atched with ceaseless care over this pre- 
 cious only child, and strict obedience was the rule in the 
 Haddington household. Still, there was scope enough for 
 natural playfulness. The nearness of two grandfathers must 
 have offered many opportunities for the little lady, and she 
 was a special favourite of Walter of Templand, whom she oc- 
 casionally visited. Her Mitlle name' of 'Pen' meant 
 ' Penfillan Jeannie," by which old Walter always called her. 
 * See Appendix III. 
 
./ ''P REVO CIO us CHILD 7 
 
 No doubt there was a certain rivalry between the two grand- 
 fathers in attracting the notice of this precocious and gifted 
 little child; a born coquette we may suppose her, even from 
 her babyhood, with that wonderful caprice of baby-girls so 
 intensely amusing to grown-up people, so half-pathetic and 
 altogether human when considered from some points of view. 
 Who has not seen the dimpled despot of a year old, safely 
 enthroned in the arm of mother or father, give, or passion- 
 ately refuses the kiss, contract the whole face with sudden 
 frown, or dispense bewitching smiles, and offer or sharply 
 withdraw the dimpled rose-leaf hand? 
 
 Some such picture might be drawn of this baby Jeannie, 
 this only one, this sole tyrant in the house at Haddington. 
 Old Walter had certain peculiarities of speech, had a ' burr ' 
 in pronouncing his * r,' and spoke in the old style generally, 
 which was duly noted by the quick little child. When about 
 six years old, her grandfather had taken her with him for a 
 ride on a quiet little pony. When they had gone as far as 
 was desirable, Walter, in his own characteristic dialect, said: 
 * Now we will go back, by so-and-so, to vah-chry the shane ! ' 
 < And where did you ride to. Pen ? ' asked the company at 
 dinner. 'We rode to so, and then to so,' she answered 
 punctually, ' and then returned by so to vah-chry the shane ! ' 
 At which, no doubt, old Walter joined the general gaiety, with 
 that laugh of his characterised later on by Carlyle as one of 
 the prettiest laughs in the world, with ' something audible in 
 it, as of flutes and harps, as if the vanquished themselves 
 were invited or compelled to partake in the triumph.' 
 
 Something of old Walter's nature was, undoubtedly, inherit- 
 ed by Jeannie Welsh. He is described by Carlyle as of ' hot, 
 impatient temper, breaking out into flashes of lightning if you 
 touched him the wrong way; but they were flashes only, 
 never bolts.' A lovable man he must have been, with his 
 'laughing eyes, beautiful, light humour, and features, mass- 
 ive yet soft, so quickly lighted up by a bright, dimpling 
 chuckle.' 
 
8 GIRLHOOD 
 
 Less is known of Jeannie's other grandfather, John of 
 Penfillan, who is described as a singular and interesting man, 
 devout, upright, honourably respected and esteemed, and cer- 
 tainly beloved by Jeannie as she grew older. His marriage 
 into the Hunter family had possibly failed to develop what 
 was most attractive in him, as we are told that Jeannie never 
 liked the Hunters, and used in later days to divide her 
 uncles into ' Welshes ' (these were uncles on her mother's 
 side of the house) and 'Welshes with a cross of Hunter' 
 (these were the members of the Penfillan family). 
 
 Time passed on, and Jeannie began to attend Haddington 
 school, which stood only a furlong from her father's house. 
 Here boys and girls were taught, but in separate school- 
 rooms for the most part; only arithmetic and algebra, in 
 which the little girl becam.e specially proficient, they learned 
 together. 
 
 Jeannie had many devoted slaves among the boys. But 
 she was of a fiery temper, and could not always keep the 
 peace. Differences arose now and then. A lad one day was 
 impertinent. She doubled her little fist, hit him hard on the 
 nose, and made it bleed. The penalty for fighting in school 
 was flogging. At the noise of the scuffle the master came 
 in, saw the marks of the fray, and asked who was the de- 
 linquent. All were silent. The boys could not tell tales of 
 a girl. The master threatened to thrash the whole school, 
 when the small Jeannie looked up, and said: ' Please, sir, it 
 was I!' The master's gravity gave way, and, laughing, he 
 told her she was ' a little deevil,' and sent her back to the 
 girls' room. 
 
 There is a lifelike description of Jeannie about this time 
 from Carlyle's pen. She may have been seven or eight years 
 old, and was attending the Haddington school. 
 
 Thither daily, at an early hour, might be seen my little 
 Jeannie, tripping nimbly and daintily along, satchel in hand, 
 dressed by her mother, who had a great talent that way, in taste- 
 ful simplicity — neat bit of pelisse, light blue sometimes, fastened 
 
EARL V AMBITIONS 9 
 
 with black belt; dainty little cap, perhaps beaver-skin, with flap 
 turned up, and, I think, one at least with modest little plume 
 in it. 
 
 The child was ambitious as well as keenly intelligent. 
 She rapidly mastered the ordinary branches of learning, and 
 demanded to 'learn Latin like a boy! ' But there was a dif- 
 ference of opinion on the subject at home. Mrs. Welsh op- 
 posed her; but her father, who thought well of her talents, 
 was willing she should have her way. Jeannie took the 
 matter into her own hands. She found out a lad in Had- 
 dington school who taught her to repeat a Latin noun of the 
 first declension. Armed with this weapon, she hid herself, 
 one night when she was supposed to be in bed, under the 
 drawing-room table. When opportunity offered, her small 
 voice, from under the tablecover, broke silence with — ' Pemia, 
 a pen; Fennce, of a pen,' &c. And, amid the general amuse- 
 ment, she crept out, ran to her father, and repeated her sim- 
 ple petition, * I want to learn Latin; please let me be a boy! * 
 and was no doubt caught up in his arms amid kisses, which 
 settled the Latin question. 
 
 But this desire for manly learning, and this ability to dis- 
 pense salutary chastisement with her little doubled fist, did 
 not preclude Jeannie's very feminine qualities from early 
 declaring themselves. It was a woman's soul, a woman's 
 nature, essentially, in this Ariel of a child with the deep 
 dark eyes and fiery temper. A very characteristic anecdote 
 of her childhood finds place here. 
 
 There was a dancing-school in Haddington, when Jeannie, 
 then not more than six, had been selected to perform some ' Pas 
 seul,' beautiful and difficult; she was anxious in her little heart 
 to do it well. Dressed to perfection, she was carried across the 
 muddy street in a clothes basket. All went well till her turn 
 came. The little child stood waiting the music. Music began, 
 Alas! the wrong music; impossible to dance that 'Pas seul!' 
 to it. She made signs of distress — music ceased— took counsel, 
 and began again; again wrong, helplessly, flatly impossible. 
 
lO GIRLHOOD 
 
 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 man- 
 ner, withdrew from the adventure, amid general applause. 
 
 There is great significance in this incident: the brave, 
 dignified reception of defeat, the controlling of the child- 
 heart in its bursting pain of disappointment, the ready device 
 to hide the tears of mortification — all these were unusual 
 signs in a child of tender years, when most youngsters 
 would have openly blubbered. And perhaps mothers would 
 rather see their own little ones comfort themselves thus. 
 
 Jeannie Welsh could not so disburden her child-heart! 
 Later on in her life, when its deep music went hopelessly 
 wrong, when it became manifestly impossible to fit in its dif- 
 ficult evolutions to any harmony of existing accompaniment, 
 when preconceived schemes were defeated, and the eager 
 heart could plan no more, it was granted to her, vanquished, 
 to withdraw swiftly, silently into impenetrable shelter. Now 
 the child-spirit was endlessly brave, and feared nothing. 
 Very amusing is the account of her attack on a horrid and 
 alarming turkey-cock she was apt to encounter at a gate 
 through which she passed on her way to school. Her 
 alarm at this hideous bird grew almost overpowering, and 
 she hated the thought of living in fear of him. On one oc- 
 casion, as she passed this gate, several labourers and boys 
 were near, who seemed to enjoy the thought of seeing the 
 ill-conducted bird run at her. Jeannie's spirit was roused. 
 She gathered herself together, and made up her mind. The 
 turkey ran at her, gobbling and swelling; she suddenly 
 darted at him, seized him by the throat, and swung him 
 round — no small feat for a slender little lady of her age. 
 
 But from the first she loved a sense of danger. Near the 
 school was the Nungate Bridge, whose arch overhangs the 
 water at a considerable height. There was a narrow ledge 
 on the parapet, the crossing of which was an uncommonly 
 dangerous feat, to which the boys now and then dared one 
 
MASTER AND PUPIL 1 1 
 
 another. One fine morning Jeannie got up early, went to 
 the Nungate Bridge, lay down on her face on this ledge, and 
 crawled from one end to the other, at the imminent risk of 
 breaking her neck by a fall into the river beneath. This 
 exploit, with others like it, must be taken as plain proof of a 
 dauntless courage which gave way only under trial of unusual 
 severity, and presented to the end some of the old daring, 
 which was never extinguished altogether. 
 
 With such energy of character, it is not surprising that at 
 nine years old Jeannie was reading ' Virgil.' Her first 
 teacher was Edward Irving, the Annandale youth, whose 
 brilliant promise was not yet darkened by the shadow of dis- 
 aster. Irving had been sent in 1810, by two learned profess- 
 ors, to teach school in Haddington. Fresh from collegiate 
 honors, attractive and gifted, Irving was soon intimate in Dr. 
 Welsh's family, which took the lead in Haddington, socially 
 as well as intellectually. Dr. Welsh recognized Irving's fine 
 qualities, and treated him as an elder son. He was trusted 
 with the private education of Jeannie, as well as with the 
 management of the school. He carefully watched over the 
 little girl's studies, and would take her out on fine nights to 
 show her the stars, and teach her wonderful things about 
 them. More interesting master and pupil surely were seldom 
 known than these two, both so ignorant of the wild and dark 
 future looming ahead of them. These peaceful, unawakened 
 days in sleepy little Haddington must often have come back 
 in memory to them both in the days when the ' tangled skein 
 of life' proved utterly confused. 
 
 Edward Irving, when appointed master of what was called 
 the mathematical school in Haddington, was, as Mrs. Oliphant 
 tells us, between seventeen and eighteen years of age, a 
 handsome, ruddy youth, boyish still, in spite of his inches; 
 ardent and full of hope. His personality was at all times a 
 striking one, his manner, in these early days, frank and win- 
 ning; he was, indeed, singularly attractive. Born in August 
 1792, he had been sent when yet almost a child to the Uni- 
 
1 2 GIRLHOOD 
 
 versity of Edinburgh, and had done well; but it early became 
 necessary that he should be placed in some position of use- 
 fulness, and, recommended by Sir John Leslie and Professor 
 Christison, he obtained the mastership in the new school in 
 Haddington, his first appointment. He was well able to give 
 what was then considered the decidedly masculine education 
 desired by Dr. John Welsh for his only daughter. Such an 
 education would not provoke comment in these days, when 
 girls aspire to, and attain, university honors. 
 
 It was otherwise in Jeannie Welsh's childhood, and Mrs. 
 Welsh considered Latin and mathematics sadly out of place 
 in the little girl's education. Herself an accomplished and 
 somewhat intellectual woman, she had kept to the old tradi- 
 tions, and desired nothing further for Jeannie. But the 
 father divined his child's unusual capacity, and determined 
 that it should have scope. The opportunity of private teach- 
 ing from the young divinity student was all that could be 
 desired. Irving was expected to leave a daily report of his 
 pupil's work and progress. It is recorded that on one occa- 
 sion, when the work had been eminently unsatisfactory, he 
 paused remorsefully, and at last, with a pitiful look at the 
 eager face beside him, cried, 'Jane! my heart is broken, but 
 it must be pessinia ' — a terrible blow to the small offender, 
 no doubt, but more j>ainful to the tutor. 
 
 Edward Irving was then a young man, his pupil only a 
 child, but doubtless those subtle links of sympathy which 
 bound these two natures so closely together in later life were 
 formed in those early days, when the impetuous, bright child 
 sought her knowledge^ from the tall, handsome youth, and 
 ripened her powers under the deep interest which entered 
 into his teachings. Jeannie worked with eagerness and con- 
 centration. She would rise at five in the morning to study, 
 and in the fear of sleeping too long, would tie a weight to 
 one of her ancles that she might awake. She was at this 
 time a most healthy little girl, but did much to injure her 
 health, in her zeal and her ignorance. She took greatly to 
 
THE 'PAGAN' PHASE 
 
 n 
 
 mathematics, and would, if undetected, sit up half the night 
 over a problem. A story is told of her being greatly per- 
 plexed by a proposition in Euclid, and going to bed at last in 
 despair over it. In a dream, it is said, Jeannie got up and 
 did it, and went to bed again. And in the morning, when 
 the consciousness of the dream had vanished, there stood the 
 solution of the problem as testimony of what she had done. 
 No need to point out that Jeannie's brain, eager little soul, 
 was too active — and such it was to the end! 
 
 Under Irving's tutorship she advanced rapidly in Latin, 
 and the effect of * Virgil ' and other studies was.^ she says in 
 one of her old note-books, to change her religion, and make 
 her into a sort of Pagan. 
 
 It is strictly true (she says), and it was not alone my religion 
 that these studies influenced, but my whole being was imbued 
 with them. Would I prevent myself from doing a foolish or 
 cowardly thing, I didn't say to myself, ' you mustn't, or if you 
 do you will go to hell hereafter,' nor yet, ' if you do you will be 
 whipt here'; but I said to myself, simply and grandly, 'a 
 Roman would not have done it,' and that sufficed under ordi- 
 naiy temptations. . , . But the classical world in which I lived 
 and moved was best indicated in the tragedy of my doll. It had 
 been intimated to me by one whose wishes were law [probably 
 Edward Irving], that a young lady in 'Virgil' should, for con- 
 sistency's sake, drop her doll. So the doll, being judged, must 
 be made an end of; and I, ' doing what I would with my own,' 
 like the Duke of Newcastle, quickly decided how. She should 
 end as Dido ended, that doll — as the doll of a young lady in 
 ' Virgil ' should end. With her dresses, which were many and 
 sumptuous, her four-posted bed, a faggot or two of cedar allu- 
 mettes, a few sticks of cinnamon and a nutmeg, I, noti ignara 
 futtiri, constructed her funeral pile — sub auras, of course; and 
 this new Dido, being placed in the bed with my help, spoke 
 through my lips the sad last words of Dido the First, which I had 
 then all by heart. . . , The doll having thus spoken, pallida 
 7norte futiira, kindled the pile, and stabbed herself with a pen- 
 knife, by way of Tyrian sword. Then, however, in the moment 
 of seeing my poor doll blaze up — for, being stuffed with bran, she 
 
14 GIRLHOOD 
 
 took fire, and was all over in no time — in that supreme moment 
 my affection for her blazed up also, and I shrieked, and would 
 have saved her, and could not, and went on shrieking till every- 
 body within hearing flew to me and bore me off in a plunge of 
 tears — an epitome of most of one's ' heroic sacrifices,' it strikes 
 me, magnanimously resolved on, ostentatiously gone about, re- 
 pented of at the last moment, and bewailed with an outcry. 
 Thus was my inner world at that period three-fourths old Roman 
 and one fourth old Fairy. 
 
 It is hardly fair to relate this remarkable and touching 
 story, with the addition of bitter comment added by after- 
 wisdom and experience. Mothers, as a rule, would prefer 
 their little girls to adopt a less heroic, simpler, and more 
 merely mischievous method of destroying their dolls. I can- 
 not but suppose Irving to have been the person whose wishes 
 were law in the matter of the doll. So harsh an edict sounds 
 less like the father than the schoolmaster. The note-book 
 which contains this tale of the funeral pyre contains also a 
 long story of her first child-love, told with infinite grace. 
 
 When Jeannie was fourteen she wrote a tragedy, with cer- 
 tain youthful faults, it is true, but still showing ability that 
 was remarkable for her age. This was her only dramatic 
 effort; but she often wrote verses, inheriting this pleasant 
 gift from her mother. Mrs. Welsh's verses seem to have 
 been simply soft, sweet, and musical, after the manner, per- 
 haps, of poor ' L. E. L.*; while there was depth and power, 
 and altogether wider intellectual range, in those of Jeannie 
 herself. The verses written in later life, and sent to Lord 
 Jeffrey, are perfect in literary form, and possess the higher 
 charm of strong pathos. But there was never anything com- 
 monplace in Jane Welsh. 
 
 In considering the home influences under which she spent 
 her early years, I cannot imagine that the relation between 
 mother and daughter was perfectly harmonious. Mrs. Welsh 
 was capricious and arbitrary, beautiful, impulsive, and not 
 overwise perhaps. Her father-in-law, John of Penfillan, is 
 
FA MIL Y PEA CE DIFFICUL T 1 5 
 
 reported to have observed her * in fifteen different humours 
 in one evening'; though this v/as, probably, to some extent, 
 mere satirical exaggeration. Still, there was, presumably, 
 some basis for the remark, and fewer humours than fifteen 
 will result in collision in family life, where the elements are 
 strong, fiery, and few. Mrs. Welsh probably shared the 
 faults of many beautiful women — was somewhat hard to 
 please, variable, not easy to live calmly and evenly with. 
 And as she grew older she may have been exacting, unrea- 
 sonable in some respects, though always of good and exem- 
 plary conduct. 
 
 When Jeannie was a girl, the two strong wills must cer- 
 tainly have clashed now and then, and the result would 
 hardly show itself in meek filial submission. But there was 
 a deep, almost a passionate, attachment between the mother 
 and daughter, a fact not in any way inconsistent with the 
 want of perfect harmony, but rather explanatory of it: as it 
 is only between those who love each other that such critical 
 sensitiveness is ever developed. Indifference is an easier 
 atmosphere in which to live at peace; and no indifference 
 was possible between these two natures of quick affections 
 and quick tempers. The experience is a common one, and 
 readily understood. 
 
1 6 GIRLHOOD 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 A. D. 1819—1821 
 
 Strong attachment between the father and daughter — The last talk — 
 Sudden illness and death of Dr. John Welsh — Jeannie's ' Pagan- 
 ism ' — Serious thoughts — ' Early letters ' to Eliza Stodart — Board- 
 ing-school in Edinburgh — Active tendencies — Teaching — Char- 
 acteristics more plainly shown — The loss of the father's influence 
 — Haddington felt to be dull — Early Lovers — Power of language. 
 
 But Jeannie's strongest attachment was to her father. Dr. 
 John Welsh must have inspired, not only deep, admiring 
 reverence in his child, but a love that was truly the strongest 
 feeling in her heart, the master-passion in her young nature 
 for many years — one of those unique sympathies, never to 
 be replaced, even by tender ties of another kind. This loyal 
 nature of Jane Welsh preserved through life the freshness of 
 these natural affections; could never bear to see even the 
 chimney-tops of Templand, after her mother had died there, 
 and returned to mourn at her father's grave in Haddington, 
 thirty years after his death, with all the pain and faithful 
 love that a recent loss could have called forth. 
 
 She lost her father just at the time when his influence 
 would have been most valuable and active in forming her 
 character. It was when Jane Welsh was little over eighteen 
 years of age that, one September afternoon, she had an ever- 
 memorable drive with her father, who had a distant patient 
 to visit. It was not unusual for him to take his daughter with 
 him on these country drives. But this was destined to be a 
 special day; for it vras, in fact, the end of that close and 
 loving intercourse of father and daughter, and not, as the 
 eager girl supposed, only the beginning of a deeper and yet 
 
THE FIRST GRIEF 
 
 17 
 
 dearer link between them; for on this day the usually silent 
 man spoke much, and long, and eloquently, to his Jeannie, 
 and with a depth of feeling which struck her, at the time, as 
 something new and impressive. 
 
 He told her she was a good girl, capable of being useful and 
 precious to him and the circle she would live in; that she must 
 summon her utmost judgment and seriousness to choose her path, 
 and be what he expected of her; that he did not think she had 
 yet seen the life-partner that would be worthy of her — in short, 
 that he expected her to be wise, as well as good-looking and 
 good; all this in a tone and manner that filled her poor little 
 heart with surprise, and a kind of sacred joy, coming from the 
 man she, of all men, revered.* 
 
 These fatherly counsels, so heartfelt, so entirely suited to 
 Jeannie's needs, were all she ever had from that time — for 
 ever. He had spoken his last to her; on the morrow, possi- 
 bly on the same evening. Dr. Welsh developed symptoms of 
 malignant typhoid fever, caught from a patient. The illness 
 being of so deadly a kind, he at once, with a physician's in- 
 stinct, gave orders that Jeannie should not enter his room. 
 Unselfish to the last, he denied himself the solace of her 
 bright presence. The girl, in her violent grief and anguish, 
 did, however, on one occasion, force herself into the sick- 
 room, but he ordered her to leave it, and she obeyed. But 
 all that night she lay on the stairs, outside his door, in agony. 
 On the fourth day he passed away. The treatment of this 
 terrible disease was but imperfectly understood at that time, 
 even by the best medical authorities. A brother of Dr. John 
 Welsh, himself a medical man, was called in, and, in his 
 anxiety to save lite, had bled the sufferer profusely, which 
 may or may not have hastened the fatal event. Thus, at 
 forty-three years of age. Dr. John Welsh was cut off, in Sep- 
 tember 1819, and the home at Haddington broken and 
 changed, f 
 
 * ' Reminiscences,' II. 94. 
 
 \ Appendix 3, on ' Dr. John Welsh's lUness and Death.' 
 
1 5 GIRLHOOD 
 
 Before sorrow had been tasted, the lively girl had spoken 
 laughingly of her ' Paganism ' ; but other thoughts now 
 quickened within her. As is often the case with bright and 
 mobile natures, there lay in Jane Welsh a real seriousness, 
 too deep for words, and only evident when she was stirred by 
 passionate emotion. Writing to Mrs. Welsh of Penfillan a 
 fortnight after Dr. Welsh's death, she says: — 
 
 This has indeed been an unexpected and overwhelming blow. 
 My father's death was a calamity I almost never thought of. If 
 on any occasion the idea did present itself to me, it was imme- 
 diately repelled as being too dreadful to be realized for many, 
 many years, and too painful to occupy any present place in my 
 thoughts. Until this misfortune fell upon me I never knew 
 what it was to be really unhappy. . . . 
 
 You, my dear grandmother, have had many trials; but, if I 
 mistake not, you will still remember the bitterness of \.\\& first, 
 above all others; you will still be able to recall the feeling of 
 disappointment and despair which you experienced when calam- 
 ity awoke you from your dream of security, and dispelled the 
 infatuation which led you to expect that you alone were to be 
 exempted from this world's misery. But you are good, and I 
 am judging of your feelings by my own. When young as I am, 
 perhaps you were not, as I am, thoughtless, and unprepared for 
 the chastisement of the Divine Power. 
 
 Here we find the little formality of expression induced by 
 the fact of writing to an elderly relative, though the pain of 
 the young heart, even here, speaks clearly through the careful 
 phrases. A much more natural expression of grief is found 
 in the first of that most valuable collection of ' Early Letters 
 of Jane Welsh Carlyle,' edited by David G. Ritchie, fellow 
 and tutor of Jesus College, Oxford. These letters, the bulk 
 of which are addressed to Mr. Ritchie's great-aunt, form a 
 most important addition to our knowledge of Jane Welsh. 
 In fact, they represent absolutely all the actual material for 
 any account of her during the years when most of them were 
 written. And they are highly significant, as well as charac- 
 teristic. 
 
A CHERISHED FRIEND 
 
 19 
 
 Miss Eliza Stodart, great-aunt of the editor, was a niece of 
 Mr. Bradfute, a partner in the firm of Bell and Bradfute, of 
 Edinburgh. The young lady lived with her uncle at 22 
 George Square, and there was a very close friendship between 
 her and Jane Welsh. The friendship included Mr. Bradfute, 
 who is often named ' Bradie ' in these letters, and has 
 sundry kisses sent him in Jane's letters to Eliza, or her 
 ' Dear Bess,' or * Dear Angel Bessy,' as she often calls her 
 friend. 
 
 It is only since the publication of the * Early Letters ' that 
 Mr. D. G. Ritchie has received information which clears up 
 a point that was doubtful in Jane Welsh's earlier history. A 
 correspondent — Mr. A. K. Mackenzie, of Ravelrig, Balerno, 
 Midlothian — places it beyond all doubt that Jane Welsh was 
 at a boarding-school in Edinburgh. Mr. Mackenzie's wife's 
 aunt, Mrs. Walrond, of Calder Park, (maiden name, Jane 
 Hastings), was at Miss Hall's boarding-school in Edinburgh 
 with Jane Welsh. * Miss Hall's,* writes Mr. Mackenzie, 
 *was a well-known school, latterly in Great King Street; but 
 as that street could scarcely have been built before 1820, it 
 must have been elsewhere before that.* Here is one little 
 point in Jane Welsh's history fortunately cleared up. Evi- 
 dently Mrs. Welsh had been anxious that her brilliant daugh- 
 ter should have what was then termed a '■finishing^ — an oppor- 
 tunity, namely, of acquiring certain feminine accomplishments 
 and elegances not easily attainable in the Haddington school, 
 yet needful to blend with the rather masculine education she 
 had already received. 
 
 We find a confirmation of this episode of ' boarding-school ' 
 in an allusion in a letter written by Mrs. Carlyle, and dated 
 Craigenputtock, November, 1829. She writes to Miss Stod- 
 art: *I liked Edinburgh last time as well as I did at sixteen! 
 (you know how well that was), and cried as much at leaving 
 it.' We see the reference now, and how natural it was that 
 Jeannie Welsh, while at Miss Hall's school, may have occa- 
 sionally gone ' to 22 George Square on Saturdays, and taken 
 
20 GIRLHOOD 
 
 her gloves and stockings to be mended,' for this was always 
 the tradition in the Stodart family, and appears well supported 
 by fact. This fixes the date of ' boarding-school ' as prob- 
 ably 1817-18. No doubt those were happy days. Eliza 
 Stodart, the recipient of Jane Welsh's early letters, was evi- 
 dently much trusted and loved by her friend. 
 
 The grief of the young is sharp and bitter. We do not 
 wonder to find Jane Welsh cast down by her father's death, 
 and passionately sad. She describes the first drive to Had- 
 dington Church after the funeral; the hatefulness of the 
 changed, yet familiar aspect of the scene. Colour and warmth 
 had left the well-known surroundings looked on by those 
 haggard young eyes. ' I looked out only once,' she says, 
 ' and I thought the stones were covered with snow, 
 everything looked so white and bleak!' And this was in 
 early golden-autumn days. In her next letter she says, 
 * God bless you, and preserve you from such a loss as 
 mine.' 
 
 But hers was not a nature to sink into apathy and mere 
 selfish repining. It was not long ere her instincts of activity 
 reasserted themselves in the efforts she made to teach her 
 Aunt Elizabeth — French, drawing, and geography. Two 
 other pupils, young girls, joined in receiving the lessons. Nor 
 was the fair instructress herself idle in self-improvement, but 
 energetically studied Italian and French, always with the 
 sense that it was something done in memory of her ' adored 
 father,' and 'first blessing!' 
 
 Jane Welsh was keenly sensible of the advantages she 
 owed to the sound education with which her father had pro- 
 vided her. The habits of study in which she had been train- 
 ed, were now priceless, and helped her to begin life without 
 that father, whose life had such a hold upon her own. The 
 mother and daughter continued for some time at Haddington, 
 able to live in comfort, even with elegance. After settling a 
 small annuity on his widow, Dr. Welsh left everything be- 
 longing to him to his daughter. Thus she was, in a moder- 
 
DE VEL OP ME NT OF CHA RA CTER 2 I 
 
 ate sense, an heiress, and the object of numberless matri- 
 monial designs and speculations. 
 
 The withdrawal of the father's influence while she was yet 
 so young, at such a critical time of life for the development 
 of character, was a great drawback to her. Mrs. Welsh, 
 sunk in her own grief, possessed but little influence on her 
 daughter, whose esprit fort rapidly asserted itself, and re- 
 sulted in one of the most marked individualities ever clothed 
 in delicate and fascinating exterior. 
 
 The early letters to Eliza Stodart show a power of sarcasm, 
 a caustic wit; waywardness too, and impatience. The lovely 
 girl is sharp with her pen, presumably no less so with her 
 tongue. She displays a strong Scotch plainness and hardness 
 of speech, a cutting, common-sense judgment, and was not 
 apt to attribute lofty or beautiful motives to any one, be their 
 conduct what it might. The shrewdness and incisive wit 
 would have been altogether detestable, taken apart from the 
 brilliant intellectual gifts and the truly feminine charm of 
 the lovely girl who had such an armoury of powerful weap- 
 ons at command. It was a strange combination, one that 
 boded ill for the future. 
 
 Her uncompromising habit of denunciation was manifest 
 even in these early days. It was at first merely that won- 
 derful, untempered severity of youth, which disposes of the 
 claims of others with such triumphant despatch. It might, 
 under other auspices, have mellowed into a gentle and wise 
 toleration; but that was not to be. 
 
 Jane Welsh was effusive at times, but not tender. Her 
 health, never robust, was always delicately balanced, her 
 temperament too finely strung for undisturbed normal physi- 
 cal well-being. She was fiery, quick, and keen. Her un- 
 tried heart was ignorant as yet of the sacred strength of that 
 love or divine charity which * beareth all things, hopeth all 
 things, suffereth long, and is kind.' Hers was quite another 
 idea of life and its potentialities. The world — her little 
 world-sphere — was to be subjugated, made to bend low to 
 
22 GIRLHOOD 
 
 that imperious will of hers, and her little foot was to be 
 firmly planted on its neck. And the thought of love and 
 marriage was much in her mind. It is satisfactory to find, 
 however, that the 'Robert' who is described as * looking 
 
 divine ' was an uncle, not a lover. ' Benjamin B ' she 
 
 calls 'one of the most frank, unaffected young men I have 
 seen.' And a year or two later she speaks cf meeting him 
 ' on the opposite bank of the river.' 
 
 Let any human being (she says) conceive a more tantalising 
 situation! — I saw him, and durst not make any effort to attract 
 his attention, though, had my will been consulted in the matter, 
 to have met him eyes to eyes and soul to soul I would have swam — 
 ay, swam across, at the risk of being dosed with water-gruel for 
 a month to come! . . . 
 
 Providence has surely some curious design respecting this 
 youth and me! It was on my birthday we parted — it was on my 
 birthday we met, or (but for that confounded river) should have 
 met again. 
 
 This letter is addressed to Eliza Stodart from Templand, 
 the home of Walter Welsh, with whom his widowed daughter 
 was staying. Jane adds, in her plain, uncompromising 
 frankness of language: 'I wonder what the devil keeps my 
 mother here ! ' Years afterwards, in 1825, Jane Welsh writes 
 to Eliza Stodart, betraying at once her feminine unstability, 
 and her knowledge of Latin: ' " Times are changed, and we 
 
 are changed in them. " Mr. Benjamin B is become 
 
 the most disagreeable person on this planet.' This little 
 episode is taken as one of many. 
 
 But we return to the year 1820, when, after a journey to 
 Liverpool, where some time was spent with her mother's 
 brother, Mr. John Welsh, and other visits involving an ab- 
 sence of some months, Mrs. Welsh and her daughter return- 
 ed to their lonely home in Haddington. The restless spirit 
 of Jane Welsh was sorely tried by this return to familiar 
 things. 
 
 Well, my beloved cousin (she writes to Miss Stodart), here 
 
EARL V DISSA 7VSFA CTIONS 
 
 23 
 
 I am once more at the bottom of the pit of dulness, hemmed in 
 all round, straining my eyeballs and stretching my neck to no 
 purpose. 
 
 Was ever starling in a more desperate plight? But I will ^et 
 out — by the wife of Job, I will ! 
 
 An eloquent abuse of her native town is followed by: — 
 
 After all, there is much in it that I love. I love the bleaching- 
 green, where I used to caper and tumble and roll ... in the 
 days of my wee existence; and the school-house, where I carried 
 away prizes . . . ; and, above all, I feel an affection for a 
 field by the side of the river, where corn is growing now, and 
 where a hay-rick once stood. You remember it. ... I was 
 very happy then. All my little world lay glittering in tinsel at 
 my feet! But years have passed over it since, and storm' after 
 storm has stripped it of much of its finer}\ 
 
 We quote this to illustrate the character which, at twenty 
 years old, could describe the scenes of her childhood as 'glit- 
 tering in tinsel.' Why not have called them pure gold ? 
 What a scepticism of happiness is betrayed in this expression ! 
 what absence of the heart-free, sound, wholesome joy of life ! 
 The passage is most significant. 
 
 In this very letter the young girl's mood promptly 
 changes, as she goes on to discuss ' my quondam lover, the 
 " goosish " man,' whose attempt at serious wooing was met 
 with scorn and derision. He had arrived in hot haste, ' twelve 
 hours after he received my answer to his letter . . . and in 
 the morning sent a few nonsensical lines to announce his 
 nonsensical arrival.' Poor young man ! His chance was indeed 
 small. Little wonder that, in his nervous trepidation before 
 this beautiful young angel with the two-edged sword, his 
 power of expression should fail him, and he should gravely 
 announce having been at a party some days before * with 
 his arm under his hat,' and, desperately correcting himself, 
 ' with his head under his arm 'y the lively girl's comment 
 being, ' it was of very little consequence zvhere his head was ! ' 
 This ill-starred suitor found that even two waistcoats, one of 
 
24 GIRLHOOD 
 
 figured velvet, and one of sky-blue satin, failed to plead his 
 cause. Gossamer silk hose and morocco slippers were all in 
 vain; he departed, presumably 'a sadder and wiser man,' 
 Jane Welsh adds: 'A visit from a man with any brains in his 
 head would really be an act of mercy to us here.' With what 
 emphasis that wish was presently to be granted ! 
 
 We may note that the ' cousinship' with Eliza Stodart 
 seems to have been merely a term of good-will and liking, as 
 Jane Welsh always mentions Mr. Bradfute as ' your uncle.' 
 
 It would seem that Jane Welsh was not inclined to 
 domestic interests in these days. She manifests much 
 impatience at being made the medium of some homely and 
 housewifely messages from Mrs. Welsh to her * Angel Bessie.' 
 Advice as to the quantity of sugar needful to make marma- 
 lade, and directions with regard to the management of sick 
 hens, cause quite an outburst of wrath in the young amanu- 
 ensis. After the words, ' Moreover — Oh ! she has plenty of 
 cursed, ugly, wee black " pigs " [jars for the said marmalade] 
 at your service,' she adds, ' Not one word more will I write 
 for her, by ! ' 
 
 Even in those days this must have been unusual language 
 for a young lady to use. And the existence of it, in many of 
 these early letters, must guard us from supposing that Jane 
 Welsh learned her use of expletives and her tremendous 
 force of language from Carlyle, whom she had as yet never 
 seen. This peculiarity of strong language, far stronger than 
 occasion demanded, was one of those extraordinary resem- 
 blances between these two persons, who, while presenting 
 some noticeable points of difference, were yet strangely, 
 altogether unaccountably alike in many ways. With them 
 both it was \k\s. for titer in re, not the suaviter in modo, which 
 ruled their outward manifestations. In them both lay deep 
 tenderness — the deepest — ill-developed, and huddled into a 
 corner, its diviner outcomes smothered and ehoked; but it 
 was there, and at moments of strong emotion it came forth, 
 full-grown, unmistakable in its strength and beauty. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 A. D. 1S21 
 
 First meeting with Thomas Carlyle — Introduction by Edward Irving 
 — The May evening — Irving's attachment to Miss Welsh — Carlyle 
 and Margaret Gordon — Isabella Martin — George Rennie — Miss 
 Welsh's early impressions of Carlyle — Literary ambitions and 
 projects — Irving's engagement to Miss Isabella Martin — Miss 
 Welsh's hesitation in accepting Carlyle as a lover — Miss Welsh's 
 readings of Rousseau — George Rennie's departure — Visit of Car- 
 lyle to Haddington — Possibilities. 
 
 But to return to Jane Welsh. It was late in the month of 
 May, 182 1, that Thomas Carlyle appeared on the scene. 
 Mrs. Welsh had given Edward Irving leave to bring his 
 gifted friend over to Haddington and introduce him. This, 
 accordingly, was carried out by Irving on one of his occasional 
 holiday sallies from Glasgow, now the scene of his labours. 
 It was at Haddington he sometimes recruited his strength, 
 and he was always a welcome guest in Mrs. Welsh's house, 
 for the sake of old times. It all came about in the most 
 natural manner possible. Irving was now engaged to be 
 married: his betrothed, Miss Martin, being the daughter of 
 the minister in Kirkcaldy, where Irving had taken an appoint- 
 ment as schoolmaster on leaving Haddington. It was 
 natural that Irving should wish to introduce Thomas Carlyle 
 to these dear, valued friends of his. He knew how keenly 
 the intellectual Miss Welsh would enjoy the original genius 
 of his friend. And Irving was proud of Carlyle, and no 
 doubt longed to show him off where he was sure of apprecia- 
 tion. 
 
 But let us consider the real position of these three people 
 
 25 
 
26 GIRLHOOD 
 
 — their inner standpoint, not apparent in their outward 
 seeming. Thomas Carlyle, the rugged, fiery peasant, had 
 passed through his one tender passage, his love for Margaret 
 Gordon, to whom, but for the interposition of friends, he would 
 probably have been affianced. She must have loved him. to 
 read his powers so clearly in an exterior that ill-expressed 
 him. 'Genius will render you great' she had written to 
 him. ' May virtue render you beloved ! Remove the awful 
 distance between you and ordinary men by kind and gentle 
 manners ! ' An angel could not have counselled Carlyle 
 better. Small wonder that, many years later, in 1840, when 
 he met her, then Lady Bannerman, riding in Hyde Park, 
 her eyes mutely recognized him. He seems to have had no 
 other attachment till he met his fate in the bright eyes of 
 Jane Welsh. He had not yet transacted what he called his 
 ' conversion,' or ' new birth ' — had not yet ' authentically taken 
 the devil by the nose.' 'Doubt had darkened into unbelief.' 
 That was his own account of his state. He was indeed 
 forlorn and needing comfort. 
 
 There is no mystery whatever as to the fact that Edward 
 Irving loved Jane Welsh, whatever his actual position with 
 the Martins may have been. The fact of his finding an 
 attached and amiable wife in Miss Martin, and proving a 
 good and loving husband to her, can in no way alter what is 
 known to have been his devoted love for his old pupil. 
 
 Folded among Irving's letters to Miss Welsh is a passionate 
 sonnet addressed to her, and on the other side of it (she had 
 preserved his verses and so much of the accompanying letter as 
 was written on the opposite page of the paper) a fragment, evi- 
 dently written at this period (about 1820), in which he told her 
 that he was about to inform Miss Martin, and possibly her father, 
 of his feelings. 
 
 We have seen how that ended. Miss Welsh nobly refused 
 to listen to the addresses of a man who was not free; and 
 Irving, though he afterwards confessed that the struggle had 
 almost made his ' faith and principles to totter ' — to use his 
 
A LOVER SELF-DECEIVED 2/ 
 
 own words — submitted to the inevitable. In a letter he 
 wrote to Miss Welsh after the matter was decided he 
 says: — 
 
 My well-beloved Friend and Pupil, — When I think of you, my 
 mind is overspread with the most affectionate and tender regard, 
 which I neither know how to name nor to describe. One thing I 
 know — it would long ago have taken the form of the most devoted 
 attachment but for an intervening circumstance, and shown and 
 pleaded itself before your heart by a thousand actions, from which 
 I must now restrain myself. Heaven grant me its grace to restrain 
 myself; and, forgetting my own enjoyments, may I be enabled to 
 combine into your single self all that duty and plighted faith 
 leave at my disposal. When I am in your company my whole 
 soul would rush to serve you, and my tongue trembles to speak 
 my heart's fulness. But I am enabled to forbear, and have to 
 find other avenues than the natural ones for the overflowing of 
 an aflfectiOn which would hardly have been able to confine itself 
 within the avenues of nature, if they had all been opened. 
 
 But I feel within me the power to prevail, and at once to 
 satisfy duty to another and affection to you. I stand truly upon 
 ground that seems to shake and give way beneath me, but my 
 help is in Heaven. 
 
 Edward Irving had, as we have seen, left Kirkcaldy an 
 engaged man, pledged to Miss Isabella Martin, who after- 
 wards became his wife. Yet was there an unsatisfied longing 
 in his heart also, for the image of the bright, eager face of 
 Jeannie Welsh, his former pupil, haunted his mind and 
 thoughts, and refused to be banished. Parting from her 
 while she was still almost a child, he had yet had oppor- 
 tunities of seeing her while she ripened into her lovely 
 womanhood, and he had learned to know his own heart, 
 whose deep strong love was, alas ! given to her, and not by 
 any means to be taken away and bestowed on Miss Martin, 
 or any other woman. Irving knew it, blinded himself to it, 
 perhaps, in a measure, and at one time desperately hoped 
 against hope. But the days of hope were over before 182 1, 
 and he knew he was only looking at the roses in another 
 
28 GIRLHOOD 
 
 man's garden. Still, he saw Jane Welsh, and time drifted 
 on. 
 
 What, then, of her, at this momentous time ? She shared 
 the knowledge and the sorrow. The ardent girl had learned 
 that Irving loved her; she returned his love, and no doubt 
 blindly hoped, as he had hoped, that the Martins would set 
 him free from his engagement. That suspense was all over 
 now, and stern reality had looked her in the face. Proud 
 and honourable, she had received his tale of love with the 
 understanding that, unless he were absolutely free, there 
 must be no such footing between them as that of lovers. 
 And he was not free, never would be free to offer his love 
 — and there was an end of it. 
 
 There is no doubt, therefore, that a mutual attachment 
 existed between these two young people. Yet we cannot 
 predict that Jane Welsh would have found happiness had 
 her fate united her to this religious and enthusiastic nature. 
 There would probably, as she herself said in later life, have 
 been ' no tongues' But we cannot see that there was a strong 
 likelihood of happiness between them, as her mocking wit 
 and fine sense of the ludicrous, would have harmonised 
 imperfectly with his simple, devout earnestness. And she 
 might have come to despise him for his blind faith; whilst 
 she never could despise Thomas Carlyle. That bitterness, at 
 least, was spared her, in the ill-prospering of her first love. 
 So there was in her an emptiness of heart and a seeking out 
 for some deeper interest in life, when first she met Carlyle. 
 
 No wonder the proud, brilliant girl looked with immense 
 contempt on her many would-be admirers, and thought 
 within herself that it was all mockery and sham. It was 
 to literature that she now looked for an opening for her 
 ambition, and an interest that should not fail her; and it 
 was as a literary man of genius that Carlyle was presented 
 to her, in her then empty and dissatisfied state of mind 
 and heart. 
 
 Truly they were three remarkable personalities who met 
 
FAl'E'S GOLDEN' HOUR 
 
 29 
 
 in that drawing-room which looked out into the flower-garden, 
 with its trim box-edgings and slender birch-trees, on that 
 sweet May evening, so memorable a date in the lives of two, 
 at least, of the three who formed the little company. Mrs. 
 Welsh was now in the third year of her widowhood; *an air 
 of deep sadness lay on her,' says Carlyle, * and she soon 
 withdrew.' 
 
 So the three craving, unsatisfied natures, the three rare in- 
 tellects, the three who knew each other so little, and them- 
 selves so infinitely less, spent their first hours together. * The 
 summer twilight,' says Carlyle, 'was pouring in rich and 
 soft; I felt as one walking transiently in upper spheres.' 
 Probably none of the three ever forgot that hour. The 
 memory of it was in Carlyle's mind when, not long after, he 
 wrote that exquisite passage in * Sartor Resartus ' beginning, 
 ' The conversation took a higher turn: one fine thought called 
 forth another.* . . . 
 
 This visit lasted three or four days. Writing of it in later 
 times Carlyle says: 'There were others besides the one fair 
 figure most of all important to me. We met often, in her 
 mother's house — sat talking with the two, several hours, 
 almost every evening. The beautiful, bright, earnest young 
 lady was intent on literature, as the highest aim in life.' 
 Was this so ? Was it natural that it should be so ? Was 
 Carlyle so far deceived as to believe this astounding fiction, 
 from the lips of the young creature, just newly blossomed 
 into life, and ignorant of so much that goes to form happi- 
 
 ness 
 
 Later on, he was undeceived on one point at least — he 
 knew from her own pen that she had loved Irving 'passion- 
 ately,' had hidden that love, had jested at Irving's expense to 
 mislead Carlyle and to shield her own heart — like that bird 
 which starts up in solitary moorland places with shrill cries, 
 hovering over the place where its nest is not, to protect the 
 precious nook where it is ! 
 
 This womanly instinct must not be harshly dealt with. It 
 
30 GIRLHOOD 
 
 bears a sacred tenderness in it, and has no real kinship with 
 voluntary untruth or misleading. Jane Welsh, sternly hon- 
 ourable, as she was to the last fibre in her nature, laid down 
 this love for Irving, and gave it up, and in time it ceased to 
 exist — as an attachment. She would not love another 
 woman's husband. But a love such as hers had been, is not 
 put off as we put off a garment; the nature and character 
 receive certain undeniable impressions, and it could never be 
 with Jane Welsh, as though she had not met Edward Irving. 
 
 Many persons are disposed to say that, in this bright, quick 
 nature of hers, whatever impression there was, must have 
 been a transient one: that many young girls were in love with 
 the winning young man; that, as one of them said in later 
 life, ' Oh ! we were all in love with him ! ' It may have been 
 so; but from the documentary evidence in existence we are 
 forced to believe that in the case of Jane Welsh, it Vv^as a far 
 deeper feeling at one time, and, had Carlyle been more like 
 other men, the letter in which Miss Welsh confessed to her 
 former feeling for Edward Irving, might certainly have made 
 him pause in his wooing. But he was 7iot like other men, and 
 regarded the matter with totally different judgment. It was 
 by no means unnatural that Miss Welsh should, finally, think 
 a marriage with Carlyle possible. She may have cherished 
 a dream of close companionship with a brilliant mind, the 
 realisation of a satisfied ambition fed with aliment that should 
 not fail. She sought, perhaps, some reliable, tangible basis 
 of happiness. 
 
 Some such thoughts may have animated Carlyle at this 
 time of first impressions; though, in truth, he hardly knew 
 what a companionship was, and often needed, as an old friend 
 said, *a solar system to himself — so that invisible agencies 
 would noiselessly minister to his personal needs. 
 
 On this visit, Carlyle, charged by Irving with the direction 
 of Jane Welsh's studies, introduced some of his favourite 
 German authors to her notice, and obtained permission to 
 send her books now and then, which gave occasion to ' bits 
 
iNFL VENCE OF K US SEA U 3 1 
 
 of writing to and from'; and when she visited the Bradfute 
 household, in George's Square, Edinburgh, Carlyle was 
 allowed to call. And thus the memorable acquaintance pro- 
 gressed. 
 
 I was not her declared lover (says Carlyle), nor could she ad- 
 mit me as such in my waste and uncertain posture of affairs and 
 prospects; but we were becoming thoroughly acquainted with 
 one another, and her tacit, hidden, but to me visible, friendship, 
 for me was the happy island in my otherwise dreary, vacant, 
 and forlorn existence in those years. 
 
 The German studies were more wholesome literary food 
 for Miss Welsh than some of the books she was reading about 
 this time. The reading of * La Nouvelle Heloi'se ' hardly 
 suggested valuable ideas; perhaps the least hurtful effect of 
 such reading was to foster a contempt in Jane Welsh for the 
 raw Scotch youths who admired her. 
 
 No lover (she writes to Eliza Stodart early in 1822) will Jane 
 Welsh ever find like St. Preux, no husband like Wolmar (I don't 
 want to insinuate that I should like them both), and to no man 
 will she give her heart and pretty hand, who bears to these no 
 resemblance. George Rennie! James Aitken! Robert Mac- 
 turk! James Baird! Robby Angus! O Lord! O Lord! Where 
 is the St. Preux ? Where is the Wolmar ? 
 
 We admire the naivete with which Jane Welsh tells her 
 'Angel Bessy,' commenting on Rousseau's heroine, Julie 
 Etange, that she, Jane Welsh, 'does not wish to countenance 
 such irregularities among her female acquaintances,' but 
 qualifies this gentle condemnation by the admission that 
 ' were any individual of them to meet with such a vian, to 
 struggle as she struggled, to yield as she yielded, and to 
 repent as she repented,' she ' would love that woman better 
 than the chastest, coldest prude between John o' Groat's 
 House and Land's End.' To such sentiments had she 
 'screwed up her violin strings' after reading the 'fatal Book.' 
 It is amusing, too, to hear her apostrophise the race of old 
 
32 GtRLHOOD 
 
 maids as 'virtuous, venerable females,* and express pity for 
 her aunt, who, ' poor thing ! does not understand love.' 
 
 In this same letter she describes Carlyle, from whom she 
 had just had a letter announcing a visit to Haddington. She 
 says: — 
 
 He is something liker to St. Preux than George Craig is to 
 Wolmar, He has his talents, his vast and cultivated mind, his 
 vivid imagination, his independence of soul, and his high-souled 
 
 principles of lionour. But then — ah ! these ^^z^/j' . . . Want 
 
 of elegance! Want of elegance, Rousseau says, is a defect no 
 woman can overlook. 
 
 It must be remembered that, at this time, there was a 
 rather serious love-affair between Jane Welsh and George 
 Rennie; it had been the most serious of the many ' affairs,' 
 and was drawing to a somewhat unexpected close. Strange 
 to say, in this case, from some unexplained reason, it was 
 the gentleman who withdrew from the adventure. Carlyle 
 speaks of him in the ' Reminiscences ' as ' a clever, decisive, 
 very ambitious, but quite unmelodious young fellow, whom 
 v/e knew afterwards here [in Chelsea] as sculptor and M. P.' 
 Tender passages would seem to have taken place between 
 this * decisive ' young man and Jane Welsh, perhaps without 
 much depth of feeling. But she says: ' O wretch ! I wish I 
 could hate him, but I cannot. . . . And when Friday comes, 
 I always think how neatly I used to be dressed, and some- 
 times I give my hair an additional brush and put on a clean 
 frill, just from habit. Oh ! the devil take him ! ' 
 
 There was certainly, at the time, some feeling on Jane 
 Welsh's part for this ' unmelodious young fellow,' for when 
 he was going abroad she writes to Miss Stodart: ' I had not 
 heard his voice for many a day, but then I had heard those 
 who had conversed with him. I had seen objects he had 
 looked on, I had breathed the air that he had breathed.' 
 And when the young man called to take leave of her, Jane 
 Welsh says, ' I scarcely heard a word he said, my own heart 
 beat so loud.' The young lady promptly discards this un- 
 
THE IDEAL AND THE REAL -^-y^ 
 
 wonted mood of tenderness, and goes on, in the same letter, 
 to describe a visit from Carlyle: — 
 
 Mr. Carlyle was with us two days (she writes), during the 
 greater part of which I read German with him. It is a noble 
 language; I am getting on famously. He scratched the fender 
 dreadfully ; I must have a pair of carpet-shoes and handcuffs 
 prepared for him the next time. His tongue only should be left 
 at liberty; his other members are most fantastically awkward. 
 
 In concluding the same letter she says : ' I will be happier 
 contemplating my beau-ideal than a real, substantial, eating, 
 drinking, sleeping, honest husband ! ' 
 
 To us, these expressions about George Rennie seem rather 
 intended to mislead than enlighten Miss Stodart, for the 
 name that was never written — the name of Edward Irving — 
 was linked with a deeper, unspoken feeling; and the friend- 
 ship for George Rennie, which outlasted time and change, 
 was of another kind, since, many years later, when he lay 
 dying in London, with wife and family about him, Mrs. 
 Carlyle went, at Mrs. Rennie's wish, and watched her old 
 companion and playfellow in his last hours on earth. This, 
 we would affirm, she could not have done in the case of 
 Edward Irving; and this paradox is no paradox to those 
 who know women's hearts. But Jane Welsh was loyal, and 
 deeply kind-hearted, and there was nothing to render that 
 last tender and sacred office of friendship impossible. 
 
34 GIRLHOOD 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 A. D. 1821-1825 
 
 Miss Welsh's German studies — Projected literary work — Irving's 
 anxieties as to Miss Welsh's reading — Remonstrances — Irving 
 goes to London — He introduces Carlyle to the Bullers — The 
 tutorship — More intimate correspondence between Carlyle and 
 Miss Welsh — Friendship the footing prescribed by Miss Welsh — 
 Irving's marriage to Miss Martin — Continuation of the Buller 
 engagement — Carlyle's wooing, and its results — Stoical accept- 
 ance of repulse — Dr. Fyffe — Miss Welsh's admiration for genius 
 — The letter from Goethe to Carlyle — Sympathy on Byron's 
 
 death — ' Benjamin B ' — Miss Welsh does not pay a visit to 
 
 the Irvings in London. 
 
 The thought of Edward Irving as a lover was put away, 
 and in time took its place with the sad, beautiful things that 
 were not to be — *Es war zu schon gewesen ! ' Meantime 
 George Rennie was on the high seas, and Miss Welsh busy 
 with her German studies, laughingly considering some liter- 
 ary work that should tend to the ' immortalising of old 
 maids.' She declined an offer made her by one of the editors 
 of a proposed local magazine, and was ready to swear that 
 the first number would be the last. The offer in question, 
 made by Mr. George Cunningham, was that she should assist 
 the projected literary work with her pen; and certainly she 
 would have been a brilliant contributor, but her powers were 
 destined to be otherwise employed. Her interest in German 
 was very genuine. In an enforced absence from her studies 
 she says, writing to Miss Stodart, * Oh my beloved German ! 
 my precious, precious time ! ' 
 
 These German readings with Carlyle were a source of 
 fresh anxiety to Edward Irving. 
 
ADVANCED CULTURE 35 
 
 I would like (he writes to Thomas Carlyle) to see her sur- 
 rounded with a more noble set of companions than Rousseau 
 
 (your friend), and Byron, and such-like . . . And I don't 
 
 think it will much mend the matter when you get her intro- 
 duced to Von Schiller and Von Goethe, and your other nobles 
 of German literature. I fear Jane has already dipped too 
 deep into that spring, so that, unless some more solid food 
 be afforded, I fear she will escape altogether out of the region 
 of my sympathies, and the sympathies of honest, home-bred 
 men. 
 
 Irving also feared the influence of some of the German 
 writers as likely to undermine Miss Welsh's religious convic- 
 tions, which he had himself laboured to establish in what he 
 felt more and more convinced was the only true form. It was 
 natural, no doubt, that he should view Carlyle as a dangerous 
 teacher; but it is no less true that Carlyle's own principles, as 
 applied to life and morals, were as pure in their results as 
 can be inspired by the most orthodox creed in existence. 
 
 In 1822 an important change took place in Carlyle's 
 circumstances. Since his retirement from his post of school- 
 master in Kirkcaldy, in 1818, he had led a struggling life 
 in Edinburgh, writing, reading, translating, at very moderate 
 remuneration, borne down by poverty and dyspepsia. But 
 at this time his constant friend, Edward Irving, was invited 
 as minister to the Caledonian chapel in Hatton Garden, and 
 his subsequent brilliant success as preacher there brought 
 him in contact with many distinguished persons. Among 
 these was Mrs. Charles Buller, a wealthy lady with sons. 
 Recommended by Irving, Thomas Carlyle became tutor to 
 two of these lads, and was at once in easy circumstances, 
 and nobly helped his family. 
 
 The correspondence with Haddington continued, and grew 
 even more intimate. Mr. Froude says: ' The relations between 
 tutor and pupil developed, or promised to develop, into a 
 literary partnership.' As such it might have been a success. 
 There was no sign of tender feeling on Jane Welsh's part, 
 and a decided check imposed on the earliest indication of 
 
36 GIRLHOOD 
 
 gallantry. Friendship, the beautiful girl maintained, was the 
 only footing possible between them. And Carlyle acquiesced, 
 without a suspicion. It was, perhaps, not difificult for him to 
 observe this wish of hers. 
 
 Edward Irving was in London, out of the way, but took 
 his trouble with him, and did, it seems, contemplate even 
 now informing Miss Martin and her father of his feelings. 
 But the Martins had justice and custom on their side, and, 
 though actually appealed to, stood firm to their contract. 
 A letter from Irving to Jane Welsh after the final decision 
 was made is painful in its forced tone of resignation, its 
 mixture of passionate love and religious formula — simple, 
 true, and manly as is the attitude adhered to. 
 
 Upon Irving the effect of this disappointment was un- 
 doubted and abidmg. A few months later he married Miss 
 Martin, and entered on a new life. His old self was left 
 behind. As Mr. Froude says, 'the old, simple, unconscious 
 Irving ceased to exist.' But there were other potent causes 
 in Irving' s career from this point which rendered simplicity 
 and unconsciousness difficult to maintain, though his married 
 life was calm and loving; more peaceful than it could have 
 been with the quick, fiery-hearted, brilliant Jane Welsh. 
 And she surely would not have found her beau-ideal in 
 Edward Irving; nor was she formed for that simple and 
 uncomplicated happiness which suffices to so many women 
 and wives. ' Where the light is brightest the shadows are 
 deepest,' so say the Germans; and both were very vivid in 
 this remarkable girl. It would be hard to say what Jane 
 Welsh would have really considered as happiness. 
 
 In any case, she now turned to her strange relation with 
 Carlyle, which offered interest of no common kind. He 
 wrote her his discontented and yet brilliant letters during 
 the Buller engagement — admitted that he had ' quiet, and 
 free air, and returning health ' — and besought her not to be 
 in pain for him. 
 
 In October 1822 he paid a hasty visit to his faithful and 
 
THE ABIDING AND THE TRANSIENT 37 
 
 beloved old mother, always dearer, practically, to him, than 
 any one on earth. Here, in Mainhill, a most rudimentary 
 little farmhouse, he tried to comfort his mother as to his 
 spiritual state; no doubt, over their midnight pipes, they 
 exchanged much earnest talk, and these must have been 
 among the most precious hours ever spent by Thomas 
 Carlyle. Meanwhile, the 'paragon of gifted young girls' 
 abode with her dignified, sad, and beautiful mother, in the 
 comfortable house at Haddington, among what Carlyle 
 called the 'elegant whim-whams' of a refined home, fastid- 
 ious as to the binding of her ' wee, wee Cicero,' playing 
 the piano, singing Moore's melodies, and sending kisses to 
 'Brady.' There had been a visit of ' Uncle Robert,' once 
 spoken of as 'perfectly divine,' now evidently fallen from 
 that giddy elevation. ' There ' (she says) ' was my precious 
 uncle, sneezing, snarling, and sometimes snoring; the Lady 
 [her aunt] dressing, yawning, and practicing postures; our 
 mother wearying her heart to entertain them, all in vain, and 
 our sorrowful self casting many a wistful glance towards the 
 little table where Schiller and Alfieri lay neglected.' 
 
 Thus opened the year 1823. In May, Carlyle spent a 
 week in Annandale, and wrote to Miss Welsh: 'Here I 
 purpose to spend my leisure, and to think sweetly of friends 
 that are far away.' Such thoughts must have been mostly of 
 the charming girl he was addressing. The position could 
 not possibly remain at a fixed point of friendship and literary 
 sympathy. Such terms become flimsy pretences between a 
 man and a woman unless each has some deep, abiding 
 haven of the heart, whence, safely anchored, they can ' sport 
 upon the shore; ' and neither Thomas Carlyle nor Jane Welsh 
 had such abiding-place. She truly sought none such, but 
 was amused, flattered, perhaps at times touched, to see this 
 man of genius at her feet. And his social status seemed, no 
 doubt, to her a very real barrier against the idea of a marriage 
 between them. It was a temptation hard for the lively girl to 
 resist — that of playing with the feelings of this uncouth and 
 
38 GIRLUOOD 
 
 remarkable man, and it is not to be wondered at that she 
 should yield to it. So he was ' caressed or chidden by the 
 dainty hand,' and was well contented. 
 
 He was ever ready to listen to her lively sallies; and in the 
 summer of 1823, when staying in some house she particu- 
 larly disliked. Miss Welsh, dating her letter, in her forcible 
 language, as from * Jlell,' must have somewhat overstated her 
 gratitude for Carlyle's affection for her. She must have 
 expressed herself with less reticence than usual, carelessly 
 perhaps; but by Carlyle, little practised in the ways of 
 woman, what she said was eagerly taken as a willingness on 
 her part to become his wife. Nothing could have been 
 further from the young lady's thoughts, and she lost no time 
 in explaining herself, so as to do away with the effect of what 
 she had done. 
 
 My friend! (she said) I love you — I repeat it, though I find 
 the expression a rash one. All the best feelings of my nature 
 are concerned in loving you. But were you my brother, I should 
 love you the same. No! Your friend I will be, your truest, 
 most devoted friend, while I breathe the breath of life. But 
 your wife, never! Never! not though you were as rich as 
 Croesus, as honoured and renowned as you yet shall be! 
 
 This sounds decisive, and Carlyle took it as a conclusive 
 settling of the point, and bore it as a brave man should, 
 replying in terms which, had Miss Welsh loved him, would 
 indeed have broken off the intimacy once for all. ' My heart,* 
 he said, 'is too old by almost half a score of years' (he was 
 only twenty-eight), 'and is made of sterner stuff than to break 
 in junctures of this kind.' One might naturally ask, In what 
 kind of juncture, then, would his heart have broken ? But 
 he continues: ' I have no idea of dying in the Arcadian 
 shepherd's style for the disappointment of hopes which I never 
 seriously entertained, or had no right to entertain seriously.' 
 
 As we have said, between lovers such words as these 
 would either have been impossible to be spoken, or impossible 
 
JiESTLESSN£SS AND GERMAN STUD Y 3g 
 
 to be forgiven J but between this strange pair they produced 
 little effect. Jane Welsh was desceuvree\ her life did not 
 give her that whereby her eager, restless nature could live. 
 She could not* live by bread alone.' She could not lay down 
 the romantic idea of aiding the upward striving of this man 
 of extraordinary genius; there were interest, excitement, 
 occupation of thought, literary sympathy — elements which 
 made life worth living — and the correspondence between her- 
 self and Carlyle continued. In a letter to Miss Stodart on 
 March 31, 1823, Jane Welsh writes: 'Often at the end of 
 the week my spirits and my industry begin to flag; but then 
 comes one of Mr. Carlyle's brilliant letters, that inspires me 
 with new resolution, and brightens all my hopes and prospects 
 with the golden hues of his own imagination.' 
 
 At this time she busied herself with certain humble 
 protege's: A beggar-boy of fifteen — taken on trust as a genius, 
 but with an aversion to all kinds of mortal labour, which 
 could not do away with faults of a less exalted character, such 
 as lying and refusing to wash his face — was one of these. A 
 second pensioner, described as being * eight years old and a 
 few inches high,' proved more respectable and satisfactory. 
 
 These benevolent occupations were supplemented by her 
 * translating German.' * As busy at this,' she says, ' as if my 
 fortune in this world and my salvation in the world to come 
 depended on my proficiency in that enchanting tongue.' This 
 devotion to German showed that she wished to please Carlyle, 
 who was also deep in the language. 
 
 Jane Welsh was sharp as ever in her sarcasm. She speaks 
 of the ' little gunpowder-man of medicine ' (Dr. Fyffe) in sin- 
 gularly cutting terms: — 
 
 Now, when he perceives (she writes) that he may bleed or 
 boil himself to the day of Pentecost without interesting this hard 
 and sto7iy heart of mine the least in his favour, he is adopting 
 another mode of attack. Instead of shaving his whiskers, and 
 using all possible expedients to give him the aspect of a woe- 
 begone man, he is now trying to dazzle my wits with a white hat, 
 
40 GIRLHOOD ; 
 
 silver-headed jockey whip, and bits of leggings of so bright a 
 yellow that it does me ill to look at them. 
 
 In this letter she asks her * dear, dear Angel Bessie ' to 
 do her two tremendous favours, one behig to send a book to 
 Dr. Carlyle's lodgings. Dr. John Carlyle was now studying 
 medicine at Edinburgh University, and Miss Welsh had 
 forgotten the name of the people with whom he was lodging. 
 The other favour requested, savours of the mysterious: * You 
 are to be so very kind as to order for me at Gibson and Craig's 
 one of the best gentlemen's hats, of the most fashionable cut, 
 not broad-rimmed. The outside measure is enclosed. It is to 
 be a present to my intended husband, so do see that they 
 send a Jemmy one.' 
 
 Mr. Ritchie gives the date of this letter as doubtful, and 
 we are inclined to think that it must have been written 
 in 1826 when Carlyle really was Miss Welsh's * intended 
 husband,' and she may have had some feminine view of 
 smartening him up. Things had not gone so far as this in 
 1824, when Miss Welsh. tells her ' dearest Eliza' how for two 
 weeks she never wearied of her cousin — played chess with 
 him, strolled through the woods with him, or sat on a green 
 bank talking sentiment with him, and, whilst admitting his 
 nature to be most affectionate, his spirit magnificent, his 
 intellect clear and quick, his fancy lively, and himself beau- 
 tiful, brilliant, graceful, and courtly, yet deplored his not 
 possessing gctiitis, that fatal gift, necessary, as she adds, to the 
 destiny of her life. And this was evidently the fact, for, when 
 the momentous choice was at length made, Jane Welsh elected 
 to choose genius, without some of these gracious and attrac- 
 tive accompaniments. Her longing after genius was a real 
 and an unquenchable one; genius in her life-partner was her 
 sine qua 7ion, and, for the time, at least, this longing out- 
 weighed and dominated all other desires. And the gods 
 heard, and she had her wish. 
 
 It would seem that in 1824 Jane Welsh's decision still 
 hung in the balance, however. ' I begin to think,' she says, 
 
A S YMPA TH Y SHA RED 4 1 
 
 * that men and women may be very charming without having 
 any genius. Who knows but I shall grow reasonable at last, 
 and descend from my ideal heaven to the real earth — marry 
 — and, O Plato ! make a pudding.' But Jane Welsh acted 
 out her ideal, and proved its real nature and consequences. 
 Her various love-affairs ruffled, but did not stir her. She 
 overwhelmed her unlucky suitors with satirical invective. 
 But she could not treat Thomas Carlyle so. His hold on 
 her lay out of the reach of her mocking spirit. In Decem- 
 ber 1824 he sent her a letter from Goethe to himself — a copy 
 in characters which she could read, as well as. the original. 
 Xhis greatly pleased the ambitious young girl. 'As written 
 to Carlyle himself, it is highly complimentary,' she writes to 
 Miss Stodart, ' and, coming from the man whom he honours 
 almost to idolatry, must have gratified him beyond measure.' 
 
 Another yet more precious inclosure was a fragment of a 
 letter from Byron, which affected Miss Welsh most power- 
 fully. 'This, then,' she says, 'was his handwriting; his, 
 whose image had haunted my imagination for years and years, 
 whose wild, glorious spirit had tinctured all the poetry of my 
 being.' This subject of Byron was one on which sympathet- 
 ic utterances had been exchanged. When the fatal news 
 had come from Missolonghi, Miss Welsh had written to 
 Carlyle: ' I was told it all alone in a room full of people. If 
 they had said the sun or the moon was gone out of the 
 heavens, it could not have struck me with the idea of a more 
 awful blank in the creation than the words, "Byron is 
 dead!"' Carlyle had answered: 'Poor Byron! Alas! the 
 news of his death came upon my heart like a mass of lead. . . . 
 I dreamed of seeing him and knowing him, but the curtain 
 of everlasting night has hid him from our eyes. We shall 
 go to him; he shall not return to us. There is a blank in 
 your heart and in mine since this man passed away.' 
 
 How exquisite must this sympathy, thus expressed by 
 Thomas Carlyle, on this subject, have been to the enthu- 
 siastic young girl! What more perfect method could 
 
42 
 
 GIRLHOOD 
 
 Carlyle's good angel have suggested to him to ingratiate 
 himself withal in this tenderly romantic heart? And the 
 partaking of this sorrowful regret, taken in conjunction with 
 the use of that charmed possessive pronoun, ' our,' certainly 
 paved the way for nearer relations between these two isolated 
 natures. Carlyle made a decided advance in Miss Welsh's 
 good graces at this time. 
 
 In April 1825, Miss "Welsh describes an amusing scene: 
 
 Mr. Benjamin B called, bent on serious wooing, and 
 
 found the field already occupied. Mr. Carlyle was there, a 
 guest, in the drawing-room at Haddington. ' I kept talking,' 
 says Miss "Welsh; 'I just kept on talking away to Hr. 
 
 Carlyle about the Peak of Teneriffe.' Benjamin B must 
 
 have shown much patient perseverance, for it seems he sub- 
 sequently 'talked for two hours, with a miraculous command 
 of absurdity.' Such was the lady's verdict on his eloquence. 
 
 In the same letter to Miss Stodart occur the significant 
 words: ' I do not go to London this season either, for rea- 
 sons which I have not room to explain. It is not Mr. Irving's 
 fault //^/V time! ' Mr. Froude tells us how it had been in- 
 tended that Miss Welsh should visit Irving and his wife in 
 London as soon as they were settled there, ' but Irving could 
 not face the trial.' Brave and good Irving! he would not 
 let her face the trial. He loved her better than he loved 
 himself. Had she made that visit at that time, however, we 
 cannot help thinking that the whole course of her own life 
 might have been changed. For she would have gained some 
 self-knowledge; it would have been forced on her — with a 
 painful awakening, perhaps — but it would have prevented 
 her, probably, from marrying as she did. Yet in saying this 
 we are speaking in ignorance as to her having been happier 
 either unwedded or otherwise wedded, since her nature was 
 not easy to be made happy, and the causes which militated 
 most strongly against her happiness were in her own nature, 
 more than in circumstances. So, at least, we are led to 
 think. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 A. D. 1S25 
 
 Carlyle in London — Thoughts of marriage — Difficulties — Mrs. Mon- 
 tagu — ' Barry Cornwall ' — Allan Cunningham — The breaking-off 
 of the Buller engagement — Irving's hospitality — Serious reflec- 
 tions — Consultations with Miss Welsh — The idea of ' living on a 
 farm ' — Miss Welsh's very different project — Carlyle's indepen- 
 dent spirit — Exceptional position of affairs — Miss Welsh's deli- 
 cate health — The proposal to farm Craigenputtock — Final de- 
 cision left to Miss Welsh — Suspense — Discussion — Modest wants 
 of Carlyle — Miss Welsh demurs at the essential conditions, but 
 still proffers friendship — Carlyle's renewed professions of at- 
 tachment. 
 
 Carlyle had sailed to London on June 5 of this same 
 year, to continue his duties in the Buller family, and to see 
 something of a new life. Irving had been sanguine that 
 literary society would open its arms to a man of genius like 
 his friend. Carlyle himself gravely doubted this, and had 
 rather a hankering for some remote and undisturbed nook in 
 Scotland, where he might possess his soul in peace, and 
 devote himself to work, unmolested, at whatever the spirit 
 might move him to do. Such rural paradise must, of course, 
 contain some helpful and wholly unexacting human presence, 
 which should attend to the ' cares of bread ' without troubling 
 him in any way, yet with strict attention to his simple but 
 pronounced needs in this direction. This rendered the plan 
 a difficult one to arrange. Meantime he would go to London, 
 and await a summons from the Buller family. His own 
 description of his reception in Irving's house is characteristic. 
 It may be read in the * Reminiscences.' 
 
 In a letter to Miss Welsh, dated a few days after his 
 arrival, he sketches some of the people he has met; notably, 
 
 43 
 
44 
 
 GIRLHOOD 
 
 Mrs. Montagu, of whom his words are, possibly unintention- 
 ally, disparaging. It was she whom Irving always called the 
 ' noble lady,' and to whom Carlyle, later on, addressed letters 
 of the most affectionate cordiality; to whom, also, he was in- 
 debted for great kindness and hospitality. Carlyle speaks of 
 Barry Cornwall, with 'the dreamy wildness in his eye;' of 
 Allan Cunningham, ' my most dear, modest, kind, good- 
 humoured Allan Cunningham; ' and of many others. 
 
 The uncertainty of the Bullers' movements greatly annoyed 
 and distracted Carlyle. It ended finally in the breaking-up 
 of the engagement with that family. Carlyle now found him- 
 self free, and happier than he had been for some time. 
 Irving's hospitality was immediately at his disposal. 
 
 One little trait may be quoted from a letter written to Miss 
 Welsh in October of the same year, when Carlyle was visit- 
 ing the Irvings at Dover. Carlyle found something hugely 
 ridiculous in the interest Irving and his wife took in their 
 firstborn, and quotes the ' Orator,' as he oftenest styled 
 Irving, as having said on one occasion to his wife: ' Isabella, 
 I think I would wash him with warm water to-night;' on 
 which Carlyle's comment to the young mother, as reported 
 by himself, was that he, were he in her place, would wash 
 him with oil of vitriol if he pleased, and take no one's 
 counsel. 
 
 It was, as we must remember, in absolute ignorance of the 
 past that lay between Miss Welsh and Edward Irving, that 
 Carlyle thus discoursed to her of the ' Orator.' ' Oh ! ' says 
 he, ' that you but saw the giant, with his broad-brimmed hat, 
 his sallow visage, and his sable fleece of hair, carrying the 
 little pepper-box of a creature ! ' Yet, in the ' Reminis- 
 cences,' he adds how Irving said to him: 'Ah ! Carlyle, this 
 little creature has been sent to me to soften my hard heart.' 
 And this utterance had evidently touched Carlyle's own heart, 
 which was eminently 7iot hard. 
 
 An unexpected excursion to Paris followed this holiday; 
 after whiA Carlyle returned to London, and lived near 
 
AN INTERESTING CORRESPONDENCE 45 
 
 Irving, to finish his * Life of Schiller.' He was still sick in 
 body and perturbed in mind; he writes with intensified 
 bitterness of the Irving family, but says, in a letter to John 
 Carlyle in November: * Yet were I a dog if I did not 
 love him ! ' And here again the heart of Thomas Carlyle 
 spoke. 
 
 The correspondence with Miss Welsh continued, and she 
 must have been the main element in the dissatisfied and 
 ambitious man's thoughts and schemes. He began to loathe 
 London. He had saved a little money, even after his generous 
 help to his brothers. He felt he must seriously consult her, 
 whose opinion was almost all-in-all to him, and who he had 
 some reason to think might consent to marry him when once 
 he was able to offer her a tolerably comfortable home. 
 
 To such conclusion had Carlyle come after long and intimate 
 correspondence with Miss Welsh. His own tastes were of the 
 simplest; he concluded, with beautiful unconsciousness, that 
 hers would also be so. His idea at this time was to take 
 and stock a farm in Annandale, leaving his brother Alexander 
 to manage it. Then he would have quietness to write and 
 study, and the two sources of activity would surely realise a 
 small but sufficient income to marry upon. It was a very 
 simple Utopia, but as illusory as the wildest dreams of the 
 dreamers. 
 
 He tells his plans to Miss Welsh, who had evidently 
 thought, in her inexperience, that some ready-made ' pension ' 
 of * sinecure ' would be ready, lying at the feet of a man of 
 such genius— something that, without effort on his part, 
 should redeem him from the vulgar necessity of making a 
 living. 
 
 A sinecure! (he says in reply). God bless thee, my darling! 
 I could not touch a sinecure, though twenty of my friends should 
 volunteer to offer! . . . For affection, or the faintest imitation 
 of it, a man should feel obliged to his very dog; but for the 
 gross assistance of patronage or purse, let him pause before 
 accepting them from any one. 
 
46 GIRLHOOD 
 
 And these feelings were genuine, and expressed in manly 
 language, such as Miss Welsh could not but admire. 
 
 The years during which this remarkable correspondence 
 was going on must have been strange and unrestful years for 
 Jane Welsh. The correspondence itself is as unlike the 
 ordinary pre-matrimonial exchange of letters as the two 
 writers were unlike the general run of people. There was, 
 from the first, something altogether exceptional in the whole 
 position of affairs — almost unprecedented. 
 
 Let us here draw attention for a moment to Miss Welsh's 
 own account of her physical health, showing, as it does, 
 the ominous foreshadowing of a highly sensitive and too 
 finely balanced temperament, which was to develop such 
 cruel forms of suffering in later life. In a letter dated 
 Templand, August 1825, Miss Welsh writes to her friend, 
 Miss Stodart: — 
 
 My life is passing on here in the usual alternating manner. 
 One day I am ill and in bed; the next, in full puff at an enter- 
 tainment. . . . What pains me most is, that between headaches 
 and visiting my education is completely at a stand. . . . And, 
 after all, I am not very blamable on the score of idleness; it is 
 in vain to think of toiling up the steep of knowledge with a 
 burden of sickness on one's shoulders, and hardly less difficult 
 for a young person of my attractions to lead the life of a recluse. 
 
 We here see, plainly enough, that Jane Welsh was not 
 strong and healthy, even in those early and comparatively 
 untried days. She suffered at times, was restless, and ill at 
 ease. Her strongest interest at the time was undoubtedly 
 her friendship with Carlyle — that fViendship bordering so 
 closely on a deeper feeling. 
 
 There was more than mere ambition, we think, in the 
 attraction she felt towards Carlyle. She admired and 
 venerated him; she felt that he was superior to any man 
 she had ever known: and he had sympathized with her, as 
 we have already seen. She had certainly loved Edward 
 Irving, but that love had not been destined to fill her life. 
 
UNANSWERED QUESTIONS 47 
 
 Would it ever have filled it? We can never know; and 
 doubtless the scent of the rose-leaves clung round that early- 
 closed page of her life, and possibly never quite left it. But 
 what the actual result of the union would have been we 
 cannot guess. How that keenly awakened, mocking spirit 
 would have taken Irving's pious phraseology, and his whole 
 mode of thought, is beyond our power to predict. The 
 love-story was never dragged out to its end. Irving, 
 bound in honour, had gone his way; and though Jane 
 Welsh could not again give that passionate youthful love 
 which was given to him, we need not conclude that therefore 
 she could not love at all, and was bereft of all power or wish 
 to make a good man happy. How many marriages, and 
 happy marriages, too, are built on the second, rather than on 
 the first deep, beautiful outpouring of the heart? Many a 
 man would have preferred to marry Miss Welsh with the 
 feeling she had for Thomas Carlyle than with that which she 
 felt for Edward Irving. We are not speaking at random; 
 we have heard it from the lips of a good man and true, who 
 knew her long and intimately, and understood her as few 
 have ever done. Probably she would not have found life per- 
 fect with an)'' man, since her own eager, restless nature bore 
 within it so many possibilities, almost necessities of pain. 
 
 Carlyle was nobly ready to relieve her from any promise to 
 him. But she did not wish to be relieved. His proposal to 
 farm Craigenputtock did not seem wild to hitn. His own 
 recollections of Mainhill and the family life made it quite 
 natural. His mother, whom he loved and venerated above 
 all earthly beings, spent her life in a cottage, discharging the 
 humblest of daily tasks. He saw nothing anomalous in the 
 plan. It was merely an error in judgment, and a pardonable, 
 and in some sense a natural one, that he should propose this 
 solitary moorland life to Miss Welsh. He writes to her from 
 London on January 9, 1825: — 
 
 . . . You bid me tell you how I have decided — what I mean 
 to do. It is you that must decide. I will endeavour to explain 
 
48 GIRLHOOD 
 
 to you what I wish; it must rest with you to say whether it can 
 ever be attained. 
 
 You tell me you have land which needs improvement. Why 
 not work on that.'' In one word, then, will you go with me.? 
 Will you be my own for ever? Say Yes, and I embrace the 
 project with my whole heart. I send my brother Alick over to 
 rent that Nithsdale farm for me without delay; I proceed to it 
 the moment I am freed from my engagements here; I labour in 
 arranging it, and fitting everything for your reception; and the 
 instant it is ready I take you home to my hearth, never more to 
 part from me, whatever fate betide us, 
 
 I fear you think this scheme a baseless vision; and yet it is 
 the sober best among the many I have meditated — the best for 
 me, and I think also, so far as I can judge of it, for yourself. . . . 
 Depend upon it, Jane, this literature, which both of us are so 
 bent on pursuing, will not constitute the sole nourishment of 
 any true human spirit. . . . Literature is the wine of life; it will 
 not, cannot be, its food. 
 
 . . . You, too, are unhappy, and I see the reason. You have 
 a deep, earnest, and vehement spirit, and no earnest task has 
 ever been assigned to it. You despise and ridicule the meanness 
 of the things about you. To the things you honour you can only 
 pay a fervent adoration, which issues in no practical effect. Oh 
 that I saw you the mistress of a house, diffusing over human 
 souls that loved you those clear faculties of order, judgment, 
 elegance, which you are now reduced to spend on pictures and 
 portfolios — blessing living hearts with that enthusiastic love 
 which you must now direct to the distant and the dimly seen! 
 All this is in you. You have a heart, and an intellect, and a 
 resolute decision which might make you the model of wives, 
 however widely your thoughts and your experience have hitherto 
 wandered from that highest distinction of the noblest women. 
 I, too, have wandered wide and far. Let us return; let us 
 return together! Let us learn through one another what it is 
 to live! . . . 
 
 The first, the lowest, but a most essential point, is that of 
 funds. On this matter I have still little to tell you that you do 
 not know. Lfeel, in general, that I have ordinary faculties in 
 me, and an ordinary degree of diligence in using them, and that 
 
SEEIOUS PROPOSITIONS 49 
 
 thousands manage life in comfort with even slenderer resources. 
 . . . To my taste, cleanliness and order are far beyond gilding 
 and grandeur, which, without them, is an abomination; and for 
 displays, for festivals, and parties, 1 believe you are as indisposed 
 as myself. . . Two laws I have laid down to myself: that I 
 must and will recover health, without which to think, or even to 
 live, is burdensome or unprofitable; and that I will not degener- 
 ate into the wretched thing which calls itself an author, in our 
 capitals, and scribbles for the sake of lucre in the periodicals of 
 the day. . . I begin to entertain a certain degree of contempt 
 for the destiny which has so long persecuted me. I will be a 
 man in spite of it. Yet it lies with you whether I shall be a 
 right man, or only a hard and bitter Stoic ! . . 
 
 Speak, then! Think well of me, of yourself, of our circum- 
 stances, and determine! Dare you trust me? dare you trust 
 your fate with me, as I trust mine with you ? Judge if I wait 
 your answer with impatience. I know you will not keep me 
 waiting. Of course, it will be necessary to explain all things to 
 your mother, and take her serious advice respecting them. For 
 your other friends, it is not worth while consulting one of them. 
 I know not that there is one among them that would give you as 
 disinterested advice as even I, judging in my own cause. May 
 God bless you and direct you! Decide as you will. 
 
 This was manly and true — sure to move a nature like 
 that of Jane Welsh. What woman could have read the letter 
 unmoved ? But Miss Welsh was intensely practical, and 
 saw difificulties which Carlyle could not see. She was keenly 
 conscious of his total unfitness for the life he was proposing, 
 and doubtless felt its extreme unsuitability, at all points, to 
 herself. She answered his letter with a plain and unvarnished 
 truthfulness, which would have caused any ordinary man 
 and lover to throw up the whole project, and turn away for 
 ever from the terribly clear-sighted and deliberate young 
 lady. Here are passages from her reply, dated Haddington, 
 January 13, 1825: — 
 
 I little thought my joke about your farming Craigenputtock was 
 to be made the basis of such a serious and extraordinary project. 
 
50 GIRLHOOD 
 
 . . , You have sometimes asked me, Did I ever think ? For 
 once in my life, at least, I have thought myself into a vertigo, 
 and without coming to any positive conclusion. However, my 
 mind, such as it is, on the matter you have thus precipitately 
 forced on my consideration, I will explain to you frankly and 
 explicitly, as the happiness of us both requires. I love you, and 
 I should be the most ungrateful and injudicious of mortals if I 
 did not. But I am not m lore with you; that is to say, my love 
 for you is not a passion which overclouds w/ judgment, and 
 absorbs all my regard for myself and others. It is a simple, 
 honest, serene afTection, made up of admiration and sympathy, 
 and better, perhaps, to found domestic enjoyment on than any 
 other. In short, it is a love which itifiuences, does not make, 
 the destiny of a life. 
 
 Such temperate sentiments lend no false colouring, no 'rosy 
 light ' to your project. I see it, such as it is, with all the argu- 
 ments for and against it. I see that my consent, under existing 
 circumstances, would, indeed, secure to me the only fellowship 
 and support I have found in the world, and perhaps, too, shed 
 some sunshine of joy on your existence, which has hitherto been 
 sullen and cheerless; but, on the other hand, that it would involve 
 you and myself in numberless cares and difficulties, and expose 
 me to petty tribulations which I want fortitude to despise, and 
 which, not despised, would embitter the peace of us both. I do 
 not wish for fortune more than is sufficient for my wants — my 
 natural wants, and the artificial ones, which habit has rendered 
 nearly as importunate as the others. But I will not consent to 
 live on less; because, in that case, every inconvenience I was 
 subjected to would remind me of what I had quitted, and the 
 idea of a sacrifice should have no place in a voluntary union. 
 Neither have I any wish for grandeur; the glittering baits of 
 titles and honours are only for children and fools. But I conceive 
 it a duty which every one owes to society, not to throw up that 
 station in it which Providence has assigned him; and, having this 
 conviction, I could not marry into a station inferior to my own 
 with the approval of my judgment, which alone could enable me 
 to brave the censures of my acquaintance. 
 
 And now, let me ask you, have you any ceriai'ji livelihood to 
 maintain me in the manner I have been used to live in ? SLXxyJixed 
 place in the rank of society I have been born and bred in ? No! 
 
OPPOSITION 
 
 51 
 
 You have projects for attaining both, capabilities for attaining 
 both, and much more. But as yet you have not attained them. 
 Use the noble gifts which God has given you. You have prudence 
 — though, by the way, this last proceeding is no great proof of it. 
 Devise, then, how you may gain yourself a moderate but settled 
 income. Think of some more promising plan than farming the 
 most barren spot in the county of Dumfriesshire. What a thing 
 that would be, to be sure — you and I keeping house at Craigen- 
 puttock ! I would as soon think of building myself a nest on 
 the Bass Rock. Nothing but your ignorance of the spot saves 
 you from the imputation of insanity for admitting such a thought. 
 Depend upon it, you could not exist there a twelvemonth. For 
 my part, I could not spend a month at it with an angel. Think 
 of something else, then. Apply your industry to carry it into 
 effect; your talents to gild over the inequality of our births — 
 and then we will talk of marrying. If all this were realised, 
 I think I should have good sense enough to abate something of 
 my romantic ideal, and to content myself with stopping short on 
 this side idolatry. At all events, I will marry no one else. This 
 is all the promise I can or will make. . . Write instantly, and 
 tell me that you are content to leave the event to time and 
 destiny, and, in the meanwhile, to continue my friend and 
 guardian — which you have so long faithfully been — and nothing 
 more ! 
 
 It would be more agreeable to etiquette, and, perhaps, also to 
 prudence, that I should adopt no middle course in an affair such 
 as this; that I should not for another instant encourage an 
 affection which I may never reward, and a hope I may never 
 fulfil, but cast your heart away from me at once, since I cannot 
 embrace the resolution which would give me a right to it for ever. 
 This I would assuredly do if you were like the generality of 
 lovers, or if it were still in my power to be happy independent 
 of your affection. But, as it is, neither etiquette nor prudence can 
 obtain this of me. If there is any change to be made in the 
 terms on which we have so long lived with one another, it must 
 be made by you, not by me. 
 
 This remarkable letter shows something of Jane Welsh's 
 nature. It shows distinctly that she did not wish to give 
 up Carlyle, or to give up the hope of being his wife. It 
 
52 
 
 GIRLHOOD 
 
 shows that she was certainly attached to him, since she 
 speaks of her friendship with him as the 'only fellowship 
 and support' she had found in the world; and hers was a 
 nature sorely needing both. One cannot doubt the sincerity 
 of these words, so sacredly written — words which, were they 
 not already before the public eye, would not have been here 
 produced in print. The strong native Scotch prudence dis- 
 played in the letter would not be at all disenchanting to a 
 man like Carlyle. First of all, he was too noble to consider 
 anything in her as mean; secondly, he had been brought 
 up in a hard school, and knew that some consideration for 
 ' loaves and fishes ' was inevitable in every human arrange- 
 ment; thirdly, he loved her, and her ambitions for him were 
 sweet in his ears. Then, had she not assured him that she 
 would marry none other but himself ? And had she not 
 admitted that it was no longer possible for her to live happy, 
 independent of his affection ? This was much for any man 
 to receive assurance of. 
 
 But the rejection of his definite proposition gave him 
 pain. He replied, assuring her that selfishness had no place 
 in his motives — that she had imperfectly understood him. 
 He told her of the mighty voice within him urging him to 
 work, * to rebuild his destiny, not to die without ever having 
 lived.* 
 
 In exploring the chaotic structure of my fortunes (he writes 
 to Miss Welsh), I find my affection for you intertwined with 
 every part of it; connected with whatever is holiest in my feel- 
 ings or most imperative in my duties. It is necessary for me to 
 understand completely how this matter stands; to investigate 
 my own wishes and power in regard to it; to know of you both 
 what you will do and what you will not do. These things once 
 clearly settled, our line of conduct will be clear also. 
 
 Alluding to his proposition, he says; — 
 
 Had you accepted it. I should not by any means have 
 thought the battle won. I should have hailed your assent, and 
 the disposition of mind it bespoke, with a deep but serious joy; 
 
DISAPPOINTMENT ACCEPTED 53 
 
 with a solemn hope, as indicating the distinct possibility that 
 two true hearts might be united and made happy through each 
 other — might by their joint, unwearied efforts be transplanted 
 from the barren wilderness, where both seemed out of place, 
 into scenes of pure and wholesome activity, such as Nature 
 fitted both of them to enjoy and adorn. 
 
 You have rejected it, I think wisely; with your actual pur- 
 poses and views, we should both have been doubly wretched had 
 you acted otherwise. Your love of me is completely under the 
 control of judgment, and subordinated to other principles of 
 duty or expediency. Your happiness is not by any means irre- 
 trievably connected with mine. Believe me, I am not hurt or 
 angry. I merely wished to know. It was only in brief moments 
 of enthusiasm that I ever looked for a different result. 
 
 And further on he says: * Alas ! without great sacrifices on 
 both sides the possibility of our union is an empty dream.' 
 
 Here one is tempted to ask what sacrifice Carlyle himself 
 felt would be demanded of hwi in the contemplated marriage 
 with Miss Welsh ? It was not the utterance of selfish 
 thoughtlessness. Had he gained some knowledge of the 
 restless spirit with which he would be linking his own for all 
 time ? Did he realise that his part, if well and nobly played, 
 would not be an easy one — that, possibly, the task of making 
 this beautiful creature happy, would demand more than the 
 spirit could give ? It is clear that Miss Welsh, in her con- 
 fidences with him, had taught him to regard hers as an 
 isolated and detached nature, inharmoniously placed by cir- 
 cumstances. She must have given this impression very 
 strongly to Carlyle, or the brave, simple man would never 
 have dreamed of offering to fill the blank in her life. Of his 
 own fitness to do so, of his power to carry out the wildly 
 imaginative programme, he surely could never be expected 
 to judge. But of mere selfishness he must be altogether 
 acquitted. 
 
 Now this (he adds) is what I would do were it in my power. I 
 would ask a generous spirit, one whose happiness depended 
 
54 
 
 GIRLHOOD 
 
 on seeing me happy, and whose temper and purposes were 
 kindred to my own — I would ask such a noble being to let us 
 unite our resources; not her wealth and rank merely — for these 
 were a small and unessential fraction of the prayer — but her 
 judgment, her patience, prudence, her true aflfection, to mine, 
 and let us try if, by neglecting •» 'hat was not important, and 
 striving with faithful and inseparable hearts after what was, we 
 could not rise above the miserable obstructions that beset us 
 both, into regions of serene dignity, living as became us in the 
 sight of God and all reasonable men, happier than millions of 
 our brethren, and each acknowledging with fervent gratitude 
 that to the other he and she owed all. You are such a gener- 
 ous spirit. But your purposes and feelings are not such. Per- 
 haps it is happier for you that they are not. . . . 
 
 I have thought of these things till my brain was like to crack. 
 I do not pretend that my conclusions are indubitable. I am 
 still open to better light. But this, at present, is the best I 
 have. Do you also think of all this — not in any spirit of anger, 
 but in the spirit of love and noble-mindedness which you have 
 always shown me. If we must part, let us part in tenderness, 
 and go forth upon our several paths, lost to the future, but in 
 possession of the past! 
 
 No woman could be unmoved by such words as these. 
 Supposing that Carlyle was deceived — self-deceived — it was 
 yet in utter unconsciousness of the fact, that he thus tenderly, 
 manfully pleaded. It is easy, looking back now on the 
 strange and saddening history of his marriage, to say that he 
 would have been better unmarried, left to wrestle out the 
 mighty struggles and intellectual throes within him in abso- 
 lute solitude. For his life was to be a convulsion, as it were, 
 of spiritual forces, gathered to a climax in each of his won- 
 derful books, and, after an interval of dissatisfied torpor, not 
 rest — for he knew not rest — gathering again to gigantic effort 
 and result. It is easy now, when all is over, to reason thus, 
 with great show of truth and probability. 
 
 But Carlyle had tenderer yearnings. His love for his 
 mother showed that he had a loving heart; and, had he not 
 felt still stronger love for Miss Welsh, he would never have 
 
A BAFFLING NATURE 
 
 55 
 
 sought to marry her. He could have developed his great 
 powers without contracting a tie so close as that of marriage. 
 And truly selfish men, as a rule, do not marry. 
 
 Carlyle's ignorance of himself is touching, his action in the 
 matter of his marriage based on the noblest integrity and 
 good faith. It was impossible for him to view the matter 
 otherwise than he did. If the hope of gaining a wife whose 
 companionship would brighten life be selfish, then Carlyle's 
 selfishness is shared by most men. As to his estimate of 
 love, that was as God had given it to him. His pure life had 
 left the shrine untouched and undesecrated. All that he had 
 to offer, he offered out of an honest heart to Jane Welsh, 
 and bade her accept or reject the gift as she would. 
 
 The reply to this last letter was still more outspoken on 
 the lady's part: — 
 
 ... I have refused my immediate consent to your wishes 
 (she writes) because our mutual happiness seemed to require 
 that I should refuse it. But for the rest, I have not slighted 
 your wishes; on the contrary, I have expressed my Vv'illingness 
 to fulfil them at the expense of everything but what I deem 
 essential to our happiness. And, so far from undervaluing you, 
 I have shown you, in declaring that I would marry no one else, 
 not only that I esteem you above all the men I have ever seen, 
 but also that I am persuaded I should esteem you above all the 
 men I may ever see. What, then, have you to be hurt or angry 
 at? . . . Yet I am prudent, I fear, only because I am not 
 strongly tempted to be otherwise. My heart is capable (I feel it 
 is) of a love to which no deprivation would be a sacrifice — a love 
 which would overleap that reverence for opinion with which 
 education and weakness have begirt my sex, would bear down 
 all the restraints which duty and expediency might throw in the 
 way, and carry every thought of my being impetuously along 
 with it. 
 
 But the all-perfect mortal who could inspire me with a love 
 so extravagant, is nowhere to be found — exists nowhere but in 
 the romance of my own imagination. Perhaps it is better for 
 me as it is. A passion like the torrent in the violence of its 
 course might, perhaps, too, like the torrent, leave ruin and 
 
5 6 GIRLHOOD 
 
 desolation behind. In the meantime, I should be mad to act as 
 if from the influence of such a passion, while my affections are 
 in a state of perfect tranquillity. 
 
 To an ordinary lover such language as this would be chill- 
 ing in the extreme; but, after all, it must be admitted, that 
 what Miss Welsh had to offer was very much what Carlyle 
 professed to require. He did not desire a whirlwind of 
 passionate love; he would not have known what to do with 
 it. His own expressions of feeling were as moderate, as 
 temperate, as those of Miss Welsh. And a young lady who 
 could speak of a passionate love that might leave ruin and 
 desolation behind, was presumably less entirely untried in 
 the subject than her philosophic and simple-hearted lover, 
 and more able to judge what she really was offering than was 
 he to estimate it exactly as it deserved. 
 
 It needed Scotch people to enter so minutely and deliber- 
 ately into the counting of the soul's pulse in an affair of the 
 kind. Some writer speaks of being at a ball in Scotland 
 when, on the sudden ceasing of the music, a fair maiden was 
 heard to say to her partner in the dance: 'What you say, 
 my lord, may be very true when spoken of love in the 
 abstract. 
 
 This correspondence brings the matter to a very abstract 
 position. Miss Welsh eagerly repudiates the notion that she 
 should ' attain wealth and rank,' possibly, by an ambitious 
 marriage. 
 
 I merely wish (she writes) to see you earning a certain liveli- 
 hood, and exercising the profession of a gentleman. . , . Nor 
 was it wholly with a view to improvement in your external cir- 
 cumstances that I have made their fulfilment a condition to our 
 union, but also with a view to some improvement in my senti- 
 ments toward you, which might be brought about in the mean- 
 time. In withholding this matter in my former letter, I was 
 guilty of a false and ill-timed reserve. My tenderness for your 
 feelings betrayed me into an insincerity which is not natural to 
 me. I thought that the most decided objection to your circum- 
 stances would pain you less than the least objection to your- 
 
DEB A TABLE GROUND 5 ^ 
 
 self; while, in truth, it is in some measure grounded on both. I 
 must be sincere, I find, at any cost. 
 
 It cannot be asserted, after reading this passage, that 
 Miss Welsh //^^been quite fair and open with Thomas Carlyle. 
 She herself pleads guilty to insincerity. No woman can 
 quite honestly propose to herself to accept the addresses of a 
 man to whom she feels a personal objection; and such is 
 plainly acknowledged here. She was not forced to marry 
 Carlyle; he himself left her, to the end, perfectly free to with- 
 draw from the undertaking. She was frank enough in this 
 letter, for she continues: — 
 
 As I have said, then, in requiring you to better your fortunes 
 I had some view to an improvement in my sentiments. I am 
 not sure that they are proper sentiments for a husband. They 
 are proper for a brother, a father, a guardian-spirit; but a hus- 
 band, it seems to me, should be dearer still. At the same time, 
 from the change which my sentiments towards you have already 
 undergone during the period of our acquaintance, I have little 
 doubt but that in time I shall be perfectly satisfied with them. 
 . . . My afTection for you increases. Not many months ago I 
 would have said it was itnpossible that I should ever be your wife. 
 At present I consider this the most probable destiny for me. 
 In a year or two I shall perhaps consider it the only one. 
 
 Let us for a moment consider Carlyle's position in this 
 matter. He could not, obviously, deter Miss Welsh from her 
 wish gradually to develop towards him sentiments that should 
 render a marriage with him the only destiny possible for 
 her, even had he felt, as he may have done, that the great 
 master-passion was absent altogether from her feelings tow- 
 ards him. When he, in his doubts, spoke of their agreeing 
 to part, she would not consent. She would not believe that 
 he meant what he said. ' How could I,' she said, ' part from 
 the only living one that understands me ? ' It was really she 
 who would not set him free; and he desired no freedom from 
 the sweet bonds which held him, save only if it were to end 
 in a bondage no longer sweet for either of them, as he feared 
 
58 GIRLHOOD 
 
 at times. He acted with simple loyalty and directness, fol- 
 lowing as best he could all Miss Welsh's tortuous reasonings, 
 and arguments /rt? and con^ and marking her one determina- 
 tion, which was — not to be set free, at any cost. 
 
 'Were you to will it,' she writes to him, 'parting would 
 no longer be bitter. The bitterness would be in thinking you 
 unworthy.' What wonder that Carlyle remained constant to 
 his vows ? She was the star to which he turned; yet would 
 he manfully have faced the starless night without her, had 
 she been willing. But, as we have seen, she was not 
 willing. 
 
 I know not (she says in a subsequent letter) how yovr spirit 
 has gained such a mastery over mine, in spite of my pride and 
 stubbornness. But so it is. Though self-willed as a mule with 
 others, I am tractable and submissive towards you. I heatKen 
 to your voice as to the dictates of a second Conscience, hardly 
 less awful to me than that which Nature has implanted in my 
 breast. How comes it, then, that you have this power over me ? 
 for it is not the effect of your genius and virtue merely. Some- 
 times, in my serious moods, I believe it is a charm with which 
 my good angel has fortified my heart against evil. 
 
 Would any man desire a sweeter tribute from the woman he 
 loves — a woman so eminent, too, for strength of will ? 
 
 These letters, from which extracts have been given, show 
 most convincingly how each of these people differed from 
 the ordinary run of humanity. Had either one been wholly 
 normal and natural, no marriage could possibly have resulted 
 from such preliminaries. The wonderful thing is, that two 
 such exceptional people should have met^ and formed that 
 tie — two people with so many points in common, so much 
 that was almost identical in their natures. There were, 
 indeed, startling points of resemblance existing from the 
 beginning, but developed largely as time went on. Carlyle 
 was instinctively drawn to her, whose great power was in 
 many ways to mould his life; she, in her turn, was persist- 
 ently attracted to the man of genius, through whose medium 
 
THE MYSTEJ^y OF LIFE 
 
 59 
 
 she was to be moulded, by mysterious methods, to the god- 
 like proportions not clearly visible to the world's eye. Each 
 was to be taught much, patiently and painfully, through the 
 other. But noble ends, pure lives, endless strivings and 
 hopings, consecrated the way. A stony path it was, but 
 leading to the stars. 
 
 Carlyle's was essentially a lonely nature, separate from 
 fnuch that enters into the motives and actions of ordinary 
 men. He felt his intense solitude, and craved for a gentle 
 and intellectual companionship. It was all very natural; and 
 if there was self-deception in the plan, it is but such as 
 forms no unkindly part of many human impulses, without 
 detracting from their sincerity. 
 
 As to the question whether Miss Welsh was happy in her 
 choice, we must ask ourselves, first, whether she possessed 
 the absolute requisites for happiness in her own nature and 
 character, under any given circumstances and influences; 
 and, secondly, whether we are to regard happiness as the 
 acknowledged end and aim of life. 
 
 If this latter proposition be admitted, there opens a far 
 wider question, obviously unsuitable for discussion here. We 
 cannot regard as failures lives which serve to bring out the 
 noblest and highest powers. We may deplore the painful 
 methods though which alone, from causes hidden from us, 
 those grand qualities and elevated courses of action can be 
 drawn forth. And these two were both noble natures. 
 
6o GIRLHOOD 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 A.D. 1825 
 
 Carlyle at Hoddam Hill — Miss Welsh's transference of Craigenput- 
 tock to her mother — Carlyle's personal appearance at this time — 
 Miss Welsh's beauty— Letter from Mrs. Montagu to Miss Welsh 
 — Reference to Edward Irving — An independent spirit — Second 
 letter of Mrs. Montagu — Results — Miss Welsh informs Carlyle 
 of her old attachment to Irving — A woman's appeal — Carlyle's 
 reply — Imperfect understanding — Exciting correspondence — En- 
 gagement of Miss Welsh and Thomas Carlyle — Visits to Hoddam 
 Hill and Mainhill — Difficulties as to future residence — Incompati- 
 bility between Carlyle and Mrs. Welsh — Misgivings — Corre- 
 spondence with the Carlyle family — Their removal to Scotsbrig. 
 
 It was in March 1825 that Carlyle removed to Hoddam 
 Hill, a farm leased for him by his father, and farmed by his 
 brother, Alexander Carlyle. Here for a time he devoted him- 
 self to translating from the German, relieved by vigorous 
 exercise on his Irish horse * Larry,' and gave the rest of his 
 time, no doubt, to love-dreams and long letters to Miss 
 Welsh. 
 
 This time was spoken of in later years by Carlyle as 'a 
 russet-coated idyl.' The position between the two was un- 
 usual; it was anomalous. So early as August 19, 1823, she 
 had written to him: ' I owe you much: feelings and senti- 
 ments that ennoble my character, that give dignity, interest, 
 and enjoyment to my life. In return, I can only love you, and 
 that I do from the bottom of my heart.' Still, he was ready 
 to resign the hope of marriage. Miss Welsh, however, as we 
 have seen, began to think it her destiny. Proud and inde- 
 pendent, she had caused a legal deed to be executed transfer- 
 ring to her mother, for the lifetime of the latter, the whole 
 
A CRITICAL CONFIDENCE 6 1 
 
 life-interest of Craigenputtock, some two hundred pounds a 
 year. Determined she was that none should cast a slur on 
 Thomas Carlyle's possible marriage with herself, and equally 
 determined to secure the mother, whom she deeply loved, from 
 want, whatever her own personal fate and fortunes were to 
 be. This legal instrument, however, was supplemented by 
 one leaving Craigenputtock to Carlyle after her own and her 
 mother's death. It was well done, nobly done, showing the 
 high opinion she had of Carlyle, and that she could not brook 
 that others, in their ignorance, should think meanly of him. 
 
 Carlyle was now about thirty years of age: a tall, spare, 
 angular man, with the rugged features and intense expres- 
 sion we know so well; his tint was ruddy, as of one much in 
 the open air; his fine eyes a clear, deep blue — remarkable 
 eyes, once seen, never to be forgotten; eyes that could flash 
 forth indignation, but that could, and did, express much 
 kindliness at times; a firm, dogged line of mouth, and an 
 abundant shock of brown hair. Miss Welsh was something 
 over twenty-four years of age, very beautiful, arch, and 
 attractive, 5 feet 4 inches in height, slender, and singu- 
 larly graceful, in the prime of womanhood. They must have 
 been a goodly pair, and matters between them could hardly 
 be expected to stand still indefinitely. A strange circum- 
 stance hastened the decisive step in this matter. 
 
 The impulsive Edward Irving, after first settling in 
 London, had opened up the secrets of his heart to his valued 
 friend, Mrs, Basil Montagu. Such confidences are critical, 
 and though a man would naturally choose the wisest and best 
 woman to whom to entrust them, still that same confidante 
 may be romantic and imaginative. ' How some women love 
 love^ says a great American writer — and so it is. The lady 
 was profoundly interested, regarded Edward Irving as a 
 noble martyr to duty — a sentiment we cannot endorse, as he 
 had a good and loving wife in the lady whom, certainly, he 
 had once desired to marry. Besides, the matter was all over 
 and settled, and, had Irving thought fit, as a truly manly man 
 
62 GIRLHOOD 
 
 would have thought fit, to keep silence on the story of his 
 old love, all might have ended, if not well, at least other- 
 wise than actually fell out. 
 
 For Mrs. Montagu, who corresponded occasionally with 
 Carlyle, and had introduced herself by letter to Miss Welsh, 
 felt irresistibly impelled to act the Dea ex machtnd, and 
 administer some comfort to the beautiful young lady, whom 
 she pictured to herself as pining in disappointed love for 
 Edward Irving. But there was no balm to administer that a 
 brave, loyal woman could take, and no wound complained of 
 which should need such soothing. More than that, there was 
 a proud and independent spirit, which would, in any case, 
 have thrown aside such consolation. 
 
 Mrs. Montagu had acted on what proved to be, so far 
 as Miss Welsh was concerned, ' a foregone conclusion ' — a 
 very unsafe thing, sure to lead to disaster. Actuated by 
 this, and by a sincerely kind motive, she seems to have 
 thought it politic and desirable to disparage Irving some- 
 what, and to paint him as one not deserving of such lifelong 
 constancy as she, no doubt, believed Miss Welsh to retain with 
 regard to him. She therefore dwelt on his having now other 
 interests and other ambitions, and intimated that any 
 woman who should concentrate her heart on him would find 
 nothing but disappointment. But it is, as we have been 
 told by a great poet, a delicate matter to meddle with souls; 
 and Mrs. Montagu, with all her admirable motives and well- 
 meant efforts, doing, probably, 'as she would be done by,' 
 made a grievous mistake. Regarding Carlyle as simply an 
 intimate of both the young people she was interested in, she 
 wrote also to him on the subject, assuming, with beautiful 
 unconsciousness, that he doubtless was aware of the circum- 
 stances; and thus Carlyle learned, for the first time, of the 
 affection which had certainly existed at one time between 
 Edward Irving and Miss Welsh; only he heard of it as still 
 unextinguished, still living, and causing pain. 
 
 The fact that for two years past Miss Welsh had never 
 
DEEP WA TERS STIRRED 63 
 
 mentioned Edward Irving but with bitterness and mockery in 
 speaking of him to Carlyle, might have made an ordinary 
 man suspicious of the relations between them. But Carlyle 
 was not like other men, and he believed in Miss Welsh. He 
 believed in Irving — as, at least, ahigh-souled man of honour. 
 So he was not troubled, and, when writing to Miss Welsh, 
 merely mentioned Mrs. Montagu's eloquent statements as a 
 strange delusion. 
 
 Mrs. Montagu, not feeling she had done her whole duty, 
 was ready with a reply to Miss Welsh's assurance that she 
 was in no way pining for Edward Irving, and, indeed, was 
 about to marry Mr. Carlyle. Even this explicit statement did 
 not quench Mrs. Montagu's determination to do^ her duty, 
 and, in her quixotic attempt to set matters straight, and 
 under the fatal idea that she understood the affairs of these 
 people better than they did themselves, she, in true, kindly 
 warm-heartedness, wrote again, adjuring Miss Welsh not to 
 marry Carlyle if she were still attached to Irving — not, in 
 fact, to allow a generous impulse to sway her, where only 
 the heart's strongest feelings ought to be listened to. 
 
 After the first appeal, Miss Welsh had commented to 
 Carlyle, some days later, on the well-meant interference: ' I 
 had two sheets from Mrs. Montagu the other day, trying to 
 prove to me that I did not know my own heart. Mercy ! 
 how romantic she is ! ' 
 
 This was a natural result of the letter. But after the 
 second letter. Miss Welsh certainly wrote to Carlyle in a very 
 different strain. She felt it honourably incumbent on her to 
 tell Carlyle that she had indeed loved Edward Irving once — 
 passionately loved him. There was neither shame nor re- 
 proach in the fact. If she had shown weakness in loving a 
 man whom she knew to be engaged to another, she had at 
 least made amends by helping to decide him to marry that 
 other, and to save his honour from all reproach. What nobler 
 part could a true woman take ? What else can be the result 
 where the man is good, and the woman is good, and where it 
 
64 GIRLHOOD 
 
 is love, and not a lower feeling, which draws them together. 
 No mystery is here that an honourable human heart cannot 
 understand; nothing to blush for, though the angels might 
 weep over it. 
 
 Jane Welsh keenly felt the necessity of showing Carlyle, 
 who so intensely believed in her, that she had not been with- 
 out disguise. If now his sternly upright nature turned from 
 her, she could but bow the head; and very touchingly, with 
 a woman's tenderness, she added, that he had never been so 
 dear to her as now, when both his affection and his respect 
 for her hung in the balance. 'Woe to me ! then,' she says, 
 * if your reason be my judge, and not your love.' This is not 
 the language of bitterness; it is calm, reasonable, and natural 
 — sure to appeal to a man's generosity. 
 
 Carlyle replied after his own nature: 'You exaggerate 
 this matter greatly,' he said; 'let it go to strengthen the 
 schoolings of experience. You ask me to forgive you ! 
 Forgiveness V . . . And again: ' Come and see, and determine. 
 Let me hear you, and do you hear me. As I am, take or 
 refuse me; but not as I am not^ for this will not, and cannot 
 come to good. God help us both, and show us both the way 
 we ought to walk in ! ' 
 
 These are manly and honourable words, but they show 
 unmistakably how little able Carlyle was to enter into and 
 fully comprehend the ordinary feelings of human nature. He 
 would have taken fright had he fully understood what Miss 
 Welsh was telling him. It would have been he, and not Mrs. 
 Montagu, who would have entreated the young girl to look 
 well into her own heart before uniting her fate with his. All 
 these people were blindly trying to do what was right. Mrs, 
 Montagu, firmly believing that an impulsive, imaginative girl 
 was about to make a mistaken and loveless marriage, tried to 
 stave off what she felt could only end in disaster. Miss 
 Welsh, after the fact of her attachment to Edward Irving had 
 been told to Carlyle, in all good faith, by Mrs. Montagu, 
 hastened honourably to admit that it had existed^ but was 
 
A BOLD STEP 65 
 
 now a thing of the past, and replaced by the strong influence 
 of the man who understood and valued her, whose love was 
 now all in all to her, as she believed; and Carlyle, in his 
 honourable humility, lost no time in giving that young girl 
 an opportunity of gravely reconsidering the whole position of 
 affairs, and specially the step she was about to take, divesting 
 it of all possible halo of false colouring by asking her to visit 
 the farms of Hoddam Hill — where he was with his mother 
 and his brother Alick — and Mainhill, where his sisters were 
 keeping house for the father. Here Miss Welsh would see, 
 with her quick eyes, the exact level and status of that family 
 to which this genius, Thomas Carlyle, belonged. He was not 
 ashamed of them. There was no cause for shame. He was 
 proud of them and loved them truly. His relations with 
 them were beautiful to the end. But it was a bold step to 
 invite the elegant young lady to visit these humble homes, 
 and Carlyle was brave and manly in taking it. 
 
 Miss Welsh had been staying for a time with her grand- 
 father, Walter Welsh, at Templand, when the time came for 
 her to pay this memorable visit. It had been preceded by an 
 exciting correspondence, and at last, taking the opportunity 
 of her comparative nearness, she determined to go over and 
 bravely to face the whole position. She was ever energetic, 
 decisive and thorough, in all she did, to the end. Carlyle's 
 earnest wish that she should reconsider the matter, his 
 expressed doubt as to whether he could make her happy — 
 all went for nothing. In September 1825 she set forth by 
 coach, expecting Carlyle to meet her on the road; but there 
 had been a mistake. From Kelhead Kilns, the next morn- 
 ing, she sent him a characteristic little note, dated Friday, 
 September 3, 1825: — 
 
 Good morning, sir, — I am not at all to blame for your dis- 
 appointment last night. The fault was partly your own. . . . 
 In the meantime I have billeted myself in a snug little house by 
 the wayside, where I purpose remaining with all imaginable 
 patience till you can make it convenient to come and fetch me, 
 
66 GIRLHOOD 
 
 being afraid to proceed directly to Hoddam Hill, in case so sud- 
 den an apparition should throw the whole family into hysterics. 
 If the pony has any prior engagement, never mind. I can make 
 a shift to walk two miles in pleasant company. Any way, pray 
 make all possible despatch, in case the owner of these premises 
 should think I intend to make a regular settlement in them. 
 
 Yours, Jane. 
 
 The fact of the engagement was now known to the 
 Carlyle family, and naturally was a source of pleasure and 
 anxiety, as the new acquisition to the family circle was felt 
 to be a lady of somewhat different upbringing to the homely 
 and worthy circle she was about to enter. And though for 
 a country surgeon's daughter to marry a man of genius 
 whose father was a stonemason, possibly presents no incon- 
 gruity, it yet remains that the cultivation and refinement in 
 which Jane Welsh had been reared had created a different 
 atmosphere from that in which she found herself with the 
 excellent people at Hoddam Hill. ' She stayed with us about 
 a week,' Carlyle writes, ' happy, as was very evident, and 
 making happy. . . . From the first moment all embarrass- 
 ment, even my mother's, tremulous and anxious as she 
 naturally was, fled away without return.' 
 
 It seems that Carlyle's mother, who loved him so, was 
 there to receive Miss Welsh in her son's home at Hoddam 
 Hill, and afterwards accompanied her back to the family home 
 at Mainhill, where were Carlyle's sisters and his father. 
 The two farms seem to have been in occupation of the family 
 at this time, the two sisters keeping home for the father at 
 Mainhill, and the mother keeping house at Hoddam Hill for 
 Thom.as and Alexander. 
 
 We are prettily told of the reception given to the bright 
 young lady by the family party at Mainhill, and how the 
 father, called in from farmwork to give welcome to his son's 
 intended wife, withdrew to wash and shave and don his 
 Sunday clothes, before receiving the fair girl's dutiful salute. 
 Carlyle says: ' She came to know us all, saw, face to face, us^ 
 
AN IMPORTANT CONSIDERA TlON 6/ 
 
 and the peasant element and way of life we lead; and was 
 -not afraid of it, but recognized, like her noble self, what of 
 intrinsic worth it might have, what of real human dignity. 
 . . .' It was, perhaps, something like Marie Antoinette's 
 idea of country life, as realised at the Petit Trianon — as un- 
 real, in one way, as there was an unusual exaltation present 
 which veiled the true nature and effect of such country life 
 from the sensitive and delicate young lady, and she saw it 
 all like a scene in a play in which she was an actress. 
 
 Carlyle was so impressed with the fact that the ' Hadding- 
 ton element had grown dreary and unfruitful ' to Miss Welsh, 
 that it is easily understood that he honestly believed he was 
 offering her something better. 
 
 Supposing, however, that Miss Welsh were willing to 
 enter on this method of existence, there was yet another 
 person to think of, and that was Mrs. Welsh, delicately nur- 
 tured, sentimental in her ideas to the end, yet well aware 
 that those youthful enthusiasms which run to ' love in a cot- 
 tage ' are apt to turn out most disastrously at times. Then, 
 she knew her child: she had studied from early childhood 
 that finely strung, nervous organisation, so brave, yet so apt 
 to suffer; she knew that the wearing monotony of farm-life 
 would not minister to health and peace in this delicate frame, 
 and she viewed with dismay the final resolution of her beau- 
 tiful Jeannie after the visit to Hoddam Hill. 
 
 It was a sad time to the two women. Miss Welsh told 
 Carlyle of the painful interviews with her mother, and received 
 all the comfort he could give in his answering letters. Mrs. 
 Welsh was not attracted towards Carlyle, doubted his even- 
 ness of temper, disliked his strong governing disposition, 
 being herself fond of ruling, and she naturally felt an anxiety 
 about ' ways and means,' as any mother ought to do under 
 the circumstances. She by no means shared her daughter's 
 unbounded faith in Carlyle' s genius. He seemed to her 
 unfitted to fight the battle of life to practical advantage. 
 No wonder she felt deeply concerned. 
 
68 GIRLHOOD 
 
 Carlyle writes very searchingly to Miss Welsh: — 
 If your mind have any wavering (he says) follow the truth 
 fearlessly, not heeding me, for I am ready with alacrity to for- 
 ward your anticipated happiness in any way. Or, was this your 
 love of me no girlish whim, but the calm, deliberate self-offering 
 of a woman to the man whom her reason and her heart had made 
 choice of? Then is it a crime in you to love me, whose you are 
 in the sight of God and man ? 
 
 There is a touching earnestness in these words of Carlyle's. 
 What, in truth, could he honourably do but hold fast to his 
 engagement? That Miss Welsh considered her future as 
 finally fixed, is amply demonstrated in a letter written to 
 Carlyle's mother in November of the same year, from 
 George Square, Edinburgh. 
 
 Indeed (she says), the more I am in the way of what is com- 
 monly called pleasure, the more I think of the calm days I spent 
 under your roof. I have never been so happy since, though I 
 have been at several fine entertainments, . . . and this is in no 
 wise strange, since affection is the native element of my soul, 
 and that I found in your cottage, warm and pure. 
 
 She was delicate, too, in those days, for she adds: — 
 
 All my impatience to see Haddington failed to make the 
 journey hither agreeable, which was as devoid of ' Christian 
 comfort ' as anything you can suppose. Never was poor damsel 
 reduced to such 'extremities of fate.' I was sick, woefully sick, 
 and, notwithstanding that I had on four petticoats, benumbed 
 with cold. To make my wretchedness as complete as possible 
 we did not reach Edinburgh till many hours after dark. Sixteen 
 miles more, and my wanderings for this season are at an end. 
 Would that my trials were ended also! But no. Tell Mr. 
 Carlyle my handsome cousin is coming to Haddington, with his 
 sister Phoebe, and his valet Henley, and his great dog Toby, over 
 and above Dash, Craigen, Fanny, and Frisk. My heart misgives 
 me at the prospect of this inundation of company, for their ways 
 are not my ways, and what is amusement to them is death to 
 me. But I must just be patient, as usual. Verily I should need 
 to be Job, instead of Jane Welsh, to bear these everlasting an- 
 noyances with any degree of composure. 
 
A MARKED TEMPERAMENT 69 
 
 I quote this letter to point out, first, that, even in these 
 early days, Miss Welsh could not. travel without serious 
 bodily suffering; secondly, that she passionately disparages 
 social entertainments and company; and, thirdly, that she 
 writes with that strongly accentuated emphasis on ordinary 
 matters, which, later in life, when she had, as the old nurses 
 say, ^something to cry for ^ adds such painful intensity to her 
 records of what befell her. It was a strongly dramatic gift, 
 and Jane Welsh possessed it from the beginning, and would 
 have manifested it under any circumstances. Carlyle possessed 
 the same extraordinary power. It was often like using a 
 steam-hammer to crack a hazel-nut; but, when once under- 
 stood and recognized, the truth is less harmful than hel-pful 
 in forming a just verdict of these very remarkable persons. 
 In the letter here quoted. Miss Welsh continues: — 
 
 Mr. Carlyle must write next week without fail to Hadding- 
 ton, lest, in vexation of spirit, I curse God and die . . . (and 
 she concludes), I am writing under many eyes, and in the noise 
 of many tongues. God bless you! 
 
 I am, always affectionately yours, 
 
 Jane B. Welsh. 
 
 There is also a kind and graceful letter to Carlyle's little 
 sister Jean, who, from her black eyes and hair, had the pet 
 name of the ' Craw ! ' She was the only dark-complexioned 
 member of the family, taking after the mother; all the rest 
 being blonde. 
 
 After Miss Welsh's visit to Hoddam Hill, Carlyle con- 
 tinued his translating, smoking a pipe of an evening with 
 his good mother, who never wearied in the effort to keep 
 him spiritually in a satisfactory and orthodox condition. He 
 felt himself happy at this time, master of ' his own four walls ' 
 and revelling in the thought, delighting to reflect on the 
 devoted love which ever had surrounded him. ' There is 
 no grumbling,* he says, * at my habitudes and whims. If I 
 choose to dine on fire-and-brimstone, they will cook it for me 
 to their best skill.' It was perhaps not the best possible 
 
70 GIRLHOOD 
 
 preparation for married life, this intense family adoration; but 
 it was soothing, and Carlyle could value it. But changes 
 were now impending. Differences with the landlord of the 
 farm arose. Hoddam Hill was given up, and the lease of 
 Mainhill, which fell in at the same time, was not renewed. 
 The whole Carlyle family, therefore, returned to Scotsbrig — a 
 substantial and well-sheltered farm near Ecclefechan, where 
 in time both the parents died. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 A.D. 1825-1826 
 
 Loyalty of Miss Welsh — Her sense of being bound to the engage- 
 ment with Carlyle — Proposal to live at Scotsbrig — The actual 
 versus the ideal — Miss Welsh's mind made up — Carlyle's deter- 
 mination not to live in the house with Mrs. Welsh — A daughter's 
 devotion and appeal — Renunciation of the cherished wish — The 
 point yielded. 
 
 This change of plans affected the position of things 
 between Carlyle and Miss Welsh : for he longed with a 
 fierce longing for a home of his own, and with whom should 
 that now be but with his promised wife ? But there were 
 obstacles. 
 
 We have seen what was Mrs. Welsh's attitude on the 
 subject of the marriage. Mrs. Welsh, romantic in her ideas 
 and passionately loving her child, would fain have restored 
 the property and gone to live with her father, Walter Welsh, 
 at Templand. But the high-spirited Jane Welsh would never 
 hear of such a plan as this. She might herself consent to 
 live in poverty, but her mother should be provided for; and 
 she was inflexible. She had agreed to the visions of Carlyle 
 of taking a small house in Edinburgh, so that Mrs. Welsh 
 could live beside them. Even this was a change from the 
 ideas of a year before, when it was a cottage in the country 
 that had been held up to Miss Welsh as the only desirable 
 home for her and him. 
 
 Surely (she writes to Carlyle), you are the most tantalising 
 man in the world, and I the most tractable woman. This time 
 twelve months, nothing would content you but to live in the 
 country, and, though a country life never before attracted my 
 desires, it nevertheless became my choice the instant it seemed 
 
 71 
 
72 GIRLHOOD 
 
 to be yours. . . A change comes over the spirit of your dream. 
 While the birds are yet humming, the roses blooming, and every- 
 thing is in summer glory about our ideal cottage, I am called 
 away to live in p7-ospectti in the smoke and bustle and icy cold- 
 ness of Edinburgh. Now this I call a trial of patience and 
 obedience — and say! could I have complied more readily though 
 I had been your wedded wife ten times over ? 
 
 And in closing her letter, she says: * But what am I talk- 
 ing about ? As if we were not already married — married past 
 redemption ! God knows, in that case, what is to become of 
 us ! At times I am so disheartened that I sit down and weep.' 
 
 It seems almost as though these two people were talking 
 in different languages, and without the intervention of an 
 interpreter. It would, perhaps, have solved matters for the 
 moment had the three lived together — Mrs. Welsh and her 
 daughter and Carlyle. But it would have been but the 
 beginning of new troubles, and, if even seriously proposed, 
 was wisely abandoned. That it was contemplated seems 
 pretty clear. 
 
 Meantime Carlyle's answer to the heart-breaking words of 
 Miss Welsh amounted to a repetition of the offer to set her 
 free. He is altogether enigmatical. *If you judge it fit,' he 
 writes, ' I will take you to my heart as my wedded wife this 
 very week. If you judge it fit, I will this very week forswear 
 you forever.' Surely these are hard terms to offer to a 
 woman, when a lover leaves all decision to her in so matter- 
 of-fact a way ! Carlyle ends by assuring Miss Welsh that he 
 is hers, at her own disposal, for ever and ever ! Never, surely 
 was such love-making — so bereft of that blessed coukur de 
 rose, which makes many a young life glide so easily and 
 gently into a safe and happy haven ! 
 
 But now a new idea entered Carlyle's mind. It was that 
 Miss Welsh should marry him and join the household at 
 Scotsbrig. This, he thought, might answer. He * would be 
 a new man, the bitterness of life would pass away like a for- 
 gotten tempest;' and he and she 'would walk in bright 
 
DESPERA TE FRANKNESS 
 
 n 
 
 weather thenceforward ! ' Here he deceived himself entirely, 
 and lost sight of all the ' fitness of things ' — a wilder dream 
 was never dreamed ! The whole letter is altogether remark- 
 able, and might have been expected to deter any other 
 woman than Jane Welsh from the thought of marrying this 
 desperately plain-spoken lover: — 
 
 If (says he) my heart and my hand, with the barren and per- 
 plexed destiny which promises to attend them, shall, after all, 
 appear the best this poor world can offer you, then take me, and 
 be content with me, and do not vex yourself with struggling to 
 alter what is unalterable — to make a man who is poor and sick, 
 suddenly become rich and healthy. You tell me you often weep 
 when you think what is to become of us. It is unwise in you to 
 weep. If you are reconciled to be my wife (not the wife of an 
 ideal me, but the simple, actual, prosaic me), there is nothing 
 frightful in the future. I look into it with more and more con- 
 fidence and composure, Alas ! Jane, you do not know me. It 
 is not the poor, rejected, unknown Thomas Carlyle that you 
 know, but the prospective rich, known, and admired. 
 
 Such expressions would have caused a revulsion of feeling 
 in any ordinary woman. That a future spent with the choice 
 of his heart should simply escape the being called ' frightful,' 
 is something out of all harmony with preconceived ideas and 
 actual experience. These expressions, used at a time when 
 merely to breathe the air breathed by the one beloved, when 
 a chance touch even, fills the whole frame with joy — to view 
 the fulfilling of these dear bonds with 'composure,' and 
 assume it a virtue even to be able to do as much as that — 
 casts a strange light on the whole circumstances of this 
 marriage. 
 
 Carlyle, in the same letter, says: 'These are hard sayings, 
 my beloved child, but I cannot spare them.' They were 
 indeed ' hard sayings,' and none but a dauntless heart, true 
 as steel, would ever have made the author of them her life- 
 companion. Loyal, brave, and faithful as she was, small 
 wonder that she wept ! 
 
74 GIRLHOOD 
 
 But Miss Weish had answered this last letter with the 
 assurance that her mind was made up, and she would not 
 alter it. Upon this Carlyle immediately replied that, since 
 this was so, ' she had better wed her wild man of the woods 
 at once, and come and live with him in his cavern in the hope 
 of better days.' The 'cavern ' so unattractive in contempla- 
 tion was, of course, Scotsbrig, where the Carlyle family were 
 now settled. It was not then the idea of two households 
 living under one roof which repelled him, so long as one of 
 those families was his own. Mrs. Welsh, though only one 
 individual, was regarded as an insuperable difficulty when 
 proposed as an inmate of the new home. Carlyle felt, per- 
 haps, that, with that element, he would scarcely preserve the 
 complete supremacy which he enjoyed with his own family, 
 who truly loved him, and delighted to honour his wishes. He 
 forgot that, into whatever inhabited or uninhabited home he 
 should enter, he would take with him, inevitably, that fever- 
 ous, restless nature, that spirit ill-at-ease, storm-tossed, dis- 
 satisfied, wrestling ever with unseen foes, which would effec- 
 tually ban what is called peace from the threshold. He 
 could not be expected to see this fact. 
 
 Miss Welsh was probably not blind to this aspect of things. 
 Another thing she clearly saw was her duty to her widowed 
 mother, and with much tenderness she tried to place the 
 whole position before Carlyle, who also had a mother whom 
 he truly loved. Miss Welsh pleaded for a united household; 
 that Carlyle and she, after their marriage, should live in the 
 same house with Mrs. Welsh, near Edinburgh, or where he 
 wished; only she besought him not to ask her to forsake her 
 mother, even though Mrs. Welsh's character was not one 
 that ensured constant peace between the mother and daugh- 
 ter. Though she was at times 'difficult,' still she was the 
 mother, and earnestly did her only child desire to be a good 
 daughter. 
 
 Should I do well (she wrote) to go into Paradise myself, and 
 leave the mother who bore me to break her heart ? She is look- 
 
A DAUGHTER'S HEART 75 
 
 ing forward to my marriage with a more tranquil mind, in the 
 hope that our separation is to be but nominal — that by living 
 where my husband lives she may at least have every moment of 
 my society which he can spare. And how would it be possible 
 not to disappoint her of this hope, if I went to reside with your 
 people in Annandale ? . . . She would be the most wretched of 
 mothers, the most desolate woman in the world. Oh ! is it for 
 me to make her so ? who am so unspeakably dear to her, in spite 
 of all her caprice ? who am her only, only child, and she a 
 widow? I love you, Mr. Carlyle — tenderly, devotedly. But I 
 may not put my mother away from me, even for your sake. I 
 cannot do it ! . . . I see only one way to escape out of all these 
 perplexities. Be patient with me while I tell you what it is. 
 My mother, like myself, has ceased to feel any contentment in 
 this hateful Haddington, and is bent on disposing of our house 
 here as soon as may be, and hiring one elsewhere. Why should 
 it not be the vicinity of Edinburgh after all } and why should 
 not you live with your wife in your mother's house ? . . . My 
 mother would like you, assuredly she would, if you came to live 
 with her as her son. . . . Her maternal affection, of which there 
 is abundance at the bottom of her heart, would of necessity ex- 
 tend itself to him with whom I was become inseparably con- 
 nected, and mere common-sense would prescribe a kind, 
 motherly behaviour as the only expedient to make the best of 
 what could no longer be helped. 
 
 Possibly the doubt of Mrs. Welsh's possessing this very 
 quality, ' mere common-sense,' was one ingredient in Carlyle's 
 determined rejection of the plan. Else, attached as he was 
 to his own mother, it was to be expected that he would un- 
 derstand the love Miss Welsh bore to hers, and would have 
 honoured her for it — and perhaps he did — whilst enabling 
 her to act according to its dictates, which he decidedly did 
 not. He knew he was not easy to live with, and had no idea 
 of making conciliations which would surely be demanded of 
 him were Mrs. Welsh a member of his household. He was 
 too honest to professa willingness to submit his will and his 
 ways to a mother-in-law, so he held on to his own views in 
 the face of the tender protest made by his intended wife. He 
 
76 GIRLHOOD 
 
 stated his opinions most undisguisedly, in words which must 
 forever ' overset the whole project.' 
 
 It may be stated in a word (he wrote). The man shall bear 
 rule m the house, attd not the woman. This is an eternal axiom, 
 the law of nature which no mortal departs from unpunished. I 
 have meditated on this many years, and every day it grows 
 plainer to me. I must not, and I cannot, live in a house of 
 which I am not head. I should be miserable myself, and make 
 all about me miserable. Think not this comes of an imperious 
 temper, that I shall be a harsh and tyrannical husband to thee. 
 God forbid ! 
 
 , . . Now think, Liebchen, whether your mother will consent 
 to forget her own riches, and my poverty and uncertain — more 
 probably my scanty — income, and consent, in the spirit of Chris- 
 tian meekness, to make me her guardian and director, and be a 
 second wife to her daughter's husband. 
 
 Surely this was asking much — offering an unheard-of and 
 impossible position ! ' Second wife,' the terrible term, meant 
 only, to Carlyle, a second being, who happened to be a 
 woman, and who should, unquestioning, bend at all times to 
 his imperious will. The word wife had, then, that one 
 significance ! The proposition was an astounding one, and 
 was probably never communicated to Mrs. Welsh, certainly 
 not in these terms. Carlyle continues: — 
 
 If she can, then I say she is a noble woman, and in the name 
 of truth and affection let us all live together, and be one house- 
 hold and one heart, till death or her own choice part us. If 
 she cannot, which will anything but surprise me, then also, the 
 other thing cannot be, must not be; and for her sake, no less 
 than for yours and mine, we must think of something else. 
 
 Carlyle, then, would not have been contented with one 
 submissive woman, attending to every wish, and observing it 
 as a law. If another woman be of the household, she must 
 follow suit, and be called *a noble woman' as her reward. 
 
 The matter was growing desperate. Miss Welsh, seeing 
 the absolute impossibility of carrying out any plan which 
 should include her mother, yielded the point and agreed to 
 the other idea — to marry Carlyle and live at Scotsbrig. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 A.D. 1826 
 
 Mrs. Welsh decides to further the marriage — Her decision to live 
 with her father at Templand — The Carlyle parents see the impos- 
 sibility of their son's bride living at Scotsbrig — A new home to 
 be chosen — Impossible conditions — Blindness of Carlyle to the 
 actual situation — Trying uncertainty— The idea of the home at 
 Haddington as a residence for the newly-married pair — Painful 
 objections — The idea abandoned — Recurring failure of plans — 
 And a dissimilarity in ideas — The proposed cottage in Annandale. 
 
 Mrs. Welsh, now in desperation, decided that the marriage 
 should be celebrated without delay, and the long trying 
 indecision brought to an end. She decided to live at Temp- 
 land with her father, old Walter, and felt some comfort in the 
 thought that here, at last, she would be within moderate dis- 
 tance of Scotsbrig, and could see her dear only child as often 
 as she wished. 
 
 But alas ! new difficulties arose. Carlyle, as it would 
 seem, had not gone through the necessary formality of con- 
 sulting his own father and mother on the proposed plan. 
 They were fully aware of what quite escaped his perception 
 — namely, of the extreme unsuitability of the arrangement. 
 They well knew that their household arrangements were not 
 such as a young lady, brought up as Miss Welsh had been, 
 could easily accommodate herself to. ' Even in summer,' 
 they said, ' it would be difficult for her to live at Scotsbrig, 
 and in winter impossible.' And indeed this remote and 
 humble farmhouse was not attractive. 
 
 Then, as to Mrs. Welsh coming occasionally, as she fondly 
 hoped to do, on little visits to her daughter, it was universally 
 
 n 
 
^8 GIRLHOOD 
 
 felt by the Carlyle family as a thing out of the question — 
 too wild an idea to be entertained. So, brick by brick the 
 castle in the air crumbled and was demolished before the 
 bright eyes of Jane Welsh. 
 
 You have misconceived (wrote Carlyle to her) the conditions 
 of Scotsbrig, and your only possible means of existence there ! 
 You talk of your mother visiting us! By day and night it would 
 astonish her to see this household. Oh! no! Your mother 
 must not visit mine! What good were it? By an utmost 
 exertion on the part of both they might learn, perhaps, to toler- 
 ate each other, more probably to pity, and partially dislike 
 each other. . . The mere idea of such a visit argued too plainly 
 that you k7iew 7iothmg of the family circle, in which, for my 
 sake, you were ready to_take a place. 
 
 In all this Carlyle spoke without real understanding or 
 knowledge. These two mothers had two strong bonds of 
 union — a loved son and a loved daughter. And there was a 
 basis of understanding and sympathy. Their best interest 
 was to get on well together, and when actually brought into 
 personal contact they respected each other, met kindly, and 
 parted with an increasing and mutual regard. Carlyle did 
 not understand the heart of woman, he never could, so we 
 must pass over his extraordinary blindness as to the feelings of 
 these two mothers, one of whom he loved better than all on 
 earth. 
 
 Since, then, each plan was impossible, it was plainly 
 necessary to look out for some alternative. What a time of 
 trying uncertainty, almost of misery, must this have been 
 to Jane Welsh, her heart torn with conflicting emotions 
 incomprehensible to the man with whom she elected to spend 
 the rest of her life ! It could not be expected that Mrs. 
 Welsh, after her daughter should have married and left her, 
 would bear to live on in Haddington. The associations, 
 already so sad, were rendered still more painful by the fact 
 that the social circle in which she moved had but one opinion 
 as to the marriage Miss Welsh was about to make. It was 
 not approved, but regarded as offering uncertain worldly 
 
AN UNLUCKY IDEA 7g 
 
 prospects, without compensating advantages. It would have 
 been difficult, perhaps, to find a man deserving, in their eyes, 
 of the admired and beloved Jeannie Welsh. In any case, 
 Carlyle did not fit their preconceived idea of such a man, 
 and no doubt they expressed what they felt. Their pity 
 would have been intolerable, and Mrs. Welsh was proud, and 
 did not desire their sympathy. Naturally, therefore, her one 
 course was to leave Haddington immediately and permanently. 
 
 At this juncture it occurred to Carlyle that, in this case, 
 the house at Haddington might do well for himself and his 
 bride. There it was, comfortable, provided with all that was 
 necessary, and with much more, in its sober elegance. And 
 his mind turned away from the idea of Edinburgh — which 
 was, after all, noisy and disagreeable — whilst Haddington 
 was quiet, and already enriched with a thousand pleasant 
 recollections. We might have supposed that the thought of 
 Miss Welsh having to come there as a bride, and run the 
 gauntlet of all her old friends known to regard her marriage 
 as an entire mistake — to say nothing of the fact that, as her 
 new home and yet her old home, there would be quite too 
 many sad memories there to haunt her — we might surely 
 have supposed that such considerations as these would at 
 once have stamped the plan as impossible at the very outset. 
 But a strange blindness seems to have possessed Carlyle. 
 Those clear eyes which saw through the eternities, had 
 limited vision in the little spot of earth on which he moved, 
 and ears which were open to the great inarticulate cry of 
 humanity, were unaccountably deaf, at times, to the distinct 
 voice of pain in the utterance of the heart nearest his own. 
 
 What, indeed, would have been the result of a settling 
 in the old home at Haddington ? First of all, Carlyle would 
 have cut off all intercourse with his wife's oldest friends, 
 who would naturally have come constantly to see their dear 
 companion, whom they loved so well, under the new auspices. 
 * To me,' he calmly wrote, ' among the many weightier evils 
 and blessings of existence, the evil of impertinent visitors 
 
So GIRLHOOD 
 
 and so forth seems but a small drop of the bucket, and an 
 exceedingly little thing. I have nerve in me to despatch 
 that sort of deer, for ever, by dozens in the day.' No doubt 
 he had, and the closed door would have shut out from the 
 young wife all the old associations and friends of childhood. 
 
 Miss Welsh promptly and plainly negatived the plan of 
 their living at Haddington. Yet once more the castle built 
 up by hopes and wishes, fell to the earth in confusion and 
 ruin. Strange that neither of these two hesitated — strange 
 that each was not dimly aware that this marriage- scheme 
 was not smiled upon by the Fates — the powers human or 
 divine ! The hardihood they displayed in rebuilding the 
 still collapsing edifice is simply astounding. In any ordinary 
 case the thing would have long since been laid aside as 
 totally impracticable. One of the wisest of living women, 
 illustrious as a writer, and the widow of one whose name is 
 still fragrant amongst us, said once in our hearing : ' When 
 you have made an attempt to carry out a reasonable plan, 
 and find yourself unexpectedly foiled, it is well to try again, 
 and even a third time ; but it is well to take the third failure 
 as an indication that, whatever it is you have been trying to 
 compass, had best not be; and, if it is to be, it will come in 
 its own way, and at its own time.' 
 
 But these remarkable people saw no omen in the con- 
 tinually recurring failure of their plans. Carlyle dropped 
 the Haddington plan; but not without plainly showing Miss 
 Welsh that he was disappointed at her want of judgment. 
 He was annoyed and surprised. 
 
 The vacant home at Haddington (he said) occurred to my 
 recollection as a sort of godsend, expressly suited to our purpose. 
 It seemed so easy, and on other accounts so indispensable, to let 
 it stand undisposed of for another year, that I doubted not a 
 moment but the whole matter was arranged, If it turned out — 
 which I reckon to be impossible, if you were not distracted in 
 mind — that you really liked better to front the plashes and 
 puddles, and the thousand inclemencies of Scotsbrig through 
 
THE STRONGER WILL 8 1 
 
 winter, rather than stay another six months in the house where 
 you had lived all your days, it was the simplest process imagin- 
 able to stay where we were. The loss was but of a few months' 
 rent for your mother's house, and the certainty it gave us made 
 it great gain. Even yet I cannot with the whole force of my 
 vast intellect understand how my project has failed ! I wish not 
 to undervalue your objections to the place, or your opinion on 
 any subject whatever; but I confess my inability, with my 
 present knowledge, to reconcile this very peremptory distaste 
 with your usual good sense. 
 
 It is to be feared that prompt acquiescence in any plan of 
 his own, would have been regarded by Carlyle as < good 
 sense ' in a woman. 
 
 Now a new plan must be made, and an Annandale cottage 
 was once more proposed, but again the two minds went off 
 at tangents and could by no means go in the same direction. 
 If this was trying before marriage, what must it have been 
 when the interests were absolutely united^ or supposed to be 
 so ? Only between two noble and pure natures could such a 
 marriage have held its ground, as it did, through forty years 
 of pure and blameless conduct; but what suffering, what 
 rending of human cords of Will and of Self, must be involved, 
 to one or other of the parties to such a union, possibly in 
 some degree to both ! In one of Wendell Holmes's delight- 
 ful books, the allegory is presented of a human soul as a 
 musical-box, giving forth certain sweet melodies- 
 Life turns the winch, and fancy or accident pulls out the stops. 
 I come under your windows some fine spring morning, and play 
 you one of my adagio movements, and some of you say, ' This 
 is good. Play us so always. ..." ' How easily this tune flows! ' 
 you say. ' Ah ! dear friends, I will open the poor machine for 
 you, and you shall look. Every note marks where a spur of 
 steel has been driven in ! It is easy to grind out the song, but 
 to plant these bristling points was the painful task of time.' 
 
 These words fit the case of Jane Welsh. Many a steel point 
 was being planted during these days of uncertainty, and we 
 hear the piercing melody in her later tones. 
 
8 2 GIRLHOOD 
 
 Carlyle could not understand Miss Welsh's distaste for his 
 plans. 
 
 I should have 200/. to begin with (he said); many an honest 
 couple has begun with less. I know that wives are supported, 
 some in peace and dignity, others in contention and disgrace, 
 according to their wisdom or their folly, on all incomes, from 
 14/. a year to 200,000/., and I trusted in Jane Welsh, and still 
 trust in her, for good sense enough to accommodate her wants 
 to the means of the man she has chosen before all others, and 
 to live with him contented on whatever it should please Provi- 
 dence to allot him. 
 
 Jane Welsh never failed any who trusted in her; she was 
 loyal and faithful, but she had not parted with her reason. 
 
 Carlyle, in the letter just quoted from, describes the 
 cottage and income of a labourer — Wightman — whose earn- 
 ings of fifteen pence a day provided all that was needed to 
 constitute one of the happiest and most enviable families on 
 earth. But, as Mr. Froude most wisely observes — 
 
 If Carlyle had looked into the economics of the Wightman 
 household, he would have seen that the wife made her own and 
 her husband's and the child's clothes, swept and cleaned the 
 house that was ' tidy as a cabinet,' washed the flannels and the 
 linen, and weeded the garden when she required fresh air — that 
 she worked, in fact, at severe bodily labour from sunrise to 
 sunset. 
 
 And how was the delicate and sensitive young lady to view 
 any existence that bordered on such possibilities as these ? 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 A. D. 1826 
 
 The home at Haddington broken up — Comely Bank furnished by 
 Mrs. Welsh — Immediate difficulty over — Miss Welsh happier — 
 Her pride in Carlyle's genius — Her estimate of him — The mar- 
 riage at Templand — Natural cravings for the affection of Carlyle 
 on the part of his bride-elect — Her unconventionality — State of 
 mind as to the approaching ceremony — Miss Welsh prepares to 
 put off her mourning for the occasion — The ' three cigars ' — 
 Good resolutions — White gowns — A post-chaise to Comely Bank. 
 
 The long-protracted affair was at length arranged. The 
 home at Haddington was broken up. Mrs. Welsh took a 
 house in Edinburgh — at Comely Bank — and took her daugh- 
 ter with her, furnishing the new home with the contents of 
 the Haddington house; and also undertaking to pay the 
 rent. It was settled that she should remain with her daugh- 
 ter till near the date of the marriage, which was fixed for 
 October. At that time Mrs. Welsh would remove to Temp- 
 land, and finally settle with her father, in whose house the 
 marriage would be solemnised. At Comely Bank Mrs. 
 Welsh would be able to visit her daughter occasionally, and 
 there was Carlyle's 200/. for immediate expenses, with such 
 additions to it as he might be able to earn. 
 
 So things looked brighter, and the terribly long period of 
 suspense was practically over. Miss Welsh was happier and 
 took a cheerful view of her new home and surroundings. 
 She wrote in June: — 
 
 It is by no means everything that one could wish, but it is by 
 much the most suitable that could be got, particularly in situa- 
 tion, being withjn a few minutes' walk of the town, and at the 
 
 83 
 
84 GIRLHOOD 
 
 same time well out of its smoke and bustle. Indeed, it would 
 be quite country-looking, only that it is one of a range; for there 
 is a real flower-garden in front, overshadowed by a fair spread- 
 ing tree, while the windows look out on the greenest fields, 
 with never a street to be seen. As for interior accommodation, 
 there are a dining-room, and a drawing-room, three sleeping- 
 rooms, a kitchen, and more closets than I can see the least 
 occasion for, unless you design to be another Blue Beard. So 
 you see we shall have apartments enough, on a small scale — 
 indeed, almost laughably small; but, if this is no objection in 
 your eyes, neither is it any in mine. 
 
 All was now in a fair way, and Carlyle was happy and 
 deeply contented. The manifold dillficulties had been sur- 
 mounted. He was to have his own ' four walls,' and, within 
 them, the being whose companionship he most desired. He 
 wrote from Scotsbrig in July of that same year, 1826, con- 
 gratulating himself on the solving of the great problem, and 
 the near prospect of his new happiness. 
 
 Here are two swallows (he says) in the corner of my window 
 that have taken a house (not at Comely Bank) this summer; 
 and, in spite of drought and bad crops, are bringing up a family 
 together with the highest contentment and unity of soul. 
 Surely, surely, Jane Welsh and Thomas Carlyle, here as they 
 stand, have in them conjointly the wisdom of many swallows ! 
 Let them exercise it then, in God's name, and live happy, as 
 these birds of passage are doing. 
 
 As time went on perhaps Carlyle was dimly sensible of the 
 loneliness of his home. * Her little bit of a first chair,' 
 writes the old man in his desolation forty years later, ' its 
 wee, wee arms, &c., visible to me in the closet at this 
 moment, is still here, and always was. I have looked at it 
 hundreds of times, from of old, with many thoughts. No 
 daughter or son of hers was to sit there; so it had been ap- 
 pointed us, my darling ! ' 
 
 Meantime the summer flew swiftly by, and Miss Welsh 
 formally announced the approaching event to her relations, 
 describing her intended husband to Mrs. George Welsh, the 
 
A FAITHFUL PORTRAIT 85 
 
 wife of her youngest uncle. She had unusual opportunities 
 of knowing Carlyle, since he had never disguised his real 
 character, had made no delusive professions, had almost ag- 
 gressively presented himself as he was ! There was, then, no 
 blindness in Miss Welsh's estimate of him. He stood before 
 her a good man, pure and stainless in life and honour, gifted 
 with most magnificent mental powers. 
 
 A faithful and affectionate brother, an admirable son — in all 
 private relations blamelessly innocent. He had splendid talents, 
 which he rather felt than understood; only he was determined, 
 in the same high spirit of duty which had governed his personal 
 conduct, to use them well . . . never, never to sell his soul by 
 travelling the primrose path to wealth and distinction. If honour 
 came to him, it was to come]]unsought. 
 
 We quote Mr. Froude's words, the biographer to whom 
 it would have been so easy to turn out from these facts 
 a perfectly conventionalised and satisfactory portrait of 
 Carlyle. With every line smoothed, every wrinkle filled 
 up and every wilfulness ignored, such a portrait, could Mr. 
 Froude have sacrificed his own integrity to produce it, 
 would probably have called forth from some other quarter an 
 exaggerated presentation of every flaw and every deficiency, 
 and shown us a monster, who would indeed have borne scant 
 resemblance to the great man whose inner life was so pure, 
 and whose reputation, take him for all in all, would emerge so 
 triumphantly from the innermost, most remorseless inspection. 
 
 The letter which the bride-elect sent in September, de- 
 scribing her intended husband to her aunt, came into his 
 hands after her death in 1866. What thoughts must have 
 risen in him while he read ! ' It came to him,' he said, 'as a 
 flash of radiance from above.' We give a brief extract: — 
 
 As much breath has been wasted on my situation, I have my 
 own doubts whether they have given you any right idea of it. 
 They would tell you, I suppose, first and foremost, that my in- 
 tended \s poor (for that, it requires no great depth of sagacity to 
 discover); and, in the next place, most likely indulged in some 
 
86 GIRLHOOD 
 
 criticisms scarce flattering on his birth, the more likely if their 
 own birth happened to be mean or doubtful; and, if they hap- 
 pened to be vulgar fine people, with disputed pretensions to good 
 looks, they would, to a certainty, set him down as unpolished and 
 ill-looking. But a hundred chances to one they would not tell 
 you he is among the cleverest men of his day — and not the 
 cleverest only, but the most enlightened; that he possesses all 
 the qualities I deem essential in my husband — a warm true heart 
 to love me, a towering intellect to command me, and a spirit of 
 fire to be the guiding star of my life. . . . 
 
 Such, then, is this future husband of mine — not a great man 
 according to the most common sense of the word, but truly 
 great, in its natural proper sense — a scholar, a poet, a philosopher, 
 a wise and noble man, one who holds his patent of nobility from 
 almighty God, and whose high stature of manhood is not to be 
 measured by the inch-rule of Lilliputs! Will you like him? 
 No matter whether you do or not, since I like him in the deepest 
 part of my soul. 
 
 There is no mistaking the genuine ring of these glowing 
 and sincere words. 
 
 We must always remember that, though in one sense 
 Miss Welsh belonged tea superior class, and was accustomed 
 to refinement and elegance of which the Carlyle family never 
 dreamed, she yet received a certain promotion in marrying 
 Thomas Carlyle, since his literary powers opened to her a far 
 higher sphere of society than she could have entered as the 
 wife of a man in such a position as her father had occupied — 
 higher indeed than could easily have fallen to her lot through 
 the acceptance of any suitor she had, or was likely to have 
 had. And though her grace and brilliant gifts made her an 
 addition to the best society, it must be doubted whether, 
 save as Mrs. Carlyle, she would have had the opportunity of 
 meeting constantly with the most intellectual and cultivated 
 people in London. 
 
 The difificulties and prolonged suspense attending the 
 carrying out of this marriage naturally took much of the 
 bloom off its near contemplation. Everything had been dwelt 
 
DISILLUSION 87 
 
 on too long and too minutely, the reason had usurped the 
 place of the heart, and hard, worldly facts had given a jaded 
 aspect to Love's rosy wings. There was no beautiful haze 
 of joy, and thrill of newness in the air. It seemed a worn- 
 out story before it ever happened. 
 
 We cannot tell how the beautiful Jane Welsh felt as the 
 time approached. Carlyle had nervous misgivings, felt that 
 he was ' a perverse mortal to deal with,' and was manifestly 
 depressed. 
 
 The betrothed pair felt it to be almost intolerable to 
 have their names proclaimed in their respective churches, as 
 custom in Scotland demanded. The marriage was to take 
 place quietly at Templand, where Mrs. Welsh now lived 
 with her father, and the newly-married pair were to go the 
 same day to their new home at Comely Bank. Miss Welsh 
 was cheerful and brave — 
 
 I am resolved in spirit (she said) and even joyful— joyful in 
 the face of the dreaded ceremony, of starvation, and of every 
 horrible fate. Oh! my dearest friend, be always so good to me, 
 and I shall make the best and happiest wife. When I read in 
 your looks and words that you love me, then I care not one straw 
 for the whole universe besides. But when you fly from me to 
 smoke tobacco, or speak of me as a mere circumstance of your 
 lot, then, indeed, my heart is troubled about many things. 
 
 Prophetic words these. That the bright eager woman did 
 come to be at times a mere circumstance in his lot was what 
 Carlyle never knew until it was too late — never could realise 
 until it was brought home to him in unmistakable language, 
 when he read letters, never meant for his eye, in which the 
 lonely woman had revealed to others something of what her 
 life was. But in these early days it could only have been a 
 passing cloud in her thoughts, for she loved him and craved 
 to be loved by him— craved for it to the very end. 
 
 She, as well as Carlyle, had a strong disposition and fiery 
 temper. When provoked, she showed a thoroughly unamiable 
 side of her nature— inflexible she was— and her words cut 
 
88 GIRLHOOD 
 
 like knives. Another element in her blood, pointed out by 
 Dr. Japp, does much, in his idea (and I agree with him), to 
 account for many traits in her character. It has been some- 
 what overlooked, though told with some pride^by Mrs. Carlyle 
 in speaking of her own ancestry, that she had a decided 
 strain of gipsy blood. That famous gipsy chieftain, Matthew 
 Baillie, who could steal a horse from under the owner if he 
 liked, was yet said to be a thorough gentleman in his way. 
 These inherited tendencies cling on in a remarkable way, and 
 the^ daring spirit of Jane Baillie Welsh was not unworthy of 
 her adventurous ancestor. The mystery of heredity is one 
 that has scarcely been touched, and I entirely endorse 
 Dr. Japp's remarks when he says, * If Jane Welsh derived 
 from her father her serious thought, prudent decision, and 
 settled affection for place and person . . . she as certainly 
 derived from her mother's side a touch of waywardness, a 
 sudden variability of mood, a half-wild originality, a love of 
 primitive life, and a craving for the relief of fun and free- 
 dom and banter. ' One of her oldest friends now surviving 
 has spoken of her innate " trickiness," which showed itself in 
 many brilliant sallies; and there is no doubt that the fetters 
 of conventionality weighed heavily at times on her bright 
 spirit — more heavily when the spirit was no longer bright.' 
 
 She knew her own failings, and, at this momentous time, 
 made many good resolutions. 
 
 I am really going to be a very meek-tempered wife! (she wrote 
 to Carlyle). Indeed, I am begun to be meek-tempered already! 
 My aunt tells me she could live for ever with me without quar- 
 relling, I am so reasonable and so equable in my humour. There 
 is something to gladden your heart withal ! . . . Do you perceive, 
 my good sir, the fault will be wholly your own if we do not get 
 on most harmoniously together. 
 
 She evidently presaged storms. It is amusing, it would be 
 more amusing if it were less pathetic, to find these two people 
 striving to encourage each other, as if on the scaffold. 
 
 The wedding took place on October 17, On October 10 
 
OMINOUS EXPRESSIONS 89 
 
 Miss Welsh had written from Templand to Carlyle — 'You 
 desired me to answer your letter on Thursday, but I have 
 waited another post that I might do it better, if indeed any 
 good thing is to be said under such horrid circumstances. ' 
 It must have been Carlyle himself who had caused Miss 
 Welsh to regard the wedding preparations as ' horrid cir- 
 cumstances.' No girl would so have regarded them, unless 
 the thought were forced upon her. It is generally felt as 
 a joyful and beautiful time, and a loving word and assur- 
 ance from Carlyle would have made all the difference. But 
 if he so seriously deplored it, what could Miss Welsh do but 
 follow suit? 
 
 Oh, do (she continues), for Heaven's sake, get into a more 
 benignant humour! or the incident will not only ' wear a very 
 original aspect,' but likewise a very heart-breaking one! I see 
 not how I am to go through with it. . . . 
 
 I expected to know last night, when my mother is to come 
 from Edinburgh, in which case I should have been able to name 
 some day, though not so early a one as that proposed; but, alas! 
 alas! my mother is dilatory and uncertain as ever, and the only 
 satisfaction I can give you at this time is to promise I will soon 
 write again. What has taken her to Edinburgh so inoppor- 
 tunely ? — to set some fractions of women cutting out white gowns, 
 a thing which might have been done with all convenience when 
 we were there last month. But some people are wise, and some 
 are otherwise, and I shall be glad to get the gowns anyway, for 
 I should like ill to put you to charge in that article, for a very 
 great while. Besides, you know it would be a bad omen to 
 marry in mourning. When I first put it on, six years ago, I 
 thought to wear it for ever; but I have found a second father, 
 and it were ungrateful not to show, even externally, how much 
 I rejoice in him. 
 
 These are strange expressions. We see that she had 
 meant to wear perpetual black for that dearly loved father 
 whom she had lost; but resolved to put it off, having now 
 found 'a second father' in Thomas Carlyle. Few lovers 
 would appreciate the title, however much they might like 
 to see their brides in white, instead of mourning, garments. 
 
90 
 
 GIRLHOOD 
 
 Carlyle had evidently proposed to take the wedding 
 journey in the coach from Dumfries — less perhaps from 
 economy than from a general sense of protection; with the 
 same idea he had wished his brother John to go part of the 
 way with him and his bride. But a lady's wish at these 
 times is law, and Miss Welsh absolutely declined the coach 
 journey. She also adds, ' For the same reason I prohibit 
 John from going with us an inch of the road; and he must 
 not think there is any unkindness in this. I hope your 
 mother is praying for me. Give her my affectionate regards. 
 Jane Welsh.' 
 
 Carlyle, who had been striving to fortify himself against 
 what Miss Welsh called 'the odious ceremony,' by reading 
 Kant's ' Critique of Pure Reason,' had turned in despair to 
 Scott's novels, which cheered him somewhat. 
 
 After all (he wrote), I believe we take this impending ceremony 
 too much to heart! Bless me! have not many people been 
 married before now? . . . 
 
 To your arrangements about the journey, and the other items 
 of the how and when, I can only answer as becomes me. Be it 
 as thou hast said ! Let me know your will and it shall be my 
 pleasure ! And so, by the blessing of Heaven, we shall roll 
 along side by side with the speed of post-horses, till we arrive at 
 Comely Bank. I shall only stipulate that you will let me, by the 
 road, as occasion serves, smoke three cigars, without criticism or 
 reluctance, as things essential to my perfect contentment. Yet 
 if you object to this article, think not that I will break off the 
 match on that account, but rather, like a dutiful husband, submit 
 to the everlasting ordinance of providence, and let my wife have 
 her way. You are very kind, and more just than I have reason 
 to expect, in imputing my ill-natured speeches (for which Heaven 
 forgive me!) to their true cause — a disordered nervous system. 
 Believe me, Jane, it is not I, but the Devil speaking out of me, 
 which could utter one harsh word to a heart that so little deserves 
 it. Oh! I were blind and wretched if I could make thee unhappy! 
 
 Strange words for an expectant bridegroom! uttered at 
 that time in the history of betrothed pairs when, as a rule, 
 
EARNEST ASPIRA TIONS g I 
 
 every word is a caress; and, to quote from * Sartor,' one might 
 expect that the 'world lay all harmonious before them, like 
 some fair royal champaign the sovereign and owner of which 
 were Love alone! ' Here it. was not a// harmony, though 
 there was sincere affection. 
 
 As to the proclamation (he says), I protest I had rather be 
 proclaimed in every church in the empire than miss the little 
 bird I have in my eye, whom I see not how I am to do without. 
 . . . (and, in conclusion, he says) Oh! we are two ungrateful 
 wretches, or we should be happy. Write soon, and love me for 
 ever; and so, good-night, mein Herzenskind. Thine, anf ewtg, 
 
 T. Carlyle. 
 
 The white gowns were made; the gloves were purchased; 
 and the long, remarkable, and altogether unique preliminaries 
 ended on October 17, 1826. Highly characteristic is the 
 heading of Miss Welsh's final letter to Carlyle: ' The last 
 speech and marrying words of that unfortunate young woman., 
 Jane Baillie Welsh. ^ 
 
 ' Truly,' answered Carlyle, * a most delightful and swan- 
 like melody is in them; a tenderness and warm devoted trust 
 worthy of such a maiden, bidding farewell to that unmarried 
 earth of which she was the fairest ornament. Let us pray to 
 God that our holy purpose is not frustrated. Let us trust in 
 Him, and in each other, and fear no evil that can befall us.' 
 
 The quiet little ceremony being over, the minister and 
 John Carlyle being the only persons present, except the bride's 
 family and the 'high contracting parties,' Mr. and Mrs. Car- 
 lyle started in a post-chaise for Comely Bank. Whether the 
 three cigars were found necessary to render the situation 
 tolerable to the bridegroom is nowhere recorded. The deed 
 was done. 
 
 It would-be idle to speculate on the possibilities of fuller 
 happiness for either of these truly exceptional natures, if 
 married otherwise, to two other persons, less remarkable, 
 and differently constituted. No romantic happiness was 
 
9^ 
 
 GIRLHOOD 
 
 looked for by either of them. Thomas Carlyle was possessed 
 of a feverish soul that struggled perpetually with minor prob- 
 lems — he had to wrestle with the demon within himself — as 
 well as with dyspepsia and nervous irritability. These things 
 could not be banished by the presence of the charming woman 
 whose bright eyes now lighted up his new home. A little 
 less intellect, a little more mere human lovingness, would 
 have made things easier. 
 
 But we are not to dwell upon the ' might have been.' The 
 dainty, graceful girl, with something of Ariel, something of 
 Puck in her nature, was now face to face with her difficult 
 task, brave in her determination to make her husband's way 
 smooth for him, to offer up the full service of a faithful devo- 
 tion. She thought, no doubt, as women do think, that love 
 would make the way plain. It certainly shewed the path — 
 from which she never flinched — but the way was ever beset 
 with thorns. She did not fear poverty — if she were rich in 
 love; but what constituted that most precious treasure was 
 imperfectly understood by Carlyle. And in all marriage the 
 human element must ever be important, it cannot be over- 
 looked. It is still there when the white-haired venerable pair 
 sit on either side of the hearth, watching their greatgrandchild 
 playing on the rug; or, if no such link carries them forward, 
 it is still there when they recall golden days of youth, and the 
 flush tints their faded cheeks, as they recount some fragments 
 of the tale of their springtime, of no meaning to any one but 
 themselves. 
 
 There would be no such tender memories to turn to in this 
 case; but a correspondence, like a great legal case, a terrible 
 dragging out of calculations and ponderings, a desperate 
 resolve to take the final step, and many misgivings on both 
 sides. There was, on each side, a power of severe speech, a 
 clear insight into imperfections, hostile to perfect happiness. 
 Then, again, there was much in common — keen intellectual 
 sympathy, a certain likeness in views of life and its aims, a 
 stern integrity and uprightness of character, a degree of con- 
 
A DOUBTFUL PROSPECT 93 
 
 tempt for the world's opinion. Valuable as a superstructure, 
 provided the foundation were of the firmest, the most deeply 
 laid, the true foundation of all lasting human ties — Love ! 
 And here and now ended Jane Welsh's girlhood. 
 
'1 
 
 k 
 
PART II 
 EARLY MARRIED LIFE 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 A. D. 1826 
 
 Comely Bank — Good resolutions — Social opportunities — A wifely 
 letter — Narrow income — Visit of Dr. John Carlyle — The daily 
 life — The little ' Wednesday evenings ' — Friendship with Jeffrey — 
 Brighter prospects — Household activities on Mrs. Carlyle's part 
 — Renewed ideas of living at ' Craigenputtock ' — Its unsuitability 
 to Mrs. Carlyle's needs — Carlyle visits it with his brother Alick 
 — The tenant about to leave — Letter from Mrs. Carlyle — Loving 
 response. 
 
 The home in which Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle began their new 
 life was, according to Carlyle's own account to his mother, 
 'a perfect model, furnished with every accommodation that 
 heart could desire.' The house was in Comely Bank, a row 
 of houses to the north of Edinburgh; it then stood among 
 open fields between the city and the sea. It had been 
 beautifully fitted up by Mrs. Welsh, and must have offered 
 every 'possibility that a mere "house can offer for perfect 
 happiness ! 
 
 Mrs. Welsh was at this time settled at Templand with her 
 father and her youngest sister, now a woman of about thirty, 
 the ' Aunt Jeannie ' of whom Carlyle speaks so tenderly in 
 the * Reminiscences ' — the fair-haired gentle victim of that 
 early love-tragedy which, as Carlyle said, 'closed her poor 
 heart against hopes of that kind at an early period of her 
 life.' Mrs. Carlyle was not anxious about her mother, to 
 whom Haddington had become hateful, and who had a home 
 
 95 
 
96 EARLY MARRIED LIFE 
 
 with old Walter, and loving surroundings. She had done 
 what she could to secure her mother's comfort, and now she 
 turned her undivided loyal energy to the more difficult task 
 of making Carlyle's life happy and peaceful. 
 
 It is difficult for people to realise that they inevitably 
 bring the deep essentials of their happiness or unhappiness 
 with them into whatever atmosphere they are transplanted. 
 It is a trite saying that we can change the sky above us, but 
 are apt to retain the spirit with which we regard it. So, 
 although Carlyle had won his treasure, he was still himself — 
 still tormented by the spirit within him, which did not come 
 out of him under the beam of his wife's bright eyes. He says 
 to his mother: — 
 
 For my wife, I may say in my heart that she is better than 
 any wife, and loves me with a devotedness which it is a mystery 
 to me how I have ever deserved. She is gay and happy as a 
 lark, and looks with such soft cheerfulness into my gloomy 
 countenance, that new hope passed into me every time I met 
 her eye. In truth I was very sullen yesterday, sick with sleep- 
 lessness, nervous, bilious, splenetic, and all the rest of it. 
 
 The 'rest of it' was, we fear, a very irritable disposition, 
 which showed itself evefn in those days of rosy hope. 
 
 Still, Carlyle vaguely hoped to be happier. He speaks of 
 believing he shall get '• hefted to his new situation.' He 
 wished his brother John to come and join him in his ' solitary 
 wanderings by the sad autumnal sea.' But he was making 
 good resolutions, and not forgetting the tender wish to please 
 his old mother. ' Tell my mother,' he writes to John 
 Carlyle, ' that by Jane's express request I am to read a ser- 
 mon, and a chapter with commentary, at least every Sabbath 
 day, to my household. Also that we are taking seats in 
 church, and design to live soberly and devoutly, as be- 
 seems us.' 
 
 Comely Bank enabled the Carlyles to have some society, 
 and it must have been a pretty sight when the dainty, gifted 
 young wife entertained, in her own house, some of the choice 
 
HAPPY HOURS 
 
 97 
 
 spirits of Edinburgh, and was herself the hght and the charm 
 of the modest entertainments so rich in wit and intellectual 
 surrounding. No invitation to Comely Bank was refused. 
 These little tea-parties were an earnest of those held in later 
 days in Cheyne Row — those never-to-be-forgotten evenings 
 of which we have heard from those few now surviving who 
 were privileged to attend them. Brewster (afterwards Sir 
 David Brewster), De Quincey,* Sir William Hamilton, and 
 many others were among the guests at Comely Bank. 
 
 If Carlyle at this time had been engaged in some congenial 
 and remunerative employment the little home would have 
 been brighter. Mrs. Carlyle wrote to her mother-in-law on 
 December 9, 1826: — 
 
 My dear Mother, — I must not let the letter go without adding 
 my ' Be of good cheer ! ' You would rejoice to see how much 
 better my husband is since we came hither. And we are really 
 very happy. When he falls on some work we shall be still 
 happier. Indeed I should be very stupid or very thankless if 1 
 did not congratulate myself every hour of the day on the lot 
 which it has pleased Providence to assign me. My husband is 
 so kind, so in all respects after my own heart. I was sick one 
 day, and he nursed me as well as my own mother could have 
 done; and he never says a hard word to me unless I richly 
 deserve it. We see great numbers of people, but are always 
 most content alone. My husband reads then, and I read or 
 work, or just sit and look at him, which I really find as profit- 
 able an employment as any other. God bless you and my little 
 Jean, whom I hope to see at no very distant date. 
 
 This is a pretty and wifely letter. But money was not 
 abundant, and work — which was almost more essential to 
 Carlyle's well-being — kept aloof. Writing to his mother in 
 January 1827, Carlyle mentions that Mrs. Welsh had sent 
 sixty pounds in a letter. This was promptly returned, 
 though the gift was felt to be both kind and handsome. The 
 
 * See Appendix IV. 
 
98 ' EARL V MARRIED LIFE 
 
 good mother at Scotsbrig sent eggs from the farm and other 
 home produce, and Mrs. Carlyle could turn her hand to the 
 making of a dainty custard, pancakes, and the like. 
 
 John Carlyle came early in that first year to stay with the 
 pair at Comely Bank, and in February Carlyle reports of the 
 home-life very graphically to his brother Alexander, 
 
 Last week (he writes) I fairly began a book. Heaven only 
 knows what it will turn to. . . . You would wonder how much 
 happier steady occupation makes us, and how smoothly we all 
 get along. Directly after breakfast the good wife and the doc- 
 tor (John Carlyle) retire upstairs to the drawing-room, a little 
 place all fitted up like a lady's work-box, where a spark of fire 
 is lit for the forenoon; and I meanwhile sit scribbling and medi- 
 tating, and wrestling with the powers of dullness till one or two 
 o'clock, when I sally forth into the city or towards the seashore, 
 taking care only to be at home for the important purpose of 
 consuming my mutton chop at four. 
 
 Carlyle, then, in these early days did not as a rule spend 
 any time with his wife between breakfast time and 4 p. m. 
 'After dinner,' he adds, ' we all read learned languages till 
 coffee, and so on till bedtime.' 
 
 Carlyle speaks of the possibilities as to society, and of the 
 limited degree to which they were utilised. 'Jane,' he says, 
 ' has a circular, or rather two circulars — one for those she 
 values, and one for those she does not value; and one or 
 other of these she sends.' These were the replies to dinner- 
 invitations. Thus no dinners were given or accepted. 'Only, 
 to some three or four chosen people we give notice that on 
 Wednesday nights we shall ahvays be at home, and glad if 
 they will call and talk for two hours with no other entertain- 
 ment but a cordial welcome, and a cup of innocent tea.' The 
 entertainment was truly a royal one — and was always felt to 
 be so — by virtue of a banquet fit for the gods. 
 
 In this letter Carlyle mentions having in his pocket 'a 
 
IMTROVED PROSPECTS 
 
 99 
 
 letter of introduction to Jeffrey of the *' Edinburgh Review." ' 
 ' It was sent me,' he says, ' from Proctor of London.' That 
 letter was the opening of a long and interesting friendship, 
 which was most close and warm between Lord Jeffrey and 
 Mrs. Carlyle, whom he came to regard with a chivalrous 
 tenderness in which almost every man who knew her must 
 have shared. Carlyle speaks in the * Reminiscences ' of 
 striding off, with Proctor's introduction, one evening to George 
 Square, where he had his first interview with Jeffrey, with 
 whose personal appearance he had been familiar some four- 
 teen years. The interview was a successful one, resulting 
 not only in a return of the visit, but in much literary work 
 for Carlyle in the shape of articles for the reviews, greatly to 
 Mrs. Carlyle's delight and pride; for she admired her husband 
 with all her heart, and, later on, in the sad days of her broken 
 health and joyless conditions, was often heard to wind up 
 one of her depressing accounts of him with — ' But then, 
 you know, he is so clever ! ' 
 
 A letter from Mrs. Car/y/e to her mother-in-law, dated 
 ' 21 Comely Bank, February 17, 1827,' gives some touching 
 details of the life there. Speaking of the book Carlyle was 
 engaged on — a novel, which was never finished — the young 
 wife writes: — 
 
 More contented he certainly is since he applied himself to 
 this task, for he was not born to be anything but miserable in 
 idleness. Oh ! that he were indeed well — well beside me, and oc- 
 cupied as he ought. How plain and clear life would then lie 
 before us! . . . Within doors all is warm, is swept and garnished, 
 and without, the country is no longer winter-like, but beginning 
 to be gay and green. Many pleasant people come to see us. . . . 
 Alone we are never weary. If I have not Jean's enviable gift 
 of talking, I am at least among the best listeners in the king- 
 dom, and my husband has always something interesting and in- 
 structive to say. Then we have books to read — all sorts of them, 
 from Scott's Bible down to novels ; and I have sewing-needles, 
 and purse-needles, and all conceivable implements for ladies' 
 work. There is a piano, too, for ' soothing the savage breast,' 
 
lOO EARLY MARRIED LIFE 
 
 when one cares for its charms; but I am sorry to say neither my 
 playing nor my singing seems to give Mr. C. much delight. I 
 console myself, however, with imputing the blame to his want of 
 taste, rather than my want of skill. ... It is my husband's 
 worst fault to me that I will not, or cannot, speak. Often when 
 he has talked for an hour without answer, he will beg for some 
 signs of life on my part, and the only sign I can give is a little 
 kiss. ... 
 
 Mrs. Carlyle's occupations at Comely Bank were by no 
 means comprised in the small accomplishments she enumerates 
 in this letter. Dainty in all her ways, the presence of one 
 servant did not suffice to keep all things in the spotless order 
 which she loved, without many little offices on her part, and 
 her hand helped to give her dyspeptic husband a more deli- 
 cate diet than an ordinary maid-of-all-work could provide. 
 Her bright spirit and comparatively good health doubtless 
 added a charm to these domesticities, and we can quite fancy 
 her locking the kitchen door on herself, to essay her first 
 pudding, which was to be something quite out of the common. 
 
 Had but Fortune smiled more kindly on these two people, 
 and given them a comfortable income ! But it was not so. 
 Finances were ebbing — not fast, but surely — and the prospect 
 was a dark one. It was natural, perhaps, that Carlyle's mind 
 should revert at this time to his old scheme of living at 
 Craigenputtock. His brother Alexander could farm it, and 
 it would be a quiet, healthy, and cheap residence. Perhaps 
 it was to some extent natural that he should forget to pause 
 and consider whether this wild * hill of the hawk ' would be 
 a fitting home for the fluttering dove that he had taken into 
 his care. Perhaps he had become so entirely ' hefted to his 
 new situation * that it seemed a matter of course. They twain 
 being one, what was good for him must be good for her. 
 Perhaps he thought — but it is less likely — ' she will have me.' 
 But a wilderness (and it was little better) needs very pro- 
 nounced conditions of bliss before it will consent to 'rejoice 
 and blossom as the rose.' She had told him she could not live 
 
COURAGE AND TENDERNESS 101 
 
 a month at Craigenputtock ' with an angel ; ' but her faith 
 and courage were to be put to a strong test. Writing of it 
 afterwards, Carlyle said : ' To her it was a great sacrifice, if to 
 me it was the reverse; but at no moment, even by a look, 
 did she ever say so.' Brave Jane Welsh Carlyle ! But 
 Carlyle adds with great simplicity, ' Indeed I think she never 
 felt so at all.' 
 
 One attraction this wild place presented: it was within 
 fifteen miles of Templand, where Mrs. Welsh now lived; and 
 the moment for the change seemed propitious, for the tenant 
 of Craigenputtock was about to leave, and Mrs. Welsh 
 anxiously desired to have the Carlyles there, and generously 
 undertook much of the expense connected with the change. 
 
 In April, Carlyle, with his brother Alick, went on a visit of 
 inspection, while Mrs Welsh joined her daughter at Comely 
 Bank. The matter was quickly arranged, and the tenant 
 was to leave almost immediately, Carlyle to follow his 
 brother to Craigenputtock as soon after Whitsuntide as all 
 was in order. 
 
 We must give a few sentences from the charming letter 
 Mrs, Carlyle wrote to her husband during this, his first 
 absence from her. The six-months wife begins with * Dear, 
 Dear, (Cheap! Cheap!)' — This being a little fun between them 
 as Mr. Froude tells us, in a note, how * Cheap ! Cheap ! ' had 
 evidently been an answer which Carlyle had made to some 
 endearment of hers : — 
 
 I met the postman yesterday morning, and something bade 
 me ask if there were any letters. Imagine my agitation when 
 he gave me yours, four and twenty hours before the appointed 
 time. I was so glad, and so frightened, so eager to know the 
 whole contents, that I could hardly make out any part. ... I 
 did at length, with much heart-beating, get through the precious 
 paper, and found that you still loved me pretty well, and that 
 the Craig o' Putta was still a hope; as also that, if you come not 
 back to poor ' Goody ' on Saturday, it will not be for want of 
 will. Ah ! nor yet will it be for the want of the most fervent 
 
102 EARLY MA RRIED LIFE 
 
 prayers to Heaven that a longing Goody can put up ; for I am 
 sick — sick to the heart — of this absence, which indeed I can only 
 bear in the faith of its being brief. , . My head has ached 
 more continuously than any time these six months. But health 
 and spirits will come back when my husband comes back 
 with good news — or rather, when he comes back at all, whether 
 his news be good or bad. . . . To be separated from you one 
 week is frightful as a foretaste of what it might be; but I will 
 not think of that, if I can help it ; and, after all, why should I 
 think of life without you? 
 
 Plainly, she thought of her father, of the wrench that 
 death had made when she lost him. It would be idle to say 
 Mrs, Carlyle did not love her husband — ay, to the end the 
 love was not killed, and it would, it j?nght, have ^blossomed 
 forth in the last years, had time been granted. The letter 
 goes on : 'Is not my being interwoven with yours so close 
 that it can have no separate existence ? . . . But you will 
 be calling this " French sentimentality," I fear; and even the 
 style of mockery is better than that. . .' 
 
 Later in life Carlyle heard much of this latter style, but 
 it was the fruit of bitterness and suffering, and did not rise 
 to the heart of the young wife in these early, untried days. 
 
 This letter contains a curious little touch of that ' tricki- 
 ness ' which was characteristic of Mrs. Carlyle. Speaking 
 of visitors who had called at Comely Bank during Carlyle's 
 absence, she mentions several names ; then an evening's en- 
 gagement to the house of a Mrs. Bruce. Being disinclined 
 to go, she evaded it with great adroitness. ' I wrapped a 
 piece of flannel about my throat, and made my mother carry 
 an apology of cold. ^ The italics are our own. 
 
 To this letter came a loving and worthy reply, ending 
 with : — 
 
 Oh Jeannie ! Oh my wife ! we will never part — never through 
 eternity itself; but I will love thee, and keep thee in my heart 
 of hearts ! — that is, unless I grow a very great fool — which, in- 
 deed, this talk doth somewhat betoken. God bless thee ! 
 
 Ever thine, T. Carlyle. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 A.D. 1827 
 
 Alexander Carlyle and his sister Mary go to live at Craigenputtock — 
 The visit of the Carlyles to Templand, Scotsbrig, &c. — Prospect 
 of some professorship for Carlyle — Disappointment — Decision for 
 Craigenputtock — A. sacrifice — Bleak and barren situation of the 
 new home — Jeffrey's disapproval of the plan — Mrs. Carlyle's 
 courage — House-moving — Carlyle's despair — Correspondence of 
 Mrs. Carlyle with her old friend, Miss Eliza Stodart — Ideals of 
 married life relinquished — Carlyle's frequent depression and ab- 
 sorption in his work — The wife's isolation. 
 
 In the summer of 1827, Alexander Carlyle and his sister 
 Mary entered into occupation of Craigenputtock, as had been 
 arranged; but the Carlyles were loth to leave Edinburgh 
 quite so soon as they had at first intended. For the prospect 
 was somewhat brighter for Carlyle. Jeffrey could appreciate 
 his uncommon powers, and an admission into the ' Edinburgh 
 Review ' gave him congenial work, and hope therewith of 
 yet wider scope of literary prosperity. There was not quite 
 the same sympathy between Carlyle and Jeffrey as existed 
 between Mrs. Carlyle and the * clever little gentleman;' but 
 the introduction was a memorable event in many ways. 
 
 The literary work now offered to Carlyle kept him in 
 Edinburgh. But during the summer he and his wife spent 
 a short holiday with the family at Scotsbrig, a few days at 
 Templand, and took a look at the ' Hill of the Hawk.' In 
 August they were again settled in Comely Bank. 
 
 It was at this time that Carlyle began to look forward to 
 the possibility of some permanent and honourable appoint- 
 ment — some professorship, maybe — that should be a literary 
 
 103 
 
I04 EARLY MARRIED LIFE 
 
 haven to him. He consulted Edward Irving as to some 
 opening in the London University, and comments on his reply- 
 in a letter to his brother John in September. Irving, he said, 
 had written ' in a strange, austere, puritanical, yet on the 
 whole, honest and friendly-looking style. He advises me to 
 proceed and make the attempt.' 
 
 The plan never came to fruition. The Carlyles dined with 
 the Jeffreys to talk the chances over. If the plan succeeded, 
 it would at least do away with the necessity for living on 
 the wild, bleak moors, which must have been depressing to 
 contemplate. But the appointment was given to someone else. 
 
 Other hopes, including one of a professorship in St. 
 Andrews University, also failed, and the idea of living at 
 Craigenputtock returned with renewed insistence, and finally 
 shaped itself into a definite intention. The house was 
 placed under repair, and with the early spring these remark- 
 able people were to leave the world — as represented by the 
 social refinement and attractions of Edinburgh — and bury 
 themselves in the wild Dunscore moors, at a farm sixteen 
 miles from the nearest town and the nearest doctor, in a spot 
 where, "^through long months, winter would hold his iron 
 reign, and almost cut off access to the outer cheerfulness of 
 life. With a giant's stock of strength, with a help-mate strong 
 also, and gentle and responsive, with a great share of the 
 sweet double life which marriage sometimes brings, there is 
 no doubt that a happy, though not a luxurious, existence 
 might have been realised at Craigenputtock by Mrs. 
 Carlyle. But these conditions were imperfectly fulfilled. 
 No giant's strength was hers. Never robust, she had al- 
 ready shown absolute delicacy of health; and her help-mate 
 was dyspeptic, restless, troubled with sleeplessness, nervous, 
 and possessed by some inner struggle which often made his 
 own days hard to endure, and left him little power to make a 
 woman's life attractive and harmonious. 
 
 The house at Comely Bank was held only by the year. 
 They must now decide whether it should be taken for another 
 
FORCED RETREAT TO THE 'DESERT' 
 
 105 
 
 twelve months, and they determined to see Craigenputtock 
 once more together, before taking a final step. The impres- 
 sion made on their minds cannot have been very attractive. 
 March is a bleak month in the North, and there may have 
 been misgivings in the minds of both husband and wife as to 
 the severing of themselves from all the warmth and pleasant- 
 ness of their pretty home in Edinburgh. 
 
 But the decision was taken out of their hands in a 
 manner, for, on their return from this visit, they found their 
 landlord had actually let the house at Comely Bank to 
 another tenant, so that at Whitsuntide they must certainly 
 leave it, and so the question settled itself rather unexpectedly, 
 and immediate steps were taken to render the Craig o' Putta 
 comfortable and habitable. Carlyle wrote to his brother: 'I 
 anticipate, with confidence, a friendly and rather comfortable 
 arrangement at the Craig, in which, not in idleness, yet in 
 peace, and more self-selected occupations, I may find more 
 health, and, what I reckon weightier, more scope to improve 
 and worthily employ myself, which either here or there I 
 reckon to be the great end of existence and the only happi- 
 ness.' There may be other forms of happiness known to other 
 human beings, but it would be idle to dwell on the point. 
 Whether this ideal of happiness included and insured the 
 happiness of that other human being so closely linked with his 
 life, is a question to which the answer will not tarry long. 
 
 Mr. Froude's description of Craigenputtock gives a vivid 
 idea of it: — 
 
 .... The dreariest spot in all the British dominions. The 
 nearest cottage is more than a mile from it; the elevation, 700 feet 
 above the sea, stunts the trees, and limits the garden produce to 
 the hardiest vegetables. The house is gaunt and hungry-looking. 
 It stands, with the scanty fields attached, as an island in a sea of 
 morass. The landscape is unredeemed either by grace or grandeur, 
 — mere undulating hills of grass and heather, with peat bogs in 
 the hollows between them. 
 
 An ungentle home for the delicate woman. 
 
I06 EARLY MARRIED J.IFK 
 
 Carlyle, in a letter to Goethe, describes it in much the same 
 terms, as being. 
 
 Among the granite hills and the bleak morasses which stretch 
 westward through Galloway almost to the Irish Sea, . . . The 
 roses, indeed, are still in part to be planted. . . . Two ponies, 
 which carry us everywhere, and the mountain air, are the best 
 medicine for weak nerves. . . . I came thither solely with the de- 
 sign to simplify my way of life, and to secure the independence 
 through which I could be enabled to remain true to myself. 
 
 There must have been some sinking of Mrs. Carlyle's daunt- 
 less spirit at the prospect of this rem.ote and lonely existence. 
 Some such feelings on her part were evident to some of her 
 friends. The kind-hearted Jeffrey felt really alarmed, but 
 trusted that the experience of life in the wilderness would 
 bring about a prompt return to the amenities of Edinburgh. 
 Whether this attached and considerate friend foresaw any- 
 thing of the disastrous consequences of the step, we do not 
 know; but, finding it inevitable, he did all he could to make 
 it easy for Mrs. Carlyle, inviting her with her husband to visit 
 him in Moray Place, while the carts conveyed the Lares and 
 Penates of Comely Bank into the wilds of the Dunscore 
 moors. 
 
 This change of residence was a turning-point in Mrs. 
 Carlyle's life. Before going further, we will cite a charming 
 passage from one of Prof. Masson's articles in * Macmillan,' 
 December 1881. It calls to mind the words often quoted by 
 Mrs. Carlyle in later life — 
 
 And my youth was left behind 
 For someone else to find. 
 An old Haddington nurse, speaking to Prof. Masson of 
 Mrs. Carlyle before her marriage, said: 
 
 Ah! when she was young, she was a fleein', dancin', light- 
 heartit thing, Jeanie Welsh, that naething would hae dauntit. 
 But she grew grave a' at ance. There was Maister Irving, ye 
 ken, that had been her teacher; and he cam aboot her. Then there 
 was Maister (this name, possibly that of Irving's successor 
 
THE FLITTING I07 
 
 in the Haddington School, is not given). Then there was 
 Maister Carlyle himsel'; and he cam to finish her off like. . . . 
 
 This bright creature was not yet * dauntit,' but bravely, 
 cheerfully set to her new task, for already it became some- 
 thing of a task to fulfil all that the conditions demanded. 
 
 The actual day came for the married pair to enter their 
 new home. That the cottage where Alexander Carlyle was to 
 live was attached to the premises, was a comfort to Carlyle, 
 and, as Mr. Froude tells us, * the outdoor establishment of field, 
 stall, and dairy servants was common to both households.' 
 
 House-moving is never pleasant. Even the completeness 
 of modern arrangements fails to redeem it from the reproach 
 of intense discomfort attaching to it. But this must have 
 been quite a unique * flitting.' Carlyle's despair, as witnessed 
 by his letter to his brother John, written a week or two after 
 the arrival at Craigenputtock, is tragic and yet amusing. 
 He speaks of the * chaotic uproar ' of dismantling the modest 
 house at Comely Bank, and adds: 'From all packers and 
 carpenters and flitting by night or day, Good Lord deliver 
 us ! ' We may be sure that the clear-headed lady at the head 
 of affairs would reduce chaos into cosmos at the earliest pos- 
 sible date, and in due time the Carlyles settled in the intense 
 solitude of their new home. They had entered it about the 
 last week in May, before the year wears its real spring smile 
 in these northern districts. 
 
 The ' cares of bread ' soon made themselves felt. On 
 July 29 we find Mrs. Carlyle appealing once more to her 
 'dear, dear angel Bessy!' with a request that she would 
 order for her, tea, coffee, sugar, &c., in Edinburgh, to be 
 sent by carrier to Craigenputtock; all her groceries, she 
 says, are done, and without a fresh supply she fears ' her 
 husband would soon be done also.' 
 
 In this letter she addresses Miss Stodart as ' thou arch- 
 angel Bessy,' and wrote cheerfully enough. ' Dear Edin- 
 burgh ! ' she says, ' I was very happy there, and shall always 
 love it, and hope to see it again often before I die.' The 
 
Io8 :EARLY MARRIED LIFE 
 
 servant, Grace Macdonald, is spoken of as excellent, and even 
 in such desolate surroundings there was no absolute barrier 
 to a very happy life. 
 
 Here and now, however, we feel as if Mrs. Carlyle 
 silently relinquished her ideal of married life, or at least 
 of life with Carlyle. As in his wooing there had ever been 
 more of the intellectual sympathy than of the passion of a 
 lover, and as Mrs. Carlyle, who knew how a man loves, was 
 well able to discern the tone of the attachment offered to her, 
 it had never been expected by her that this sternly-absorbed, 
 spirit-tormented man would be content to lie at her feet on 
 the heather at Craigenputtock and look into her eyes for his 
 inspirations. What she probably did expect, was — what the 
 union naturally seemed to promise — a close intellectual com- 
 panionship. She would fain have set her little foot on each 
 round of the ladder beside his, and gone with him in his 
 spirit - flights; but here the fulfilment seemed strikingly 
 imperfect. 
 
 Carlyle, often depressed or irritable from ill health and 
 mental absorption, needed much solitude. His nervous wake- 
 fulness necessitated his sleeping in a room alone, as the least 
 sound drove sleep from him. He could not write to any 
 purpose unless he were alone, and, as time went on, would 
 even eat his dinner alone. So that his wife often saw only 
 the lurid reflection, as it were, of what had been passing in 
 his mind, without the interest of sharing his thoughts. In 
 the days at Comely Bank she speaks of sometimes just 
 sitting and looking at him; but she soon found, perhaps, that 
 it was best to leave him to forge his thunderbolts alone, with 
 no spectator of the fierce war of elements in his distracted 
 mind. 
 
 The marriage certainly presented some features of what 
 the French call a solitude a deux. Doubtless the heavier 
 share of that solitude fell on Mrs. Carlyle; but Carlyle often 
 expressed in his journals, &c., a loneliness and isolation that 
 
ISOLA TION 
 
 109 
 
 could be felt — a separation not only from her, but from much 
 of the living, breathing world around him. 
 
 If, then, there was an element of disappointment in the 
 lives of these two, we must remember that many very com- 
 monplace marriages are not wholly free from that element. 
 It may j>ass unnoticed by the outer world. In this case, how- 
 ever, we are drawn inevitably to consider it. 
 
I lO EARL Y MARRIED LIFE 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 A. D. 1S27-1829 
 
 ' Cares of bread ' — The first loaf — Visit of the Jeffreys to Craigen- 
 puttock — Mrs. Carlyle's preparatory ride to Dumfries — Friendly 
 advice of Jeffrey to Carlyle — Invitation to Moray Place — The two 
 mountain ponies — Mrs. Carlyle's loneliness — 'Brother Alick' — 
 A visit to Templand — Letter from the wife to the husband — Visit 
 of the Carlyles to Edinburgh — 22 George Square — Return to 
 ' The Desert ' — Serious illness of Mrs. Carlyle — Visit of Mrs. 
 Welsh — Permanently weakened health. 
 
 Among the sorest of Mrs. Carlyle's efforts at Craigenputtock 
 was the clifificulty of propitiating her husband's digestion, 
 bad at all times. At Comely Bank he could eat the baker's 
 bread. Here, the bread manufactured by the ' active maid ' 
 who had come with the pair from Edinburgh quite failed to 
 meet Carlyle's requirements, and Mrs. Carlyle determined to 
 bake some herself. It sounds simple enough, but bread-making 
 really is a matter requiring much nicety. Mr. Froude quotes 
 Mrs. Carlyle's own account, written nearly thirty years later, 
 to a Miss Smith of Carlisle. The narrative is given char- 
 acteristically, with that intensity of language which was 
 natural to the writer, inevitable, and also admirable, if we are 
 careful to remember that, though not the language of exag- 
 geration, it certainly gives more emphasis than bare facts will 
 always fully bear out. She wrote as she felt, absolutely, and 
 as things presented themselves to her. 
 
 So many talents are wasted (she writes), so many enthusiasms 
 turned to smoke, so many lives spoilt, . . . for want of recog- 
 nising that it is not the greatness or littleness of the duty nearest 
 hand, but the spirit in which ojie does it, that make one's doing 
 
HOME-MADE BREAD III 
 
 noble or mean, / can't think how people who have any natural 
 ambition, and any sense of power in them, escape going mad in 
 a world like this, without the recognition of that, , . . I had 
 gone with my husband to live on a little estate oi peat-bog, that 
 had descended to me all the way down from John Welsh, the 
 Covenanter who married a daughter of John Knox. TJiat didn't, 
 I am ashamed to say, make me feel Craigenputtock a whit less 
 of a peat-bog, and a most dreary, untoward place to live in. ... 
 Further, we were tiery poor, and, further and worst, being an 
 only child, and brought up to ' great prospects,' I was sublimely 
 ignorant of every branch of useful knowledge, though a capital 
 Latin scholar and a very fair mathematician. It behoved me, in 
 these astonishing circumstances, to learn to sew ! Husbands, I 
 was shocked to find, wore their stockings into holes, and were 
 always losing buttons; and /was expected to ' look to all that.' 
 Also it behoved me to learn to cook ! — no capable servant choos- 
 ing to live at such an out-of-the-way place. ... It was plainly 
 my duty as a Christian wife to bake at home ! So I sent for 
 Cobbett's ' Cottage Economy, ' and fell to work at a loaf of bread. 
 But, knowing nothing about the process of fermentation, or 
 the heat of ovens, it came to pass that my loaf got put into the 
 oven at the time that myself ought to have been put into bed. 
 And I remained the only person not asleep in a house in the 
 middle of a desert. One o'clock struck, and then two, and then 
 three, and still I was sitting there, in an immense solitude, my 
 whole body aching with weariness, my heart aching with a sense 
 of forlornness and degradation that I, who had been so petted 
 at home, whose comfort had been studied by everybody in the 
 house, who had never been required lo do anything but cultivate 
 my mind, should have to pass all those hours of the night in 
 watching a loaf of bread — which might not turn out bread after 
 all ! Such thoughts maddened me, till I laid down my head on 
 the table and sobbed aloud. It was then that somehow the idea 
 of Benvenuto Cellini sitting up all night watching his ' Perseus ' 
 in the furnace came into my head, and suddenly I asked myself 
 — ' After all, in the sight of the Upper Powers, what is the 
 mighty difference between a statue of Perseus, and a loaf of 
 bread, so that each be the thing one's hand has found 
 to do ! . , . . ' * 
 
 * See Appendix V. 
 
112 EARLY MARRIED LIFE 
 
 No doubt Mrs. Carlyle was thoroughly tired and dis- 
 heartened on the occasion referred to. But the ' prospects ' 
 to which she alludes could hardly have promised an immunity 
 from all household cares. Many a clergyman's wife, many 
 a barrister's wife placidly darns the socks of her husband 
 and children, and, though not actually making bread, attends 
 actively to culinary operations now and then, should occasion 
 require. If any 'only child' is made the first study of all 
 the inmates of a household, that child is ill-prepared for the 
 realities of life; and no wife would expect to go on after 
 marriage with the cultivation of her mind as her ' sole care.' 
 
 Few wives, however, pursue their domestic activities in an 
 atmosphere so barren of life's best charm as did Mrs. Carlyle, 
 and few were less physically able for the exertions which 
 come lightly and pleasantly to women of more robust temper- 
 ament. If she felt everything with the acuteness which this 
 letter displays — and it is to be feared she did — then was her 
 outlook into life indeed a dark one.* 
 
 An event much looked for was the promised visit of the 
 Jeffreys to Craigenputtock, which took place in October of 
 the same year, 1828. We can fancy the big carriage stand- 
 mg in the humble farmyard, and the altogether unwonted 
 elements introduced on the scene. Short notice had been 
 given to the Lady of Craigenputtock — only a day, seemingly. 
 Carlyle speaks in the ' Reminiscences ' of his wife's gallop to 
 Dumfries and back, on this occasion, to make her prepara- 
 tions — ' thirty good miles of swift canter, at least,' he calls it. 
 Carlyle himself was at Scotsbrig, and no time to be lost. 
 Mounted on 'Harry,' her 'well-broken, loyal little horse,' 
 she m.ade this flying journey, ' laid her plans while galloping, 
 ordered everything at Dumfries,' says Carlyle — ' sent word to 
 me express, and galloped home, and stood victoriously pre- 
 pared at all points to receive the Jeffreys. 
 
 The party consisted of Jeffrey, his wife and daughter, and 
 a servant. Well might the guests learn with surprise that 
 * See Appendix V. 
 
A TENDER SOLICITUDE I I 3 
 
 their hostess's fair hands had cooked the excellent dinner. 
 But such violent exertion was fatally wrong for Mrs. Carlyle's 
 health; and after those physical efforts to be for two days 
 'on duty ' as hostess was a strain, no doubt, though no com- 
 plaint would be made. 
 
 Jeffrey was not blind to the state of things at Craigen- 
 puttock, and felt a genuine alarm on account of Mrs. Carlyle, 
 whose health and well-being were always so dear to him. 
 But Carlyle could not see through his friend's eyes, and was 
 absorbed in quite other lines of thought. Writing from 
 Edinburgh after his visit, Jeffrey says to Carlyle: — 
 
 Take care of the fair creature who has trusted herself so 
 entirely to you. Do not let her ride about in the wet, nor ex- 
 pose herself to the wintry winds that will, by-and-by, visit your 
 lofty retreat; and think seriously of taking shelter in Moray 
 Place [Jeffrey's house in Edinburgh] for a month or two; 
 and in the meantime be gay and playful and foolish with her, at 
 least as often as you require her to be wise and heroic with you. 
 You have no fnissiofi upon earth, whatever you may fancy, half 
 so important as to be innocently happy. . . . 
 
 Jeffrey was wise and kind, and well understood how things 
 were at Craigenputtock; but such advice was useless. 
 
 The first winter at the ' Devil's Den,' as Carlyle had called 
 his home, must have been a new experience to Mrs. Carlyle. 
 A carrier's cart made its way weekly from Dumfries, when 
 weather permitted; thus, the solace of letters was only an 
 occasional one. Happily, Carlyle was well employed on pay- 
 ing work for the Reviews. Flour and oatmeal were supplied 
 from Scotsbrig; the farm yielded milk, eggs, hams, and 
 poultry; groceries and tobacco were almost the only requi- 
 sites to be bought. Sometimes the husband and wife rode 
 out together on the two ponies, 'Larry' and 'Harry;' but 
 Carlyle's rides were too often solitary, indifferent as he was 
 to wet and cold, courting fatigue in every weather. 
 
 In November, Mrs. Carlyle writes to Miss Stodart, and 
 speaks of ' sitting here, companionless, " like owl in desert,"' 
 
114 EARLY MARRIED LIPE 
 
 and says she is feeding poultry, galloping on a bay horse, 
 baking bread, improving her mind, eating, sleeping, making, 
 and mending. She writes cheerfully, and had not yet really 
 lost her quick energy and freshness. She speaks of the 
 Jeffrey visit, and assures her friend that never did she (Mrs. 
 Carlyle) assist at such a talking since she came into the 
 world. No doubt Carlyle did his share on this occasion. 
 
 Mrs. Carlyle, probably, hoped to be in Edinburgh during 
 some part of the winter. It would have been easy, had 
 Jeffrey's invitation been accepted. But the visit did not 
 take place. Now and then she would gallop off alone to 
 Templand — fifteen miles— to see her mother, who was seldom 
 able to leave the house now, in consequence, probably, of 
 her father's ill-health. 
 
 In December, Mrs. Carlyle again writes to Miss Stodart 
 on the subject of ' groceries,' adding pens and paper to the 
 list of purchases to be made, to say nothing of sealing-wax, 
 and a certain brown earthenware coffee-pot; the latter need- 
 ful because the servant, Grace Macdonald, had, in excitement 
 at receiving a letter from her lover, dashed the existing coffee- 
 pot to pieces by her sudden movement. Truly Mrs. Carlyle 
 did her utmost to turn the desert to an earthly paradise. But 
 was there not much loneliness in the life — loneliness by no 
 means to be cured by tending pigs and poultry ? 
 
 By Carlyle' s own account, he wrote hard all day, in his 
 little library, with a clear fire and green curtains to cheer 
 him. Spanish they read between dinner and tea — a chapter 
 of * Don Quixote.' After tea, he sometimes wrote again, and 
 then not unfrequently went over to his brother Alick's cottage 
 to smoke his last pipe; whether accompanied by Mrs. Carlyle 
 or not is left unstated. He sometimes strolled in the plan- 
 tations with his axe, and when not writing was generally 
 reading. But his wife was contented so that she felt she had 
 spared him an anxiety or an attack of indigestion. 
 
 At the end of that year she spent a few days with her 
 own people at Templand, but her heart was with her husband 
 
A WIFE'S YEARNINGS II5 
 
 at Craigenputtock, A beautiful letter is given by Mr, Froude, 
 from which I must quote a few sentences, it is so womanly, 
 and so tender in expression. 
 
 Templand: December 30, 1828. 
 Goody, Goody, dear Goody, — You said you would weary, and 
 I do hope in my heart you are wearying. It will be so sweet to 
 make it all up to you in kisses when I return. You will iake me, 
 and hear all my bits of experiences, and your heart will beat 
 when you find how I have longed to return to you. Darling, 
 dearest, loveliest — ' The Lord bless you ! ' I think of you every 
 hour, every moment. 
 
 As to the blessing here given, Carlyle, annotating the 
 letter in the sad days of his bereavement, says: ' Poor Edward 
 Irving' s practice and locution; suspect of being somewhat too 
 solemn.' Ending her letter, she says : — 
 
 Dearest, I wonder if you are getting any victual. . . I have 
 many an anxious thought about you, and I wonder if you sleep 
 at nights, or if you are wandering about — on — on — smoking and 
 killing mice. Oh! if I was there, I could put my arms so close 
 about your neck, and hush you into the softest sleep you have 
 had since I went away. Good-night ! Dream of me ! 
 
 I am, ever. 
 
 Your own Goody. 
 
 And so, tenderly, harmoniously, ended the year 1828. 
 
 Little is recorded of the year that followed. The spirit 
 of beauty which attended on the dainty lady of Craigen- 
 puttock showed ever-new manifestations. A rose-garden was 
 laid out, and many graceful home arrangements perfected. 
 Carlyle added a gig to the establishment, and many long 
 drives were taken in it, A visit from Margaret, Carlyle's 
 sister, was a welcome change for Mrs. Carlyle. It was in 
 the summer of 1829. Margaret was a most interesting and 
 lovable woman, Carlyle was much attached to her, and 
 deeply mourned her death, which took place in June 1830 of 
 consumption. 
 
Il6 EARLY MARRIED LIFE 
 
 It was in November of 1829 that the Carlyles visited Edin- 
 burgh for a short time, on a visit, we conclude, to Mr. John 
 Bradfute, at 22 George Square. It would seem that the 
 return to the solitude of Craigenputtock was felt to be very 
 trying by Mrs. Carlyle. She tells Miss Stodart how she had 
 wept at leaving Edinburgh, yet assures her that, after her 
 first affright at returning to the ' desert,' she was again con- 
 tented. What best reconciles her to the return to the wilds, 
 is that Carlyle always likes her best * at home ' — a pretty 
 reason, and a good one. She assures her old friend that she 
 never loved her more dearly than now, and adds : ' And 
 Carlyle loves you, too, more than you are aware ! ' 
 
 So the life at Craigenputtock went on in the old groove. 
 But the second winter there proved calamitous. It was near 
 New Year's time, a season much celebrated in Scotland. 
 
 A fat goose had been killed for the New Year's feast, when 
 the snow fell, and the frost came, and Mrs. Carlyle caught a 
 violent sore throat, which threatened to end in diphtheria. 
 There was no doctor nearer than Dumfries, and the road from 
 the valley was hardly passable. Mrs. Welsh struggled up from 
 Templand through the snowdrifts. Care and nursing kept the 
 enemy off, and the immediate danger in a few days was over, 
 but the shock had left behind it a sense of insecurity, and the 
 unsuitableness of such a home for so frail a frame became more 
 than ever apparent. 
 
 These words of Mr. Froude's give the whole state of the 
 case very clearly. Jeffrey had seen it when he visited the 
 Carlyles, but his counsels had been rejected. Carlyle, of 
 course, could not see it. Perhaps it was hardly to be expected 
 that he should do so. The rigid simplicity and laborious 
 economy of his father's household inclined him rather to 
 consider Mrs. Carlyle's position at Craigenputtock as one of 
 ease, if not of affluence. So there was no help for it. The 
 wife's stern sense of duty caused her to hide her real suffer- 
 ings from her husband, and her love for him was not of that 
 wholly absorbing and overpowering nature which could make 
 
WEARINESS 
 
 117 
 
 such silent martyrdom a glory, or could withhold her from 
 telling her sad tale to others as time went on, and receiving 
 such heart-sympathy as seems the due of such overweighted 
 and suffering humanity — the more so when the sufferer is a 
 woman. We should doubt if Mrs. Carlyle was ever quite the 
 same after this severe illness. Her spirits began to weary 
 in the solitude, and the gleams of light from without were 
 few. 
 
 One memorable episode occurring in the winter of 1829-30 
 was the correspondence with Goethe, to whom Mrs. Carlyle 
 sent 'an incomparable black ringlet' — ^ eine unverglekhliche 
 schwarze Haar-locke,' to quote Goethe's own wofds. He 
 regretted that he could not send her a lock of his own in 
 return. 
 
I 1 8 EARLY MARRIED LIFE 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 A. D. 1830-31 
 
 Alexander Carlyle leaves Craigenputtock — Second visit of the Jeffreys 
 to the Carlyles in their solitude — Mrs. Carlyle confesses her 
 unhappiness to Jeffrey — The eventless life again sets in — The 
 Jeffreys go to London — Carlyle's generosity to his brothers — He 
 accepts help from Jeffrey, and goes to London to push his liter- 
 ary enterprises — A hard and sad time for Mrs. Carlyle^Ill- 
 health and anxiety — Her verdict on 'Sartor' — Letters from 
 Carlyle to his wife — Irving in the region of the supernatural — 
 Caution of publishers — Good appointment for Dr. John Carlyle — 
 Thoughts of living in London — Tender letters from Carlyle — 
 Solitude doing its work on the delicate constitution of Mrs. 
 Carlyle — Kindness of Carlyle's mother — Mrs. Carlyle's determi- 
 nation to join her husband in London — Encouragement. 
 
 The year 1830 opened somewhat ominously. Alick's 
 farming of Craigenputtock had turned out ill — another tenant 
 must be found; and so the little family party was robbed of 
 a bright and wholesome element. Carlyle felt his brother's 
 absence much, and was more gloomy than before. In vain the 
 kind Jeffrey urged the Carlyles, with every cordial expres- 
 sion, to come and visit him at Craigcrook. He besought 
 Carlyle to bring 'his blooming Eve out of his "blasted 
 paradise," and seek shelter in the lower world.' To Mrs. 
 Carlyle he promised 'roses, and a blue sea, and broad 
 shadows stretching over the fields.' 
 
 As it might not be, the Jeffreys again came to Craigen- 
 puttock to see their friends. Carlyle was again at Scotsbrig 
 at the critical moment. 
 
 Returning (he said, September 18, 1830) late in the evening 
 from a long ride, I found an express from Dumfries that the 
 Jeffreys would be all at Craigenputtock that night. Of the 
 
A DREARY WINTER 
 
 119 
 
 riding and running, the scouring and scraping, and Caleb- Balder- 
 stone-arranging my unfortunate but shifty and invincible Goody 
 must have had, I say nothing. I set out next morning, and, 
 on arriving here, actually found the Dean of the Faculty, with 
 his adherents, sitting comfortably, in a house swept and gar- 
 nished, awaiting my arrival. 
 
 Again Jeffrey felt the pain of Mrs. Carlyle's position — it 
 shocked and distressed him. He saw, only too well, what 
 might come of it all, and had the double pain of feeling his 
 own helplessness in the matter. Mrs. Carlyle had, naturally, 
 confessed to him her unhappiness at Craigenputtock. No 
 such admission was needed to one who was able to feel for 
 the delicate woman, cut off from so much that made life 
 pleasant, and facing another frightful winter. The Jeffreys 
 reluctantly departed, and again the eventless life set in for 
 Mrs. Carlyle. It was in October that Carlyle wrote to his 
 mother: ' The wife and I are very quiet here, and accustom- 
 ing ourselves as fast as we can to the stillness of winter, 
 which is just coming on. These are the greyest and most 
 silent days I ever saw. My broom, as I sweep up the withered 
 leaves, might be heard at a furlong's distance.' 
 
 So, drearily, silently the third winter at the Desert set in, 
 and the year 183 1 began. It was marked by an important 
 change for the Jeffreys. The Dean of Faculty went into 
 Parliament, and was taken into the new Government, as 
 Lord Advocate. His duties now took him to London, and 
 his letters to Mrs. Carlyle were full of details of his new 
 life — a contrast indeed to that of his friends at Craigen- 
 puttock. 
 
 Carlyle had made up his mind, if by utmost economy the 
 sum of 50/. could be raised, to go to London and find a 
 publisher for ' Sartor,' or, failing that, possibly to give 
 lectures. His generosity to his brothers had left his own 
 finances very low. It was a hard and a sad time for the 
 Carlyles — hardest of all for her. 
 
 And now begins the record of severe headache, which 
 
I20 EARLY MARRIED LIFE 
 
 recurs so often in the sad letters she was yet to write. In a 
 letter dated Spring 1831 to Jean Carlyle, Mrs Carlyle says: 
 ' I was meaning to write you a long letter by Alick, but I 
 have been in bed all day with a headache, and am risen so 
 confused and dull that, for your sake, as well as my own, 
 I shall keep my speculations — news I have none — till another 
 opportunity. . , .' 
 
 The financial difficulty pressed heavily. The warm, dry, 
 summer days brought no cheering. Even Carlyle's heart 
 failed him. 
 
 The kind Jeffrey, presenting to him a list of all possible 
 situations, asked him which he would detest the least, that 
 he might know before applying for it. But the end of it 
 all was his unwilling acceptance of a loan of 50/. from 
 Jeffrey to try the fate of ' Sartor ' in London. Mrs. Carlyle's 
 verdict, 'It is a work of genius, dear,' might cheer him on 
 his lonely way. He wrote in 1866, speaking of that 
 journey: — 
 
 Night before going — how I still remember it! I was lying 
 on my back, on the sofa in the drawing-room. She sitting by the 
 table late at night — packing all done, I suppose. Her words had 
 a guise of sport, but were profoundly plaintive in meaning. 
 ' About to part; and 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, dear! Only for a 
 month! ' 
 
 Here are a few sentences from the letter he wrote her on 
 August II, 183 1, a week after his departure: — 
 
 6 Woburn Buildings, Tavistock Square, 
 Dearest, and Wife, — I have got a frank for you, and will write 
 from the heart whatever is in the heart. A blessing it was that 
 you made me give such a promise, for I feel that an hour's 
 speech, in speaking with my own, will do me infinite good. It 
 is very sweet, in the midst of this soul-confusing phantasmagoria, 
 to know that I have a fixed possession .elsewhere; that my own 
 Jeannie is thinking of me, loving me; that her heart is no dream. 
 
CARL YLE HOMESICK I 2 I 
 
 like all the rest of it. Oh! love me, my dearest — always love me. 
 I am richer with thee than the whole world could make me 
 otherwise. 
 
 Delightful it was ... on opening my trunk, to find every- 
 where traces of my good ' coagitor's ' care and love! The very 
 jujube-box, with its worsted and darning needle, did not escape 
 me; it was so beautiful I could almost have cried over it. 
 
 And again, on August 15, he writes: — 
 
 Your kind, precious letter came to me on Friday like a cup of 
 water in the hot desert. It is all like yourself, so clear, so pre- 
 cise, loving, and true to the death. I see poor Craigenputtock 
 through it, and the best little Goodykin sitting there, hourly 
 meditating on me, and watching my return. Oh, I am very rich, 
 were I without a penny in the world ! But the Herzen's Goody 
 must not fret herself, and torment her poor sick head. I will be 
 back to her; not an hour will I lose. Heaven knows the sun 
 shines not on the spot that could be pleasant to me where she 
 were not. So be of comfort, my Jeannie! . . . 
 
 Again, August 22, he addresses her as ' My dearest little 
 comforter,' with many other tender expressions: — 
 
 Compose thyself, my darling (he writes) — we shall not be 
 separated, come of it what may. And how should we do, thinkst 
 thou, with an eternal separation ? O God! it is fearful, fearful! 
 But is not a little temporary separation like this needful to mani- 
 fest what daily mercy is in our lot, which otherwise we might 
 forget, or esteem as a thing of course .'' Understand, however, 
 once more, that I have yet taken up with no other woman , . . 
 there has no one yet fronted me whom, even to look at, I would 
 exchange with my own. ' Ach, Gott!' Yes, proud as I am 
 grown (for, the more the Devil pecks at me, the more vehemently 
 do I wring his nose), and standing on a kind of basis which I 
 feel to be of adamant, I perceive that, of all women, my own 
 Jeannie is the wife for me; that in her true bosom (once she 
 were a mystic) a man's head is worthy to lie. Be a mystic, 
 dearest; that is, stand with me on this everlasting basis, and 
 keep thy arms around me; through life I fear nothing. 
 
122 EARLY MARRIED LIFE 
 
 It was well that Carlyle dwelt thus fondly on the remem- 
 brance of his absent wife, for his London visit gave him 
 little pleasure. His old friend Irving was in the ' region of 
 the supernatural ' — very uncongenial quarters for Carlyle; 
 Badams (another old friend), hovering on the verge of 
 ruin from intemperance; another Craigenputtock neighbour 
 having come out as a ' wonder-worker, and speaker with 
 tongues.' And, on the whole, Carlyle felt that the Devil was 
 busier than ever, and turned for healing thoughts to his wise 
 and beautiful little Jeannie, in the lonely house on the Dun- 
 score moors. There lay sympathy for him, and a loving 
 heart, as he well knew; and he needed such. 
 
 Publishers were cautious, and the MS. of ' Teufelsdrockh ' 
 hung fire unaccountably. But an unexpectedly good ap- 
 pointment for Dr. John Carlyle made things easier, as Carlyle 
 was now repaid the money he had so generously advanced to 
 that well-loved brother; and thus Mrs. Carlyle was able, 
 without help from Mrs. Montagu, which had been offered 
 and declined, to join her husband in London, and leave her 
 snowy solitude, as it would be in a few months' time. She 
 hailed the prospect with joy. 
 
 Carlyle again wrote tender words on August 29: 'In 
 this spectre-crowded desert I have a living person whose 
 heart I can clasp to mine, and so feel that I, too, am alive. 
 Do you not love me better than ever now ? I feel in my own 
 soul that thou dost and must. Therefore, let us never mourn 
 over this little separation, which is but to make the reunion 
 blessed and entire.' 
 
 It would seem that Mrs. Carlyle, in these lonely days, 
 could not await the weekly carrier as postman, but took to 
 riding to Dumfries herself, in her impatience, and calling for 
 letters — thirty-two miles hard riding in the month of August; 
 and Carlyle says: * Bless thee, my darling ! I could almost 
 wish thee the pain of a ride to Dumfries weekly for the sake 
 of such a letter. But had yow actually to faint all the way 
 up ? Heaven forbid ! ' 
 
LEFT ALONE I 23 
 
 It is plain that the return from these frantic rides after 
 letters were made in exhaustion, probably more than once. 
 But we can understand the feverish eagerness after letters 
 from her husband, for Alick Carlyle and his sister were no 
 longer at the farm. Strangers occupied it, and the solitude 
 was crushing — * often, for hours, the only sound, the sheep 
 nibbling the short grass a quarter of a mile away.' The con- 
 ditions, not realised by Carlyle, were truly almost intolerable 
 to his wife, and absolutely harmful to an extent which can 
 never be estimated. 
 
 The kind old mother at Scotsbrig had sent Jean and 
 Alick to the rescue, and Mrs. Carlyle thanked her for this 
 loving care, ' without which ' she says,— 
 
 I think I must soon have worked myself into a fever or other 
 violent disorder; for my talent for fancying things . . . had so 
 entirely got the upper hand of me, that I could neither sleep by 
 night nor rest by day. I have slept more since they came. . . . 
 I have news: I am going to my husband, and as soon as I can 
 get ready for leaving. Now, do not grieve that he is not to re- 
 turn so soon as we expected. I am sure it is for his good, and 
 therefore for all our goods, . . . Jean is going with me to Temp- 
 land to-day, as a sort of protection against my mother's agita- 
 tions. 
 
 Mrs. Carlyle evidently dreaded the excitability of Mrs. Welsh, 
 and possible outbursts, and she was ill able to cope with 
 such elements, 
 
 Carlyle was becoming restless and dissatisfied in London. 
 He wrote on September 11: ' One should actually, as Irving 
 advises, ''pray to the Lord:" if one did but know how to do 
 it! ' He winds up a bitter reflection of his incompatibilities 
 with Jeffrey in the words- 'Why should a man, though 
 bilious, never so nervous, impoverished, bug-bitten and 
 bedevilled, let Satan have dominion over him ? Save me ! 
 save me, my Goody. , . ,* 
 
 It was no ordinary mission that the delicate lady of 
 Craigenputtock undertook in this visit to London, no mere 
 
124 EARLY MARRIED LIFE 
 
 pleasure-trip, so to speak. It was not easy to face it all, and 
 carry it out with high courage and spirits. She had shown 
 signs of flagging in her letters, and no wonder. 
 Carlyle wrote on September 23: — 
 
 You are agitated, and provoked, which is almost the worst 
 way of the two. Alas! and I have no soft Aladdin's palace 
 here, to bid you hasten and take repose in — nothing but a noisy, 
 untoward lodging-house, and no better shelter than my own 
 bosom. Yet, is not this the best of all shelters for you ? — the 
 only safe place in this wide, wide world. Thank God, this still 
 is yours, and I can receive you there without distrust, and wrap 
 you close with the solacements of a true heart's love! Hasten 
 thither, then, my own wife. ... 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 A. D. 1831 
 
 Mrs. Carlyle's arrival in London — Ampton Street — The Irvings — Ill- 
 health of Mrs. Carlyle — Position with Mrs. Montagu — Meetings 
 with congenial spirits — Carlyle still restless — Death of his father 
 — Impending return to Craigenputtock — Misgivings — A sad re- 
 turn — Solitary habits — Realisation of the actual by Mrs. Carlyle 
 — Jeffrey's anxiety about Mrs. Carlyle. 
 
 It was on October i, 183 1, that Mrs. Carlyle arrived in 
 London, tired with her journey, and charged with the care, 
 not only of her personal belongings, but with substantial rein- 
 forcements from the generous folk at Scotsbrig — oatmeal, 
 hams, butter, &c. — towards the living-expenses of the coming 
 winter. Comfortable rooms were found in Ampton Street, 
 out of Gray's Inn Road, in the house of an excellent family 
 named Miles, members of Irving's congregation. Eliza Miles 
 was a devoted admirer of Mrs. Carlyle from the first. Friends 
 began to flock around the gifted pair, and London society 
 was open to them in several directions. Mrs. Carlyle was a 
 great attraction; her light, no longer hid under a bushel, made 
 itself apparent on all sides. 
 
 The latest developments in the Irvingite congregation 
 
 distressed the Carlyles sadly. Urged to go into the house 
 
 while a 'meeting' was going on, the sounds they heard 
 
 shocked and disgusted them both, reducing Mrs. Carlyle to 
 
 the verge of fainting. Carlyle could not drag Irving back 
 
 from what seemed an awful precipice, and, after one effort, 
 
 tragical in its circumstances and failure, the matter was left 
 
 alone. There could be no real intercourse or sympathy any 
 
 more between the friends. 
 
 125 
 
126 EARL Y MARRIED LIFE 
 
 Writing to her aunt, in Maryland Street, Liverpool, in 
 December ^of this year, Mrs. Carlyle says, speaking of 
 London: — 
 
 Nowhere have I found more worth, more talent, or more 
 kindness; and I doubly regret the ill-health I have been suffer- 
 ing under, since it has so curtailed my enjoyment of all this. 
 Nevertheless, though I dare seldom accept an invitation out, I 
 have the pleasantest evenings at home. ... I have seen most of 
 the literary people here, and, as Edward Irving said after his 
 first interview with Wordsworth, ' I think not of them so highly 
 as I was wont.' 
 
 In a letter of the same date, to ^ean Carlyle, she writes: — 
 
 I do not forget you m London, as you predicted. . . Often, 
 when I have been lying ill here among strangers, it has been my 
 pleasantest thought that there were kind hearts at home to whom 
 my sickness would not be a weariness; to whom I could return, 
 out of all this hubbub, with affection and trust. Not that I am 
 not kindly used here — from the ' noble lady,' down to the mistress 
 of the lodging, I have everywhere found unlooked-for civility, 
 and at least the show of kindness. With the ' noble lady,' how- 
 ever, I may mention my intercourse seems to be dying an easy, 
 natural death. Now that we k7iow each other, the ' fine en-thu- 
 si-asm ' cannot be kept alive without more hypocrisy than one of 
 us, at least, can bring to bear on it. 
 
 These hard words came not from the heart of Jane Welsh 
 Carlyle; they welled up from a bitter fountain, due to the in- 
 fluence of physical suffering, perhaps, which tinctured many 
 utterances of one who was naturally loyal, generous, and kind. 
 Such harsh judgments must be looked on with gentleness, 
 and largely discounted, as we consider the intense nervous 
 suffering of the speaker, her eagle eye, and quick wit, which 
 rendered such cutting speeches so easy to make; and, above 
 all, when we remember the deep kindliness of heart that lay 
 beneath the sarcastic expression. 
 
 It was to Mrs. Montagu that Carlyle wrote: ' Indeed, 
 indeed, my dear Madam, I am not mad enough to forget you. 
 
AM INJUDICIOUS OFFER \ 2 7 
 
 The more I see of the world and myself, the less tendency 
 have I that way; the more do I feel that in this, my wilder- 
 ness-journey, I have found but one Mrs. Montagu ! ' This 
 was written on Christmas Day, 1826, and as late as 1830 
 Carlyle was writing in most cordial terms to this dear, valued 
 friend, assuring her that he was ' in nowise of the forgetting 
 species,' but with a heart whereon 'the love-charm and 
 think-of-me, once written, stood ineffaceable, defying all time 
 and weather ! ' And these words were written after the 
 episode of Mrs. Montagu's unwise but kindly-meant inter- 
 ference in the Edward Irving affair. 
 
 Evidently Mrs. Montagu, in her kindness of heart, finding 
 Carlyle lonely in London during the visit he was making, 
 had, not unnaturally, offered pecuniary help to make it easy 
 for Mrs. Carlyle to join him. It was not easy to offer such 
 help to the Carlyles — impossible to do it without giving pain 
 — but surely not unnatural to offer it under the circum- 
 stances. We are left to imagine how the offer was received, 
 but Carlyle thus alludes to it in his letter to his wife dated 
 August 22, 1831: ' On the whole, my original impression of 
 that *' noble lady " was the true one. . . . She goes upon 
 words — words. . . . For trust or friendship it is now more 
 clearly than ever a chimera. I smiled ... at her offer of 
 "giving YOU money" to come hither. Ja/te Welsh Carlyle 
 a taker of money in this era of the " gigmen " — niinmer und 
 nimmermehr ! ' 
 
 Friendship could not easily stand such a strain as this was 
 on either side. But Carlyle owed much to Mrs. Montagu; 
 and her title of 'noble lady' remains to her intact through 
 all time. Extreme sensitiveness causes many sad perversions 
 in human judgment. 
 
 There are pleasant records of visits from Jeffrey — often in 
 an afternoon — quick, lively, and light; of dinner with Eraser; 
 meetings with Allan Cunningham, Hogg (the Ettrick Shep- 
 herd), Gait, Lockhart, and others; and by-and-by the BuUers 
 came to town, and Chirles Buller, Carlyle's former pupil, a 
 
128 EARLY MARRIED LIFE 
 
 most brilliant and lovable young man, renewed intercourse 
 with his gifted friend. It should have been a congenial time 
 for Carlyle. But he continued 'hag-ridden' here, as on the 
 lonely moors. He spoke of London as * a wild, wondrous, 
 chaotic den of discord,' but doubts not there is * a deep, 
 Divine meaning in it, and God in the midst of it ' — this to his 
 father, in one of the last letters he ever wrote to the old man, 
 dated December 13, 183 1. The father's death took place in 
 January 1832, and though unable to be present at the funeral, 
 Carlyle wrote tenderly to his good mother — beautifully and 
 piously, in a way that gave certain comfort to her. 
 
 And now there remained but a few weeks of the London 
 visit, and the prospect of a return to Craigenputtock loomed 
 up on the horizon, Hope of fixed employment or literary 
 appointment there seemed none; but editors of magazines 
 were anxious to employ Carlyle, and, with the anxiety of his 
 brother John quite relieved, he felt that he could look to a 
 modest competence, and with indifference, not unmixed with 
 scorn, he prepared for a return to the * wilderness.' Carlyle 
 felt it a blessing to have the place to go to; but Mrs. Carlyle 
 must have dreaded the renewal of many of the conditions in- 
 separable from it. Travelling from Liverpool by the Annan 
 steamer was a real martyrdom to the delicate woman. Her 
 health was low, and the dreary shadow fell on her spirit. It 
 was on March 25, 1832, that the homeward journey was 
 begun, and in a few days the vision of the brilliant bit of 
 life in London had come to look quite unreal — all was as 
 before. 
 
 Carlyle's account of this memorable London visit, as given 
 in the ' Reminiscences,' may be quoted here. He tells how 
 he wished to * give our brave little Jeannie a sight of this big 
 Babel,' adding: — 
 
 She came right willingly, and had — in spite of her ill-health, 
 which did not abate, but the contrary — an interesting, cheery, 
 and, in spite of our poor arrangements, really pleasant winter 
 here. . . . Visitors, &c., she had in plenty: John Mill one of the 
 
 J 
 
RETURN TO THE DESERT I 29 
 
 most interesting, so modest, ardent, ingenuous, ingenious, and 
 so very fond of me, at that time. Mrs. Basil Montagu (already 
 a correspondent of hers), now accurately seen, was another of 
 the distinguished. Jeffrey, Lord Advocate, often came on an 
 afternoon. ... In the evening, miscellany, of hers and mine. 
 . . . News of my father's death came here. Oh, how good and 
 tender she was, and consolatory by every kind of art in those 
 black days ! I remember our walk along Holborn forward into 
 the city, and the bleeding mood I was in, she wrapping me like 
 the softest of bandages. . . . Nothing was wanting in her sym- 
 pathy, or in the manner of it, as even from sincere people there 
 often is. How poor we were, and yet how rich ! 
 
 It was not a cheering beginning of the home-coming that 
 Mrs. Carlyle should suffer from sea-sickness, so frightfully 
 as she did, in the steamer which conveyed them from Liver- 
 pool to Annan. There had been a few days of pleasant rest 
 by the way at Maryland Street, with uncle John and the kindly 
 cousins, but the voyage was a martyrdom to Mrs. Carlyle. 
 In the 'Reminiscences,' Carlyle says, 'Sick, sick, my poor 
 woman must have been — but she retired out of sight, and 
 would suffer with her best grace in silence; ' and again: — 
 
 At Whinniery I remember brother Alick and others of them 
 were waiting to receive us; there were tears among us (my father 
 gone when we returned) ; she wept bitterly, I recollect, her sym- 
 pathetic heart girdled in much sickness and dispiritment of her 
 own withal. . . . We returned in some days to Craigenputtock, 
 and were again at peace there. . . . Our .summers and winters 
 for the future (1832-1834) were lonelier than ever. 
 
 The loneliness must have been overwhelming, and more 
 terrible from contrast with the bit of social life in London. 
 Carlyle's intense pre-occupation, of the stormy and often 
 gloomy type, rendered him unable to endure the presence of 
 a second person while he wrote, or wrestled with his spiritual 
 demon. He sat alone, therefore, he also walked alone; nor 
 could any delicate woman have tramped beside him, or after 
 him, with benefit to her health. He often rode alone, in the 
 
1 30 _ EARL Y MARRIED LIFE 
 
 same environment of stormy thought. What he did need, 
 now and then, was a listener; but as his style was the mono- 
 logue, it hardly offered the attractions of what is called con- 
 versation, and was rather a violent and drastic outpouring 
 from his own overcharged spirit, leading to no blessed 
 response of sympathy and wifely understanding — for it was 
 susceptible of none ! It was not as when the tired man of 
 business or of letters tells, in his own brief way, the causes 
 of an anxious day, and is soothed by sympathy and under- 
 standing — in his wife's few words and clasp of the hand, or 
 silent caress. 
 
 Carlyle, fevered, hag-ridden, fiercely self-involved, was 
 able only for such solitary relief as we have described, and 
 his wife quietly settled into what she now felt to be her place 
 beside him. Her courage enabled her to hide her own suffer- 
 ings from him, but her heart must have been heavy. Pos- 
 sibly she felt some comfort in the correspondence with Jeffrey, 
 to whom she wrote more freely than to any one else, for he 
 understood, and was man enough to sympathise without 
 pitying. 
 
 Mr. Froude's estimate of a certain peculiarity in Carlyle' s 
 character is so trenchant, so intensely true, that we quote it 
 as containing volumes. 'If matters went well with himself, 
 it never occurred to him that they could be going ill with any 
 one else; and, on the other hand, if he was uncomfortable, 
 he required everybody to be uncomfortable along with him.' 
 This is perfect as a sketch of character. And as Carlyle was 
 so much oftener ?/«comfortable than comfortable, some idea 
 can be formed of Mrs. Carlyle's position on the Dunscore 
 moor; some idea can also be formed of the agony of regret 
 and pain with which, after her death, her husband, who really 
 loved her in his own way, read the letters and records of the 
 profound anguish and deep discouragement which he had 
 never known or ministered to. 
 
 Meantime, he writes in May 1832 to his mother; ' Jane is 
 far heartier now that she has got to work — to bake.' He 
 
THE BRIGHTER SIDE OE THE PICTURE I 3 I 
 
 himself was vigorous — worlcing with a ' dock-spade ' and 
 riding on horseback; but the two sides of the picture did 
 not correspond. 
 
 Carlyle was now cutting out an original intellectual path for 
 himself; and, but for his indigestion, which weighed perhaps 
 more heavily on others than on himself, was well and tolerably 
 satisfied, though never a cheerful companion. His wife, on 
 the other hand, was realising the intense trial of solitude and 
 shattered nerves. Resolved as she was to be a help and not 
 a hindrance to her husband, she tnanfully, we Use the word 
 advisedly, in its best sense, set herself to endure in silence if 
 not in patience, and to make Carlyle' s path as smooth as she 
 could, in the only way open to her. 
 
 The daughter of the London landlady, Miss Eliza Miles, 
 had formed quite a romantic attachment to her mother's 
 charming lodger, and wished to go to Craigenputtock as 
 servant to the dainty, delicate lady. But Mrs. Carlyle knew 
 that would be a mistake and a sacrifice. Mrs. Carlyle wrote 
 kindly to her admiring friend in June 1832: — 
 
 ... I never forgot my gentle Ariel in Ampton Street; it 
 were positive sin to forget her — so helpful she, so trustful, so 
 kind, so good ! Besides, this is the place of all others for think- 
 ing of absent friends, where one has so seldom any present to think 
 of. It is the stillest, solitariest place that it ever entered your 
 imagination to conceive, where one has the strangest, shadowy 
 existence. Nothing is actual in it but the food we eat, the bed 
 one sleeps on, and, praised be Heaven, the fine air one breathes. 
 The rest is all a dream of the absent and distant, of things past 
 and to come. . . . 
 
 For my part I am very content. I have everything here my 
 heart desires that I could have anywhere else, except society, 
 and even that deprivation is not to be considered wholly an evil. 
 If people we like and take pleasure in do not come about us here 
 as in London, it is thankfully to be remembered that here ' the 
 wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest.' If the 
 knocker make no sound for weeks together, it is so much the better 
 for my nerves. My husband is as good company as reasonable 
 
132 
 
 EARL Y MARRIED LIFE 
 
 mortal could desire. Every fair morning we ride on horseback 
 for an hour before breakfast .... and then we eat such a sur- 
 prising breakfast of home-baked bread and eggs, &c., as might 
 incite anyone that had breakfasted so long in London to write a 
 pastoral. Then Carlyle takes to his writing, while I, like Eve, 
 ' studious of household good,' inspect my house, my garden, my 
 live stock, gather flowers for my drawing-room, and lapfuls of 
 eggs, and finally betake myself to writing, or reading, or mending, 
 or making, or whatever work seems fittest. After dinner, and 
 only then, I lie on the sofa (to my shame be it spoken) sometimes 
 sleep, but oftenest dream waking. In the evening I walk on the 
 moor. . . . 
 
 Brave Jane Welsh Carlyle! she drew a 'fair picture,' of 
 which the reverse side looked very differently. 
 
 Some touching lines, written by her at this period, dated 
 from * The Desert,' and sent with rose-leaves along with 
 them in a letter to Jeffrey, tell a different tale, and, we fear a 
 truer one ! The verses are ' To a swallow building under 
 our eaves.' The last stanza is as follows: — 
 
 God speed thee, pretty bird; may thy small nest 
 With little ones all in good time be blest. 
 
 I love thee much; 
 For well thou managest that life of thine, 
 While I ! Oh, ask not what I do with mine ! 
 
 Would I were such ! 
 
 It was not to be wondered at if Jeffrey's kind heart ached 
 now and then, as he thought of his delicate and beloved 
 cousin's helplessness, and his own helplessness, to alter the 
 conditions of her life ! 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 A. D. 1832-1834 
 
 Carlyle's letter to his mother — Mrs. Carlyle's overstrained nerves and 
 failing strength — Her letter to Eliza Stodart — Mrs. Welsh's 
 delicate,' health — Death of Walter Welsh of Templand — The Car- 
 lyles plan a long visit to Edinburgh — The home at r8 Carlton 
 Street, Stockbridge — The ' disgraceful home march ' — An angel's 
 visit at Craigenputtock — Meeting of Emerson and the Carlyles 
 — The relapse into solitude — Living in London seriously contem- 
 plated — Preparations. 
 
 Carlyle wrote to his brother John in July 1832: — 
 
 As to Craigenputtock, it is, as formerly, the scene of scribble 
 — scribbling. Jane is in a weakly state still, but I think clearly 
 gathering strength. Her life beside me, constantly vv^riting here, 
 is but a dull one; however, she seems to desire no other; has 
 in many things, pronounced the word enisagett, and looks with a 
 brave, if with no joyful, heart into the present and the future. 
 
 August in this year was marked by household trouble, 
 the valued maid-servant had misconducted herself, and was 
 sent away at an hour's notice. Her place could not im- 
 mediately be filled, and all the work fell on Mrs. Carlyle. 
 ' Oh, mother, mother ! ' exclaimed Carlyle, in telling her the 
 story, * what trouble the devil does give us ! . . ' In this 
 case, no doubt the heaviest share of the trouble fell on the 
 delicate frame of Mrs. Carlyle. For accounts more or less 
 ' mythical ' as to her active occupations during the residence 
 at Craigenputtock, the reader is referred to Miss Jewsbury's 
 * In Memoriam ' notice of Mrs. Carlyle in the ' Reminiscences ' 
 and Carlyle's own commentary thereon. That Mrs. Carlyle 
 overtaxed her physical strength and powers of endurance is 
 beyond all doubt, and the actual cause of the over-exertion 
 
 133 
 
134 EARLY MARRIED LIFE 
 
 cannot be exactly set down in black and white. There was 
 habitual over-strain, and a deficiency in the elements that her 
 sensitive, and always tender, health needed for well-being. 
 It is idle to dispute as to the detail of such deficiency. 
 
 The autumn wore on, a servant was found, and things 
 went on much as before. In a letter written to Miss 
 Stodart early in October 1832, Mrs. Carlyle says: — 
 
 In prolonged bad health, and worse spirits, I judged there 
 could be small call upon me to be sending letters out, as it were, 
 into infinite space, no sounds of them ever more heard. Still 
 vainer seemed it to apply for sympathy to one who was apparently 
 nowise concerning herself whether I remained behind in a nice 
 flower-potted London churchyard, or returned in a state of total 
 wreck to my own country. . . . Does your uncle ever make the 
 smallest mention of me ? ever inquire if the mischievous creature 
 who broke his ' folder' is still working deviltry on this planet.? 
 Alas, no? She is sober enough now; along succession of bad 
 days and sleepless nights have effectually tamed her. O, Bess ! 
 for one good laugh with you, for the sake of old times ! 
 
 Mrs. Welsh's health was giving her daughter uneasiness 
 at this time, and, after a brief visit to Templand, Mrs. Carlyle 
 went back to assure herself all was well at Craigenputtock, 
 and again prepared to go to Templand, deploring at the 
 same time the weak and nervous state of body which caused 
 her to suffer for days after her so short a journey. 
 
 It was towards the end of November 1832 that Walter 
 Welsh died, and again there was need of settling on a home 
 for Mrs. Welsh, whose own strength had visibly failed her. 
 There was a plan for the Carlyles to spend the coming winter 
 in Edinburgh, and inquiries had already been made as to a 
 positive house, which must be subject to three limitations: 
 'First, it must be free of bugs; secondly, of extraordinary 
 noises; and lastly, of a high rent.' Such had been Mrs. 
 Carlyle's instructions to her old friend a few weeks before the 
 death of Walter Welsh. 
 
 The question now arose whether Mrs. Welsh would 
 
SECOND RESIDENCE IN EDINBURGH I 35 
 
 come and live with her daughter, could a suitable home be 
 found; but it seemed unlikely, and Mrs. Welsh probably felt 
 that the atmosphere would be overcharged with elements not 
 soothing to her in her overwrought and nervous state. Mrs. 
 Carlyle, too, was keenly conscious of the difficulties all round, 
 and dreaded their own little flitting, grieved over her 
 mother's loneliness, and was acutely sensible of her own, 
 and ends her letter of December 5, to Miss Stodart, with 
 significant words : ' In the meantime God help her and all 
 of us ! 
 
 Mrs. Carlyle had the comfort of having helped her 
 mother in the nursing of good old Walter, who, as Carlyle 
 said in a letter to his brother John, ' had the gentlest death, 
 and had numbered four score years ! ' But for his daughter, 
 the cessation by death of her long and tender cares, was a 
 dreary blank, admitting scant consolation. 
 
 It was determined once more to try a residence in Edin- 
 burgh, and a small furnished house was found in Stockbridge, 
 a part of the city lying in the valley of the Water of Leith, 
 18 Carlton street. Miss Stodart was to find some honest 
 woman to put on a fire and have a kettle boiling to receive 
 the travellers, and Mrs. Carlyle was to bring a small maid- 
 servant with her. Mrs. Welsh, weak and depressed, would 
 not accompany the Carlyles, but was to join them later, but 
 it is not clear that she ever did so. 
 
 This second residence in Edinburgh was not a success. 
 Carlyle was, according to his own account, * languid, bilious, 
 not very open to kindness.' A wretched state for him, and 
 no less so for his wife; solitude had wearied him and palled on 
 him. Society was barren enough to him. He was ill at 
 ease. Neither he nor his wife could sleep for street noises 
 after the deadly silence of Craigenputtock. Both of them 
 suffered from catarrh. Jane in particular. *We have 
 society enough,' says Carlyle. ' The best the ground yields. 
 The time for returning to Puttock will too soon be here. I 
 have not abated in my dislike for that residence, in the con- 
 
136 EARLY MA RRIED LIFE 
 
 viction that it is no longer good for me.' It was certainly no 
 longer good for his wife — it had never been good ioxhei-; but 
 Carlyle did not think of that just then ! Attached to the 
 letter from which we are quoting, a letter to John Carlyle, is 
 a postscript in Mrs. Carlyle' s hand. Excusing herself for 
 delay in replying to her brother-in-law's letter, she says : 
 ' In truth I am always so sick now and so heartless that I 
 cannot apply myself to any mental effort without a push 
 from Necessity. . . .' 
 
 Carlyle became more and more embittered with Edin- 
 burgh : 'One of the dullest, and poorest, and, on the whole, 
 paltriest places for me.' Those last two words, ' for me,' 
 strike the key-note of so much of Mrs. Carlyle's unhappiness. 
 What was it for her, and to what could the nervous, 
 shrinking, delicate woman look if Edinburgh failed ? 
 
 At the end of March Carlyle writes to his brother John : 
 ' She (Jane) bears up with fixed resolution, appears even to 
 enjoy many things in Edinburgh, yet has grown no stronger 
 of late.' 
 
 It is during this month of March 1833 that Mrs. Carlyle 
 speaks of such intense pain in her head that she became 
 quite unconscious, and on the return journey to Craigen- 
 puttock, which Mrs. Carlyle terms ' the disgraceful home- 
 march ! ' she could get no further than Templand, suffering 
 such misery by the way as she could not describe, and there 
 she lay for a week, ill and helpless with a species of influenza, 
 which also attacked Mrs. Welsh. But at last the weary pil- 
 grimage was over and Mrs. Carlyle was again in her solitude 
 and found all well, save for the accidental burning of a 
 plantation of trees which had been planted by Dr. Welsh, and 
 this misfortune gave sharp pain to the loving daughter, who 
 could have cried over it, in the pain of seeing the work of 
 that beloved hand destroyed. 
 
 A characteristic letter, written in July 1833, to Eliza 
 Miles, shows something of the real state of Mrs. Carlyle's mind 
 and health at this time. We can only give a brief extract: — 
 
Visn' OF RALPH WALDO EMERSON I 37 
 
 , . . What is it, then, you will ask, that makes me fail in so 
 simple a duty of friendship as the writing of a letter? . . . My 
 first impulse, after reading your letter, was to sit down and 
 answer it by the very next post. Then I thought, I will wait 
 till the Lord Advocate's return, that he may frank it! Then 
 troubles thickened round me : my mother's illness, my grand- 
 father's death, gave me much fatigue of body and mind. That, 
 again, increased to cruel height my own persevering ailments. 
 ... I wrote to no one ; had enough to do in striving with the 
 tempter ever present with me in the shape of headaches, heart- 
 ache, and all kinds of aches, that I might not break out into 
 fiery indignation over my own destiny and all the earth's. . . . 
 
 So wrote the wife, while the husband was confiding to 
 the pages of his private journal that he was ' the solitariest, 
 stranded, most helpless creature.' Distinctly, then, it was a 
 solitude a deux, as we have said before. 
 
 But Craigenputtock was about to receive an angel's visit. 
 An entry in Carlyle's Journal gives hint of a new-comer, a 
 new voice, a new step on the stair. In another handwriting 
 stand the words 'Ralph Waldo Emerson.' 
 
 Emerson's health had failed him in 1832, and conscientious 
 scruples also led to his resigning his pastorate of thp Uni- 
 tarian church of Boston. Advised to try a sea voyage, he 
 embarked for Europe in 1833, and made delightful pilgrim- 
 ages to classic spots on the Continent, as well as in England. 
 In Edinburgh he made the acquaintance of Mr. Alexander 
 Ireland, with whom he rambled about for a few days. He 
 spoke much of Carlyle and some of his essays which had ap- 
 peared in ' The Edinburgh Review' and ' Foreign Review.' 
 He expressed an ardent desire to see Carlyle face to face. 
 He also wished to meet Wordsworth. ' Am I,' he said to Mr. 
 Ireland, ' who have hung over their works in my chamber at 
 home, not to see these men in the flesh and thank them, 
 when I am passing their very door ?' He had great difficulty 
 in finding out exactly where Carlyle lived. Mr. Ireland was 
 able to obtain the information, and at last Emerson found his 
 
135 EARLY MARRIED LIFE 
 
 way, after many hindrances, to Craigenputtock. He had 
 the grand American indifference as to our petty distances, 
 in these insignificant quarters of the world, and would not be 
 deterred by a score or so of barren miles of moorland. It 
 may here be mentioned that Mr. Ireland's acquaintance with 
 Emerson in Edinburgh in 1833 led to the honour and priv- 
 ilege of a life-long friendship with the latter. One result 
 of the intimacy was Mr. Emerson's memorable lecturing visit 
 to England in 1847-48 which was arranged by Mr. Ireland. 
 It is pleasant also to recall that final visit to England in 
 1873, when Emerson, with his daughter Ellen, spent his last 
 two days on British ground in Mr. Ireland's home at Bowdon. 
 
 In faithful fulfilment of his promise, Emerson wrote a long 
 and deeply interesting letter to Mr. Ireland, on August 30, 
 1833, with details of his visit. He had, indeed, found his way, 
 after many hindrances, to the centre of desolation, where lived 
 Carlyle with his bright and accomplished wife. Twenty-four 
 hours he spent there, and, in the walks over the barren moors, 
 the pleasure of joyful acquaintance ripened quickly but surely 
 into a deep friendship of such loyalty and beauty as were 
 worthy of the two noble men who were parties to it. ' The 
 Carlyles were sitting alone at dinner,' Mr. Froude tells us, 
 'on a Sunday afternoon at the end of August, when a Dum- 
 fries carriage drove to the door, and there stepped out of it 
 a young American, then unknown to fame, but whose influ- 
 ence in his own country equals that of Carlyle in ours, and 
 whose name stands connected with his wherever the English 
 language is spoken.' 
 
 A few sentences from Emerson's letter to Mr. Ireland may 
 be quoted. Speaking of Carlyle he says : — 
 
 I found him one of the most simple and frank of men, and 
 became acquainted with him at once. . . . The comfort of meet- 
 ing a man of genius is that he speaks sincerely; that he feels 
 himself to be so rich, that he is above the meanness of pretending 
 to knowledge which he has not, and Carlyle does not pretend to 
 have solved the great problems. . . . He is, as you might guess 
 
THE CLOUD RETURNS 1 39 
 
 from his papers, the most catholic of philosophers; he forgives 
 and loves everybody, and wishes each to struggle on in his own 
 place and arrive at his own ends. . . , He talks finely — seems to 
 love the broad Scotch, and I loved him very much at once. I am 
 afraid he finds his entire solitude tedious, but I could not help 
 congratulating him on his treasure in his wife, and I hope he 
 will not leave the moors. . . . 
 
 In Emerson's 'English Traits' (not published until 1856), 
 he speaks much of this visit, and says, ' Carlyle was already 
 turning his eyes towards London.' 
 
 Years later, when Carlyle was writing to Emerson in 
 acknowledgment of some of the never-failing kindnesses of 
 that unselfish friend, Mrs. Carlyle adds a little postscript. 
 '■Forgotten you V she says. — ' O no indeed! If there were 
 nothing else to remember you by, I should never forget the 
 visitor who, years ago in the desert, descended on us, out of 
 the clouds as it were, and made one day there look like 
 enchantment for us, and left me weeping that it was only one 
 day. . . 
 
 The bright ray of Emerson's visit was again sunk into 
 darkness, and the old monotony and cloud returned. Mrs. 
 Welsh, with a mother's anxiety, took her daughter away for 
 a few days of change and rest, during which Carlyle wrote 
 tenderly solicitous, saying, ' Take a little amusement, dear 
 Goody, if thou canst get it ! God knows little comes to thee 
 with me, and thou art right patient under it.' This was in 
 September 1833. At the end of a fortnight Mrs. Carlyle 
 returned from Moffat to Craigenputtock. That autumn wit- 
 nessed the marriage of Carlyle's youngest sister, the ' Craw,' 
 to Mr. James Aitken. His youngest brother also married, 
 but the good old mother remained on in the homestead, loved 
 and honoured to the end of her days. 
 
 We must quote a few lines of the letter Carlyle wrote the 
 intending bridegroom, to contrast its suggestions with the 
 course actually followed by Carlyle himself in the matter of 
 Mrs. Welsh; not his own mother, certainly, but the mother 
 
140 EARLY MARRIED LIFE 
 
 of his wife. Remonstrating against what he thought James's 
 haste to marry, he says: — 
 
 I understand what wonderful felicities young men like you 
 expect from marriage; I know, too (for it is a truth as old as the 
 world), that such expectations hold out but for a little while, I 
 shall rejoice much (such is my experience of the world) if in your 
 new situation you feel as happy as in the old; say nothing of 
 happier. But, in any case, do I not know that you will never 
 (whatever happens) venture on any such solemn engagement 
 with a direct duty to fly in the face of? — the duty, namely, of 
 doing to your dear mother and your dear sisters as you would 
 wish that they should do to you. . . . 
 
 These undoubtedly sincere expressions point inexorably to 
 the conclusion that Carlyle, like many of us, was absolutely 
 blind at times to his own actions, while so clear-sighted in 
 respect of the duties of others in similar situations. And 
 there is something almost pathetic in this eclipse of judgment. 
 
 That winter seems to have been unusually severe — Carlyle 
 speaks of the ' winter grimness and winter seclusion,' and says, 
 ' nothing could exceed the violence of the December weather.' 
 
 The year 1834 opened discouragingly, Jeffrey had 
 written of late in a ' frosty ' tone. The Lord Advocate genu- 
 inely wished to help Carlyle to a professorship, and two 
 such had offered themselves, either of which Carlyle believed 
 Jeffrey could have procured for him. But this was not so, 
 and there was inevitable misunderstanding between the two 
 men, who each resented what appeared coldness and almost 
 ingratitude in the other. Mrs. Carlyle was in no mood to 
 quarrel with her friend, and had given Jeffrey ' a soft 
 answer.' Jeffrey, in return, had cordially asked the Carlyles 
 to visit him at Craigcrook; but a harsh expression of candid 
 opinion on the Advocate's part to Carlyle, chilled and checked 
 any real friendship between the two, so unlike in mental and 
 moral characteristics. 
 
 The final idea of leaving Craigenputtock for London was 
 taking shape rapidly at this time, and soon was a determina- 
 
A PA THY 
 
 141 
 
 tion. It is amusing to find Carlyle writing to his brother 
 John of bolting out of * all these sooty despicabilities .... 
 lying draggle-tails of byre-women, and peat-moss and isola- 
 tion, and exasperation and confusion.' 
 
 If this was his view, what must have been that of Mrs. 
 Carlyle ? She adds a P. S, to this same letter, which is of 
 ominous significance. 
 
 Here is a new prospect (she writes) opened up to us with a 
 vengeance ! Am I frightened ? Not a bit, I almost wish that 
 I felt more anxiety about our future; for this composure is not 
 courage, but diseased indifference. There is a sort of incrustation 
 about the inward me, that renders it alike insensible to fear and 
 to hope. ... It seems as if the problem of living would be 
 immensely simplified to me if I had health. It does require such 
 an effort to keep oneself from growing quite wicked, while that 
 weary weaver's shuttle is plying between my temples ! 
 
 We feel that already the brave woman had lost much of 
 her slender stock of health, and was but ill-equipped for 
 future unknown storms and exigencies. 
 
 And now came the winding-up of affairs at Craigen- 
 puttock, two months of what the French call de'me'nagement. 
 While friends in London looked out for suitable houses 
 for the Carlyles, who had an idea that in London, as in 
 Edinburgh and Scotland generally, houses could only be let 
 at the Whitsuntide or Martinmas term, Carlyle, unable to 
 bear the uncertainty, rushed off to London to see about a 
 house himself, leaving his wife to pack and arrange, and to 
 join him in town when the new habitation should have been 
 decided on. 
 
 Thus the exile on the Dunscore moors was practically at 
 an end. What had it left behind ? To Mrs, Carlyle remained 
 an undermining of physical strength, a failing of many a 
 bright hope. Contact with the almost pessimistic views of 
 Carlyle had shaken much of the simple faith in which Mrs, 
 Carlyle had been brought up. Yet she could not embrace 
 the negative views in which some men, but fewer women, 
 
142 EARLY MARRIED LIFE 
 
 find satisfaction. A dull apathy began to overspread her 
 keen spirit, and the efforts that she made were now felt to be 
 efforts, and lacked the sweet spontaneity of earlier days. 
 She could not accustom herself to a loneliness for which her 
 past had ill-prepared her. She needed a brother's tender- 
 ness to tide her over the rough places, and a man's consider- 
 ation and tenderness to give her courage to go forth and face 
 the unknown and the untried world before her. As Mr. 
 Froude says: ' Carlyle himself recognised occasionally that 
 she was not happy.' But that was not enough ! Such glimpses 
 of so sad a truth did not avail towards removing the causes 
 and conditions of the unhappiness. The recognition of the 
 pain was transient, the pain itself permanent. With Mrs. 
 Carlyle, the keen knowledge of the suffering of others was 
 constant, and ever woke her to kindly deeds. One of the 
 touching records of life at Craigenputtock tells of her gentle 
 ministrations to ' old Esther,' which took place early in the 
 Carlyles' stay on the moors. Carlyle says: — 
 
 Poor old Esther sank to bed — death-bed, as my Jane, who had 
 a quick and sure eye in these things, well judged it would be. 
 Sickness did not last above ten days: my poor wife, zealously 
 assiduous, and with a minimum of fuss and noise. I remember 
 those few poor days so 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, &:c. . . . 
 
 It was the impulse of a kind and tender heart towards the 
 poor old creature, who would rest the softer and the sweeter 
 for it. The instances are numerous, and we probably shall 
 never know half of them, in which both Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle 
 befriended and solaced those in heavy need. But they did it 
 quietly, unostentatiously, without drums and trumpets, and 
 without even telling each other at times, and their liberal 
 actions ceased only with their breath. 
 
 The special failure of the marriage prospect, as felt by 
 Mrs. Carlyle, was not poverty; not forced retirement from the 
 
MUTUAL MISUNDERSTANDING 1 43 
 
 world; not a want of affection on Carlyle's part. It was the 
 total loss of that close intellectual companionship of which 
 she had so confidently dreamed, and for which she was so 
 unusually fitted. Mere love and passion she had thought 
 transitory and unfruitful; the thorn had pierced her hand 
 in leaning on these. But in Carlyle she saw a man whose 
 qualities would last and ripen to giant stature. Here, she 
 thought, was no illusion, and she justly felt herself his 
 mate. 
 
 Carlyle, too, thought perhaps, ' Here is a woman unlike 
 others, one who can value me for what I am, love the things 
 I love, be contented with what shall content me, and, above 
 all, spread around me a soft domestic calm, in which my 
 spirit may wrestle undisturbed by the pettiness and friction 
 of daily life.' A natural thought perhaps, this, but events 
 did not justify the hopeful forecast. 
 
 The position was impracticable. Each married partner 
 remained lonely, but with an intensity of loneliness of which 
 they had separately never dreamed, and the years at Craigen- 
 puttock left Mrs. Carlyle with only the fixed determination 
 of doing all she could for her husband's comfort, of provid- 
 ing to her utmost power for his physical well-being, as she 
 always nobly did. Things being as they were, could love do 
 more ? It was always soqj,g^ing for him that sufficed her. 
 Had he but shown sign of recognition, had he manifested 
 some of the ' small sweet courtesies of life,' all had been 
 well. But Carlyle could not shov/ such signs. Brought up 
 in a family where demonstration and caresses were almost 
 unknown, he was absolutely incapable of adding the vital in- 
 gredient of personal tenderness to the life so closely linked 
 with his own, unless, indeed, when parted from his wife, he 
 wrote letters of truest love and regard; telling of those 
 depths within him which found no vent in actual intercourse 
 with the one he loved so well. When they were together, it 
 never occurred to hirii to show these feelings, and thus his 
 sensitive and highly-strung wife, who passionately longed for 
 
144 EARLY MARRIED LIFE 
 
 notice, with that in-born longing which is the very root of 
 some women's natures, was left constantly unsatisfied. 
 
 The leaving of Craigenputtock offered, at least, an escape 
 from the pressing personal loneliness under which she 
 suffered. It recommended itself to Mrs. Carlyleasa measure 
 favourable to her husband's literary prospects, and she be- 
 lieved in him with genuine wifely pride. It also promised 
 some improvement in the way of congenial friends, sorely 
 needed by them both. 
 
 The experiment was to be tried. Carlyle went first, on 
 May 19, 1834, taking up his old quarters in Ampton Street, 
 and Mrs. Carlyle followed by steamer from Annan and coach 
 from Liverpool, arriving on June 10 at the house, 5 Cheyne 
 Row, Chelsea, where the remainder of their life was to be 
 passed. Carlyle, writing at the time to his brother, says: — 
 
 A hackney coach, loaded to the roof and beyond it with lug- 
 gage and the passengers, tumbled us all down here at eleven in 
 the morning. By all, I mean my dame and myself, Bessy 
 Barnet (the servant), who had come the night before, and little 
 Chico, the canary bird, who, nmlttim jactaiics, did nevertheless 
 arrive living and well from Puttock, and even sang violently all 
 the way by sea and land, nay ! struck up his lilt in the very 
 London streets, whenever he could see green leaves and feel the 
 free air. . . . 
 
 So the new life began with the cheer of a bird's song, and 
 in the quiet precincts of the densely-populated vast city the 
 new order of things was now fairly inaugurated. 
 
PART III 
 LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 A. D. I 834-1 836 
 
 The new, yet old life — Unalterable conditions — The removal to Lon- 
 don — Leigh Hunt — John Stuart Mill — Allan Cunningham — The 
 circle of friends — Edward Irving's visit — George Rennie and his 
 sister — Eliza Miles — Burning of the MS. of Vol. L of ' French 
 Revolution' — Wifely sympathy — 'The Sterlings' — Sprinklings 
 of foreigners — Domestic difficulties — Visit of Mrs. Welsh — 
 Maternal counsels from Scotsbrig — Godefroi de Cavaignac. 
 
 And now the experiment of living in London was really to 
 be tried, and the Carlyles took possession of their roomy 
 house in Cheyne Row, with their 'romantic maid,' Bessy 
 Barnet. The removal was soon accomplished, the few days 
 of ' quasi-camp-life ' were soon over, all too soon perhaps, and 
 the ' settling-down ' began, much harder to bear for Mrs. 
 Carlyle, weary as she was, for now the old realities came in, 
 also, with their fixed and inexorable shapes. 
 
 The frequent visits of the gentle and cheerful Leigh Hunt 
 were among the earliest welcomes. John Stuart Mill, too, 
 would often come and discuss Carlyle* s great subject with 
 him, namely, * The French Revolution,' with the first stormy 
 conceptions of which he was now grappling. Allan Cunning- 
 ham, with his fine, picturesque figure and unmistakable 
 Scottish tongue, would ' drop in' of an evening, bringing, as 
 it were, a veritable breath from the moors into that city 
 drawing-room. Such visits as his must have ministered some- 
 what to that deep, unquenchable love of Scotland and the 
 old days, which lay so close to Mrs. Carlyle's heart. Mrs. 
 
 H5 
 
 X 
 
I 46 LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 Austin and Mrs. Buller kept up a kindly intercourse with 
 Mrs. Carlyle, but the passionate attachment to her old home 
 clung to her, to the very end, saddening, yet sustaining. 
 
 Meantime the demonstrations of this tender nature grew 
 sharp and cold, as was inevitable. Take a mountain stream, 
 cut a channel for it, straight and even, and turn it into that, 
 and the water will flow, it is true, but you must not expect 
 the wild tangle of flowers, and rushes, and grasses, nor the 
 nameless charm of nature. 
 
 Novelty, gaiety, and some hopefulness may have marked 
 these early days in Chelsea, but nothing more. Mrs. Carlyle's 
 impressions of the London ladies whom she knew were not 
 altogether flattering. She acknowledges thinking, 'with a 
 chastened vanity,' of the difference between the Scotch and 
 the English housewives, of the superiority of Scotch thrift 
 over the English careless way of managing, and points her 
 moral by instances of Mrs. Leigh Hunt's unbelievable 'bor- 
 rowings ' to meet daily needs. 
 
 It was in November of this year that Edward Irving made 
 his one call on these old friends, but a few weeks before his 
 own death. He had ridden to Cheyne Row, his strength fast 
 failing him, and Carlyle briefly describes his visit. There 
 was his old love, her thorny path not mercifully shortened as 
 his was to be. Perhaps he still saw in her what others now 
 failed to see — the gay,brightgirl of those old Haddington days. 
 He looked round the room, 'Ah, yes,* he said, ' you are like 
 an Eve: make every place you live in beautiful !' And so 
 she did. And here this tall, gaunt figure of the noble, pure- 
 minded Edward Irving vanishes from these pages. No men- 
 tion of his name occurs in the letters of Mrs. Carlyle written 
 about the time of the visit. 
 
 The cold weather is complained of in a letter to old Mrs. 
 Carlyle, but two friends are spoken of as living quite near, 
 ' a brother and sister, the most intimate friends I ever had 
 in East Lothian,' says Mrs. Carlyle. This must have been a 
 redeeming circumstance; for the brother was George Rennie, 
 
INHERITED TENDENCIES 1 47 
 
 then a sculptor, and afterwards member of Parliament, of whom 
 we shall have more to say in the later days. Eliza Miles,too, the 
 daughter of the Ampton Street landlady, kept up her loving 
 devotion to Mrs. Carlyle, and gave cheer and attachment. 
 
 Still Carlyle himself did not seem to have gained much 
 in those early times, meeting little favour from editors who 
 had tried him, and receiving a wide berth from those who did 
 not wish to engage him. And this told on the home atmos- 
 phere, causing clouds and convulsions, not to be done away 
 with by the rapid opening up of social opportunities. 
 
 The great dinners to which the Carlyles were now in- 
 vited, gave but scanty satisfaction to either of them. In 
 February 1835, in a postscript to Carlyle's letter to Dr. 
 John Carlyle, his brother, Mrs. Carlyle writes: 'Dearest of 
 created doctors. ... I went the other day, distracted that I 
 was, to a great, modern, fashionable, horrible dinner. . . . 
 There was huge venison to be eaten, and new service of plate 
 
 to be displayed; Mrs. talked about the Aarts (arts) — and 
 
 the great Sir John R favoured us with " idears " on the 
 
 Peel Administration. . . .' 
 
 We cannot help thinking that the gipsy blood which 
 undoubtedly ran in Mrs. Carlyle's veins was answerable for 
 much of her wandering spirit and impatience with social 
 amenities and town life. There seemed in her a sort of silent 
 rebellion against many trifling restraints and limitations, and 
 we are not alone in this opinion of her. Dr. Alex. H. Japp, 
 author of a very admirable brief sketch of Mrs. Carlyle in 
 * True and Noble Women,* touching on this particular point, 
 thinks, that much of the fate of this remarkable woman's life 
 lay in that strain of gipsy blood, combined, as it was, with 
 undoubted genius and altogether unusual circumstances. 
 She was certainly a ' Baillie ' and not a 'Welsh' in her 
 character and disposition, and those who study the strange 
 laws of heredity, may see more deeply into the matter than 
 we ourselves can pretend to do. Certain it is that the gods 
 did not smile propitiously on the pair at Cheyne Row. 
 
148 LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 The catastrophe of the burning of the manuscript of the 
 completed first volume of ' The French Revolution,' was 
 more than an ordinary misfortune. This nervous, highly 
 wrought man, Carlyle, saw in a moment the hard brain-work 
 of many months irretrievably torn from him and annihilated. 
 It is an old story how, on March 6, 1835, John Stuart Mill 
 was ushered in, deadly pale and tottering" with fear. A care- 
 less housemaid had lighted her fires with the all-precious 
 manuscript, entrusted to Mill for a first reading. The thing 
 was hopeless, and, as Carlyle says in the ' Reminiscences,' 
 
 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 stayed three mortal 
 hours or so: his departure quite a relief to us. Oh, the burst of 
 sympathy my poor darling then gave me, flinging her arms round 
 my neck and openly lamenting, condoling, and encouraging like 
 a nobler second self. 
 
 And again, when the pen was taken up, such reparation 
 made by the generous Mill as Carlyle would accept, and the 
 book at length finished, he speaks of going forth to walk in 
 the evening * with her dear blessing upon me.' This great 
 trouble certainly drew the two nearer together, though it 
 wrung from Carlyle the bitter cry: <0h ! that I had faith ! 
 Oh ! that I had ! ' 
 
 It was in May of 1835 that Mrs. Carlyle, writing to her 
 mother-in-law of an interview * with an old rejected lover,' 
 whose attachment and thousatids had had no effect on her, 
 says: *I continue quite content with my bargain.' She adds: 
 * I could wish him a little less yellow and a little xi\ox^ peace- 
 able, but that is all.' 
 
 The memorable friendship with the Sterlings began in this 
 summer of 1835, and in the first letter printed in the collec- 
 tion of Mrs. Carlyle's correspondence, as addressed to John 
 Sterling, is a singularly frank manifestation of one of her 
 eminently womanly characteristics, betraying one of the in- 
 tangible causes of her undoubted lack of happiness; we mean 
 
A IV A KENING 1 49 
 
 that longing for notice and approbation and appreciation 
 which underlay all her daring and spirited ways. She speaks 
 to this new-made friend of her honest efforts to annihilate her 
 lety or Ego, or merge it in what the world doubtless con- 
 sidered her ' better half,' and she laments that she still finds 
 herself 'a very self- subsisting, and, alas! self-seeking nie.' It 
 was this craving which was more or less starved in her mar- 
 riage, and which was at the root of much of the bitter railing, 
 in which she undoubtedly indulged at times, against the seem- 
 ing insensibility of a husband, who yet thought her peerless 
 among women and ever held her to be so. In time she 
 learned to scoff at demonstration of every kind, in her anguish 
 of loneliness, but this sense of isolation was only now truly 
 waking up; not in the solitudes of Craigenputtock, where 
 she felt, at least, that all she did was for her husband, but 
 in this wider world, where understanding and sympathy came 
 to her in every form, came even dangerously near at times. 
 Then she began to look into her own life with different eyes. 
 
 Old Mrs. Sterling and her husband were frequent visitors 
 now, as well as the younger branches of the family, — Henry 
 Taylor, the Wilsons, Rev. F. D. Maurice, James Spedding, 
 and many others, with what Carlyle vaguely calls, * sprinklings 
 of foreigners;' amongst whom, by-and-by, were the never-to- 
 be-forgotten Mazzini, and Godefroi Cavaignac, brother to 
 General Cavaignac, a singularly attractive and noble man, de- 
 scribed by Carlyle as < A fine Bayard soul, with figure to cor- 
 respond.' The friendship between him and Mrs. Carlyle was 
 a deep one — how could it be otherwise ? — his gentle breeding 
 and refined courtesy ministered to her natural tendencies. It 
 was not, however, till some years after the Carlyles came to 
 Cheyne Row that the aquaintance was made, and death soon 
 ended it — about 1846 we believe. 
 
 But we must return to 1835, when the first mention of 
 those endless and inexplicable domestic difficulties at Cheyne 
 Row occurs in a letter from Mrs. Carlyle to Miss Hunter of 
 Edmonton. Here Mrs. Carlyle speaks of that 'valley ofths 
 
1 5 O LIFE IN L OND ON 
 
 shadow of char- woman,' which entered so largely into her 
 very uncomfortable menage during succeeding years, and 
 coupled with it, is an allusion to one of the terrible nervous 
 headaches to which she was now too often subject. 
 
 A mystery would attach to these unending household dis- 
 comforts, were we to forget that the highly-wrought imagina- 
 tion and cruelly overstrained nervous system of the sufferer 
 partly created, and distinctly, though ail-unconsciously, ex- 
 aggerated, many of them; and this was the state of things to 
 the very end, and must be borne in mind, by no means to the 
 exclusion of thorough sympathy that such things should be so 
 heavy a cause of suffering, nor with an incredulity as to their 
 being recounted exactly as they appeared to Mrs. Carlyle 
 herself. 
 
 When Carlyle speaks of these domestic troubles, after his 
 wife's death, with praise of her reticence in not irritating him 
 with them, and speaks of 'results quasi-perfect,' we must 
 remember that these words were written when all was quiet 
 for ever, and that, as a fact, there was by no means even a 
 'quasi-perfect' calm in that small household during many 
 long years — however the retrospect showed the matter forth. 
 
 Writing to her sister-in-law in August of this same year, 
 Mrs. Carlyle was joyful in anticipation of a visit from her 
 mother, and in tune with many of her surroundings. ' The 
 people here,' she writes, ' are extravagantly kind to me,' — 
 and speaking of the conclusion of the 'French Revolution,' 
 or rather of the ' second first volume,' she says: 'Then we 
 shall sing a Te Detini and get drunk.' She also recounts the 
 names of pleasant new acquaintances: the Rev. Mr. Dunn, 
 an Irish clergyman who had ' refused two bishopricks in the 
 course of his life, for conscience' sake,' and sundry delightful 
 Italian exiles, not forgetting her old lover and countryman, 
 George Rennie. 
 
 There was a gleam of sunshine in this letter, shadowed 
 over, as most things were for her, by six weeks of continual 
 illness following immediately, ending in a short visit to her 
 
INCOME A TIB I LI TY OF TEMPER i 5 I 
 
 kind friends, the Sterlings (Mrs. Sterling's brother): 'a per- 
 fect Paradise of a place, peopled, as every Paradise ought to 
 be, with angels.' But she fell ill again the very day after her 
 return, and admitted that, neither 'man nor woman lives by 
 bread alone, nor warm milk, nor any of these things.' 
 
 But her mother was now with her, and Carlyle on the eve 
 of his departure for Scotland. During this absence of his, 
 the mother and daughter were together, in the varying and 
 unequal happiness of two natures that did not respond har- 
 moniously the one to the other. 
 
 It was during the latter part of this visit, probably after 
 Carlyle's return, that a small evening party was given by Mrs. 
 Carlyle, when Mrs. Welsh had placed more wax lights on the 
 supper table than her thrifty daughter approved, with other 
 arrangements thought extravagant by Mrs. Carlyle, who 
 made alterations and took away two of the candles. Accord- 
 ing to Miss Jewsbury's account, who had it from Mrs. 
 Carlyle, the mother was much hurt, and shed tears over the 
 matter ; and in her remorse for having pained that dearly loved 
 mother, Mrs. Carlyle put away the candles with instructions 
 that when she herself should lie in death, they were to be 
 lighted and burned, all of which most sadly came to pass in 
 time. We cannot wonder that Carlyle should say in a letter 
 to his brother John, written during Mrs. Welsh's second visit 
 to Cheyne Row: 'Quiet observation forces on me the conclu- 
 sion that Jane and her mother cannot live together.' 
 
 Mr. Froude says: ' They loved each other dearly, even 
 passionately. They quarrelled daily and made it up again.' 
 The two excitable women could not jog on together in the 
 common-place * hum-drum ' of much happier and simpler 
 natures. Mrs. Carlyle learned Italian and accomplished 
 numberless useful and elegant tasks. Carlyle, in his con- 
 tentment with his mother, looked perhaps with a certain feel- 
 ing of anxious dismay on the domestic life awaiting him in 
 Cheyne Row, where that too eager, broken spirit was still 
 chafing at the inevitable. The servant-trouble constantly 
 
152 LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 haunted her, and Carlyle was looking out for a suitable girl 
 and thought he had found one. To his description of the 
 servant, his wife replied: 'Fetch her then, in God's name, 
 and I will make the best I can of her: after all, we fret our- 
 selves too much about little things; much that might be 
 laughed off, if one were well and cheerful^ (The italics are 
 our own.) 
 
 It was on October 26, 1835, that Mrs. Carlyle penned the 
 pretty letter, half in her newly learned Italian, to her husband 
 at Scotsbrig, beginning — * Caro e rispettabile il mio Marito ' 
 — and we feel that his response on November 2 must have 
 struck coldly on that warm spirit, when he says, in reply to 
 her graceful badinage, ' And thou, my poor Goody, depend- 
 ing on cheerful looks of mine for thy cheerfulness ! For 
 God's sake do not, or do as little as possible,' but in the same 
 letter he says: 'My poor Goody. It seems as if she could 
 so easily be happy, and the easy means are so seldom there.' 
 And again in the same letter he adds a few tender words in 
 German, entreating her not to quarrel with her mother, remind- 
 ing how soon the visit will be over, and he ends with: * God 
 bless thee, my poor little darling; I think we shall be happier 
 some time.' 
 
 The holiday ended, Mrs. Welsh went to her brother in 
 Liverpool, Carlyle returned, and still happiness held aloof. 
 
 Sad letters mark the coming on of that winter of 1835. 
 Carlyle felt * sick of soul,' and wrote in the pages of his Jour- 
 nal on December 23: 'Be silent, be calm, at least not mad;' 
 and Mrs. Carlyle, on the same day, writing to the good old 
 mother at Scotsbrig, speaks bitterly of her suffering health, 
 of the blood all frozen in her brains, and her brains turned to 
 a solid mass of ice. Her vitality failed her, and, but for the 
 kindness of friends, notably Mrs. Sterling, Count Pepoli, and 
 others, she would have lost heart. 
 
 Meantime the mother at Scotsbrig was carefully writing 
 her pious exhortations to her son Thomas, whose lot she 
 must have felt was not all of roses, telling him in quaint 
 
AN- INTERESTING REPUBLICAN I53 
 
 phrase to 'wait on the Lord and be strong.' That was all 
 very well, but the worldly prospect was pressingly discour- 
 aging, and as the true obstacle to literary success lay in 
 Carlyle'sown strange and impracticable nature, the hope grew 
 faint and ever fainter that this great genius would accept the 
 conditions which could alone promise prosperity. Patronage 
 was intolerable to him, and a situation that was offered him 
 by his good friend Basil Montagu — a situation which would 
 have provided a sure and sufficient income, whilst allow- 
 ing him ample time for his own literary labours — was re- 
 jected as an injury. 
 
 Thus the year 1836 found matters far from cheerful at 5 
 Cheyne Row. It was in April of that year that Mrs. Carlyle, 
 writing to her cousin Helen Welsh, of Liverpool, describes 
 her husband as 'anything but well, nor likely to be better, 
 until he have finished his " French Revolution," ' and adds, 
 with a caustic touch, 'I myself have been abominably, 
 though not writing, so far as I know, for the press.' 
 
 Worse days were at hand, however; for, soon after this 
 date, Mrs. Carlyle became extremely ill, and felt that, ' unless 
 sho could get out of London, she would surely die.' As Mr. 
 Froude tells us, she fled to Scotland, to her mother, who met 
 her at Dumfries with embraces and tears, and took her on to 
 Templand, where love and care were with her. But she 
 remained the victim of sleeplessness, cough, and headache, 
 and after two months' trial, despairing of everything here below 
 she returned to Cheyne Row in August, ' a sadder and a wiser 
 woman' as she herself said, to find recovered health at home. 
 
 It was during the freshness of these new feelings that Mrs. 
 Carlyle mentions Godefroi de Cavaignac, of whom we have 
 already spoken. It was the dead season in London, but this 
 French Republican was in town, and was often in Cheyne 
 Row. Mrs. Carlyle speaks of him as 'one who has had the 
 glory of meriting to be imprisoned and nearly losing his 
 head: a man with that sort of dark, half-savage beauty with 
 which one paints a fallen angel . . . who defies all men and 
 honours all women, and whose name is Cavaignac' 
 
154 ^^^^ ^^^ LONDON 
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 A. D, 1836— 1840 
 
 Retrospect on the Scotch journey — Return to Chelsea — Mrs. Carlyle's 
 letter to Sterling — Carlyle's supposed ' lady admirers ' — The lec- 
 tures — Success and congratulations — Second visit of Mrs. Welsh 
 — Flight of Carlyle into Annandale— ' The bird and the watch' — 
 Regrets and ill-health of Mrs. Carlyle — Cheque from Emerson, 
 being proceeds of ' French Revolution ' — John Sterling's health — 
 Reflections thereon — Carlyle again in Scotland — Letter to John 
 Forster : ' Why do women marry ?' — The ' Lion's wife ! ' 
 
 The journey to Scotland had been a mistake; and no 
 wonder. * Caelum non animam mutant ' — change of place 
 could do little for Mrs. Carlyle. 
 
 We go back to quote a few words written to her by Carlyle 
 during her absence: — 'No rest for the poor wearied one ! In 
 her mother's house, too, she must wake "at four in the 
 morning," and have fretting and annoyances ! . . , The 
 world is so wide. And for my poor Jane, no place where she 
 can find shelter in it ! . . , Oh, my poor lassie, what a life 
 thou hast led ! and I could not make it other. It was to be 
 that and not another.' 
 
 And again, on August 24, he wrote: — 'Oh, my poor bairn, 
 be not faithless, but believing ! Do not fling away life as 
 insupportable, despicable; but let us work it out and rest it 
 out together, like a true two, though under some obstruc- 
 tions.' 
 
 Here the "difficulty of Mrs. Carlyle's life is laid bare. It 
 was not as tivo, but as 07ie, that his wife wished to live with 
 him, and no tender words in letters could alter that inevitable 
 sorrow. The pain that was given was truly such as can only 
 exist where love exists, in some shape. But two faithful, 
 
INEXORABLE CONDITIONS I55 
 
 loyal natures, learning, side by side, yet in loneliness, to 
 compass the hard struggle of life ; two individuals bound 
 together, yet unable to share completely the scarce compre- 
 hended burden; two human souls painfully moulded by 
 adverse conditions to the god-like form destined for them — 
 these images touch our imagination with reverence and 
 pity: but the condition described hardly fits our ideal of 
 marriage. 
 
 ' Happy,' says Renan, < are the children who only sleep 
 and dream!' Of these two remarkable natures one awoke 
 too early and too fully to sharp realities, and the other, in 
 some senses, awoke too late. To Mrs. Carlyle the awakening 
 was a stern one. The * wind was not tempered ' to her 
 sensitive nature. Her keen pain caused bitterness and 
 caustic speech; which truly returns so often with added 
 sharpness into the heart of the speaker. Then that insepa- 
 rable companion, the body, added its ceaseless sufferings to 
 the incurable mental ones, and she began that long course of 
 languishing, so sad to read of, so almost impossible to bear. 
 Yet it was borne ! She could only turn to one quarter and 
 another for a brief respite, and was glad to return to Chelsea, 
 with a vague hope of some alleviation. And, after all, it was 
 home she was hastening back to, with a quickened sense of 
 possibilities of some comfort and rest therein. 
 
 It is pretty to note how she saw Carlyle trying to join her 
 in the Chelsea omnibus, * his face, beautifully set off by a 
 broad-brimmed white hat, gazing in at the door like the 
 Peri, who 
 
 'At the Gate of Heaven stood disconsolate.' 
 He had recognized her trunk, < one of the most indubitable 
 marks of genius,' she adds, 'which he ever manifested,' and 
 thus hastened to shorten the time of separation. The trouble 
 seemed to be that when re-united, so little heart-happiness 
 attended the pair who wrote with so much affection to each 
 other, who reallyy>//itwhen absence removed the inexorable 
 difficulties of personal contact. 
 
156 LIFE IN L OND ON 
 
 In February 1837, writing to John Sterling, then in 
 Bordeaux, Mrs. Carlyle strangely illustrates this. Apologis- 
 ing for long silence, she says : — * It has proceeded from some 
 "crook in the lot," and not in the mind.' In the same letter, 
 after pleading that she has become * too sick and dispirited ' 
 for letter-writing, she announces the conclusion of the 
 ' French Revolution,' adding : — * Quelle vie ! let no woman 
 who values peace of soul ever dream of marrying an author.' 
 But the next lines show an admirably womanly jealousy of 
 allCarlyle's supposed ladyadmirers — from Harriet Martineau, 
 who * presents him with her ear-trumpet with a pretty 
 blushing air of coquetry' — to other lesser lights and 
 attractions. 
 
 The lectures on German literature which were arranged 
 for the month of May furnished Mrs. Carlyle with a fruitful 
 topic. ' The exhibition,' as she terms it, caused her no little 
 anxiety, and she looked to his following up the effort by a 
 long holiday in Scotland, 'to rest himself,' adding : — ' For my 
 part, having neither published nor lectured, I feel no call to 
 refresh myself. . . .' The lectures were a great success, 
 though Carlyle pitied himself: — 'Agitated, terrified, driven 
 desperate and furious ' (to use his own words), the financial 
 result was satisfactory, and the enterprise, to any other than 
 Carlyle, was a matter of congratulation. 
 
 A second visit from Mrs. Welsh marked the close of the 
 lectures, and Carlyle's own departure for Annandale, in his 
 blind desire for 'Silence ! silence ! ' The graceful and clever 
 dialogue of ' The Bird and^the Watch ' was written for John 
 Sterling about this time, with the pathetic ' Remonstrance of 
 my old Watch ' — each needless to give here but for their 
 remarkable brilliancy, and the light they cast on the character 
 and powers of the writer. Much can be read * between the 
 lines.' We extract them from 'Letters and Memorials:' — 
 
A CANAR Y 'S PHILOSOPHY 1 5 7 
 
 To the Rev. John Sterlmg, Blackheath. 
 
 Chelsea: Sept.-Oct. , 1837. 
 
 My dear Friend, — Being a sending of more dialogue, it were 
 downright extravagance to send a letter as well. So I shall 
 merely say (your father being sitting impatiently beating with 
 his stick) that you are on no account to understand that by either 
 of these dialogians I mean to shadow forth my own personality. 
 I think it is not superfluous to give you this warning, because I 
 remember you talked of Chico's philosophy of life as my philos- 
 ophy of life, which was a horrible calumny. 
 
 You can fancy how one must be hurried when your father is 
 in the case. 
 
 God bless you 
 
 Always yours, 
 
 Jane W. Carlyle. 
 
 Dialogue, 
 The Bird and the Watch. 
 
 Watch. ' Chirp, chirp, chirp ; ' what a weariness thou art 
 with thy chirping ! Does it never occur to thee, frivolous thing, 
 that life is too short for being chirped away at this rate .'' 
 
 Bird. Never. I am no philosopher, but just a plain canary- 
 bird. 
 
 Watch. At all events, thou art a creature of time that hast 
 been hatched, and that will surely die. And, such being the 
 case, methinks thou art imperatively called upon to think more 
 and to chirp less. 
 
 Bz'rd. I ' called upon to think ! ' How do you make that out? 
 Will you be kind enough to specify how my condition would be 
 improved by thought ? Could thought procure me one grain of 
 seed or one drop of water beyond what my mistress is pleased 
 to give? Could it procure me one eighth of an inch, one hair's- 
 breadth more room to move about in, or could it procure me to 
 be hatched over again with better auspices, in fair green wood 
 beneath the blue free sky ? I imagine not. Certainly I never 
 yet betook myself to thinking instead of singing, that I did not 
 end in dashing wildly against the wires of my cage, with sure 
 loss of feathers and at the peril of limb and life. No, no. 
 Madam Gravity, in this very conditional world, depend upon it, 
 
158 LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 he that thinks least will live the longest, and song is better than 
 sense for carrying one handsomely along. 
 
 Watch. You confess, then, without a blush, that you have no 
 other aim in existence than to kill time ? 
 
 Bird. Just so. If I were not always a killing of time, time, I 
 can tell you, would speedily kill me. Heigh ho ! I wish you 
 had not interrupted me in my singing. 
 
 Watch. Thou sighest, ' Chico ; ' there is a drop of bitterness 
 at the bottom of this froth of levity. Confess the truth : thou 
 art not without compunction as to thy course of life. 
 
 Bird. Indeed, but I am, though. It is for the Power that 
 made me and placed me here to feel compunction, if any is to 
 be felt. For me, I do but fulfil my destiny: in the appointing of 
 it, I had no hand. It was with no consent of mine that I ever was 
 hatched; for the blind instinct that led me to chip the shell, 
 and so exchange my natural prison for one made with hands, 
 can hardly be imputed to me as an act of volition; it was with 
 no consent of mine that I was fated to live and move within the 
 wires of a cage, where a fractured skull and broken wings are 
 the result of all endeavour towards the blue infinite, nor yet was 
 it with consent of mine that I was made to depend for subsist- 
 ence, not on my own faculties and exertions, but on the 
 bounty of a fickle mistress, who starves me at one time and sur- 
 feits me at another. Deeply from my inmost soul I have 
 protested, and do and will protest against all this. If, then, the 
 chirping with which I stave off sorrow and e)i7iui be an offence 
 to the would-be-wise, it is not I but Providence should bear the 
 blame, having placed me in a condition where there is no 
 alternative but to chirp or die, and at the same time made self- 
 preservation the first instinct of all living things. 
 
 Watch. ' Unhappy Chico ! not in thy circumstances, but in 
 thyself lies the mean impediment over which thou canst not gain 
 the mastery.'* The lot thou complainest of so petulantly is, 
 with slight variation, the lot of all. Thou are not free? Tell 
 me who is ! Alas, my bird I Here sit prisoners ; there also do 
 prisoners sit. This world is all prison, the only difference for 
 those who inhabit it being in the size and aspect of the cells ; 
 while some of these stand revealed in cold strong nakedness for 
 
 * Goethe's WUhelm Meisier, 
 
WISE COUNSELS 
 
 159 
 
 what they really are, others are painted to look like sky over- 
 head, and open country all around, but the bare and the painted 
 walls are alike impassable, and fall away only at the coming of the 
 Angel of Death. 
 
 Bird. With all due reverence for thy universal insight, picked 
 up Heaven knows how, in spending thy days at the bottom of a 
 dark fob, I must continue to think that the birds. of the air, for 
 example, are tolerably free; at least, they lead a stirring pleasur- 
 able sort of life, which may well be called freedom in comparison 
 with this of mine. Oh that, like them, I might skim the azure 
 and hop among the boughs; that, like them, I might have a nest 
 I could call my own, and a wife of my own choosing, that I might 
 fly away from the instant she wearied me ! Would that the egg 
 I was hatched from had been addled, or that I had perished 
 while yet unfledged! I am weary of my life, especially since 
 thou hast constituted thyself my spiritual adviser. Ay de mi ! 
 But enough of this; it shall never be told that I died the death 
 of Jenkin's hen. ' Chico, point de faiblcsse ! ' 
 
 IVaic/i. It were more like a Christian to say, ' Heaven be my 
 strength.' 
 
 Bird. And pray what is a Christian ? I have seen poets, 
 philosophers, politicians, bluestockings, philanthropists, all sorts 
 of notable people about my mistress; but no Christian so far as 
 I am aware. 
 
 Watch. Bird! thy spiritual darkness exceeds belief. What 
 can I say to thee ? I wish I could make thee wiser, better! 
 
 Bird. If wishes were saws, I should request you to saw me a 
 passage through those wires; but wishes being simply wishes, I 
 desire to be let alone of them. 
 
 Watch. Good counsel at least is not to be rejected, and I give 
 the best, wouldst thou but lay it to heart. Look around thee, 
 Chico — around and within. Ascertain, if thou canst, the main 
 source of thy discontent, and towards the removal of that direct 
 thy whole faculties and energies. Even should thy success prove 
 incomplete, the very struggle will be productive of good. ' An 
 evil,' says a great German thinker, ' ceases to be an evil from the 
 moment in which we begin to combat it.' Is it what you call 
 loss of liberty that flings the darkest shadow over your soul.? If 
 so, you have only to take a correct and philosophical view of the 
 
l6o LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 subject instead of a democratic sentimental one, and you will find, 
 as other captives have done, that there is more real freedom 
 within the walls of a prison than in the distracting tumult without. 
 Ah, Chico, in pining for the pleasures and excitements which lie 
 beyond these wires, take also into account the perils and hard- 
 ships. Think what the bird of the air has to suffer from the 
 weather, from boys and beasts, and even from other birds. 
 Storms and snares and unknown woes beset it at every turn, from 
 all which you have been mercifully delivered in being once for 
 all cooped up here. 
 
 Bird. There is one known woe, however, from which I have 
 not been delivered in being cooped up here, and that is your ab- 
 solute wisdom and impertinent interference, from which same I 
 pray Heaven to take me with all convenient speed. If ever I 
 attain to freedom, trust me, the very first use I shall make of it 
 will be to fly where your solemn prosy tick shall not reach me any 
 more for ever. Evil befall the hour when my mistress and your 
 master took it into their heads to ' swear eternal friendship,' and 
 so occasion a juxtaposition betwixt us two which nature could 
 never have meant. 
 
 Watch. My ' master ? ' Thou imbecile. I own no master; 
 rather am I his mistress, of whom thou speakest. Nothing can 
 he do without appealing to me as to a second better conscience, 
 and it is I who decide for him when he is incapable of deciding 
 for himself. I say to him, ' It is time to go,' and he goeth; or, 
 • There is time to stay,' and he stayeth. Hardly is he awake of a 
 morning when I tick authoritatively into his ear, ' Leves-vous, 
 monsieur ! Vous avez de grajides cJioses a /aire; ' * and forth- 
 with he gathers himself together to enjoy the light of a new day 
 — if no better may be. And is not every triumph he ever gained 
 over natural indolence to be attributed to my often repeated 
 remonstrance, ' Work, for the night cometh ? ' Ay, and when 
 the night is come, and he lays himself down, I take my place 
 at his bed-head, and, like the tenderest nurse, tick him to 
 repose. 
 
 Bird. And suppose he neglected to wind thee up, or that 
 thy main-spring chanced to snap? What would follow then? 
 Would the world stand still in consequence ? Would thy master 
 * St. Simon (he of 1825, n. b. 1). 
 
A FAITHFUL COMPANION l6l 
 
 — for such he is to all intents and purposes — lie for ever in bed 
 expecting thy ' Levez-voits ? ' Would there be nothing in the wide 
 universe besides thee to tell him what o'clock it was ? Impudent 
 piece of mechanism ! Thing of springs and wheels, in which flows 
 no life-blood, beats no heart! Depend upon it, for all so much 
 as thou thinkest of thyself, thou couldst be done without. // ny 
 a point de inotttre necessairc ! The artisan who made thee with 
 files and pincers could make a thousand of thee to order. Cease, 
 then, to deem thyself a fit critic and lawgiver for any living soul. 
 Complete of thy kind, tick on, with infallible accuracy, sixty 
 ticks to the minute, through all eternity if thou wilt and canst; 
 but do not expect such as have hearts in their breasts to keep 
 time with thee. A heart is a spontaneous, impulsive thing, which 
 cannot, I would have thee know, be made to beat always at one 
 measured rate for the good pleasure of any time-piece that ever 
 was put together. And so good day to thee, for here comes one 
 who, thank Heaven, will put thee into his fob, and so end our 
 tete-a-tete. 
 
 Watch. (With a sigh.) ' The living on earth have much to 
 bear I ' ' J. W. C. 
 
 (Mrs. Carlyle haa evidently contemplated providing herself 
 with a new watch; her own, which had been her mother's, 
 getting rather venerable, and perhaps not keeping such good 
 time.) 
 
 Remonstrance of my Old Watch. 
 
 What have I done to you, that you should dream of ' tearing 
 out my inside ' and selling me away for an old song ? Is your 
 heart become hard as the nether millstone, that you overlook long 
 familiarity and faithful service, to take up with the new-fangled 
 gimcracks of the day ? Did I ever play thee false ? I have been 
 driven with you, been galloped with you, over the roughest roads; 
 have been jolted as never watch was; and all this without ' stick- 
 ing up ' a single time, or so much as lagging behind! Nay, once 
 I remember (the devil surely possessed you at that moment ! ) you 
 pitched me out of your hand as though I had been a worthless 
 pin-cushion; and even that unprecedented shock I sustained with 
 
iO^ LIFE IN LONDOI^ 
 
 unshaken nerves! Try any of your new favourites as you have 
 tried me; send the little wretch you at present wear within your 
 waist-band smack against a deal floor, and if ever it stirred more 
 in this world, I should think it little less than a miracle. 
 
 Bethink you, then, misguided woman, while it is yet time ! If 
 not for my sake, for your own, do not complete your barbarous 
 purpose. Let not a passing womanish fancy lead you from what 
 has been the ruling principle of your life — a detestation of shams 
 and humbug. For, believe me, these little watches are arrant 
 shams, if ever there was one. They are not watches so much as 
 lockets with watch-faces. The least rough handling puts them 
 out of sorts; a jolt is fatal; they cost as much in repairs every 
 year as their original price; and when they in their turn come to 
 have their insides torn out, what have you left ? Hardly gold 
 enough to make a good-sized thimble. 
 
 But if you are deaf to all suggestions of common-sense, let 
 sentiment plead for me in your breast. Remember how daintily 
 you played with me in your childhood, deriving from my gold 
 shine your first ideas of worldly splendour. Remember how, at 
 a more advanced age, you longed for the possession of me and of 
 a riding-habit and whip, as comprising all that was most desirable 
 in life! And when at length your mother made me over to you, 
 remember how feelingly (so feelingly that you shed tears) I 
 brought home to your bosom the maxim of your favourite Goethe, 
 ' The wished-for comes too late.' And oh! for the sake of all 
 these touching remembrances, cast me not off, to be dealt with in 
 that shocking manner; but if, through the caprice of fashion, I 
 am deemed no longer fit to be seen, make me a little pouch inside 
 your dress, and I am a much mistaken watch if you do not admit 
 in the long run that my solid merit is far above that of any half- 
 dozen of these lilliputian upstarts. 
 
 And so, betwixt hope and fear, I remain, 
 
 Your dreadfully agitated 
 
 Watch, 
 
 I find so much reason as well as pathos and natural eloquence 
 in the above that I shall proceed no further with the proposed 
 exchange. 
 
 Jane. 
 
DISCOURAGING ACCOUNTS 163 
 
 The spring of 1838 found Carlyle miserable and restless, 
 having as yet fallen on no new work; the domestic pressure 
 was heavy, and Mrs. Carlyle speaks plainly of her own suffer- 
 ing — reflected, in some measure, from the state of her hus- 
 band's mind, though indeed health had long become an im- 
 possibility to her. ' So much to bear, for a long, long time 
 back ! ' she writes her cousin Helen at Liverpool. It was now 
 the time when Carlyle was delivering the second course of 
 lectures, and Mrs. Carlyle adds : 
 
 If he could get sleep at nights, while the lecturing goes 
 forward, and if I could look on without being perpetually re- 
 minded by the pain in my head, or some devilry or other, that I 
 am a mere woman ... we should find this new trade rather 
 agreeable. ... A single woman (by your leave be it said) may 
 be laid up, with comparative ease of mind; but in a country 
 where a man is allowed only one wife, and needs that one for 
 other purposes than mere show, it is a singular hardship for all 
 parties. 
 
 In August of this year Carlyle was in Kirkcaldy, and his 
 wife wrote him poor accounts of her health. Sleep was be- 
 ginning to forsake her — three hours one night, forty minutes 
 the next, then none at all; showing a steady decline in the 
 healthy nervous balance so desirable to maintain. Society did 
 little to ameliorate Mrs. Carlyle's condition, and, though she 
 speaks of ' tea-shines,' at one of which Mr. and Mrs. Crawford, 
 George Rennie and his wife, Mrs. Sterling, Count Pepoli, 
 Erasmus Darwin, and Robert Barker attended, the result was 
 apparently mere weariness of spirit and body. The first 
 money, sent in a bill of exchange by Emerson, that came in 
 from an American edition of the ' French Revolution ' cheered 
 her somewhat, though it brought ' a sort of tears ' into her 
 eyes. Perhaps there were too many painful memories con- 
 nected, for her, with that book. 
 
 And now the good, gentle John Sterling was ordered off 
 to Italy for his health, and came to take his leave. We note 
 
164 J-If^ I^ LONDON 
 
 that Mrs. Carlyle makes one of her rare exceptions in saying, 
 ' He looked as Edward Irving used to do.' She had, then, 
 marked the fading life and strength of that old and attached 
 friend, though all in silence. But the passage, so pregnant 
 with pathos, loses its effect when she adds: 'Woe to him, if 
 he fall into the net of any beautiful Italian. People who are 
 so dreadfully devoted to their wives are so apt, from mere 
 habit, to get devoted to other people's wives as well.' These 
 words may prove a key to much that happened later on. 
 
 Meantime the spring of 1838, which found Carlyle busy 
 preparing for his third course of lectures, had left Mrs. 
 Carlyle weakened and shaken in mind and body. No in- 
 fluence seemed able to lift her from the growing suffering of 
 her condition and its hopeless outlook; while her husband 
 was confiding to the pages of his journal that he is 'tortured 
 to death,' and feeling he must rush away from all his sur- 
 roundings ! ' Be still, wild weak heart,' he says, ' convulsively 
 bursting up against the bars ! ' And surely Mrs. Carlyle 
 might have said the same, though hers was an inarticulate 
 cry for a long time yet; when at length it, too, struggled 
 into expression. 
 
 A natural question for ordinary people to ask, is, What 
 was this crushing and deeply-felt grief in these two hearts ? 
 And the answer, honest and disappointing as it is, must be, 
 that the grief which can openly be spoken of is 7iot the un- 
 bearable grief. So the sorrow of these isolated hearts must 
 be held sacred. 
 
 The close of Carlyle' s Scotch visit found his wife some- 
 what improved, and soon an idea of Cromwell as a subject 
 for his next work interested him, and Mill's suggestion, that 
 he should write an article, developed into his great under- 
 taking. Thus his uneasy spirit found some sort of repose in 
 work. Jeffrey was still the kindest of friends, and joined the 
 chorus of those who openly and heartily admired Carlyle's 
 genius. 
 
 Mrs. Carlyle, in a letter to her mother-in-law, had gaily 
 
 4 
 
WHY WOMEN MARRY 1 65 
 
 hazarded the idea that she, too, was a genius as well as her 
 husband. She had charmed noisy neighbors into quietude 
 -^had done away with an obstreperous parrot whose shrieks 
 had caused her husband to cry out that he * could neither 
 think nor live,' and in a hundred ways had made the path 
 smooth for him. It was not 'genius' she lacked. 
 
 It was during the second course of lectures that Mrs. 
 Carlyle had seen the widowed Mrs. Edward Irving sitting 
 opposite to her, and spoke of the coincidence with true 
 womanly tenderness. 
 
 In July the Carlyles had been in Scotland, he with his 
 people, she partly with her mother at Templand; but the un- 
 favourable winter spent by Mrs. Carlyle, with her ' violent 
 chronic cold, and fiercely torturing, nervous headache, con- 
 tinuous sometimes for three days and nights,' was a gloomy 
 preparation for the strain of home-life in Chelsea. Her ' little 
 Fifeshire maid,' Kirkcaldy Helen, as Carlyle calls her, was no 
 small solace to her in these suffering days. Writing to Mrs. 
 Aitken she says: ' When I am very bad she bends over me 
 in my bed as if I were a little child . . . one might think 
 one's maid's tears could do little for a tearing headache, but 
 they do comfort a little.' 
 
 A significant passage, also given by Mr. Froude, occurs in 
 a letter to John Forster, written about this date. ' Why do 
 women marry?' she wrote; 'God knows, unless it be that, 
 like the great Wallenstein, they do not find scope enough for 
 their genius and qualities in an easy life.' It would, perhaps, 
 not be easy for us to predict what would have been an easy 
 life for one whose highly-strung nervous temperament would 
 have required the physique of an ox to make ordinary life 
 bearable and pleasant. 
 
 Carlyle had been mixed up with an annoying trial by jury 
 — ' a Manchester case of patents,' as he describes it in his note 
 on the letter from which we are about to quote — and had been 
 in * intolerable suffering, rage, almost despair, and resolution 
 to quit London, in consequence of these jury-summonses,' and 
 
1 66 LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 it is in reference to this that Mrs. Carlyle writes to John Ster- 
 ling in October 1840: — 
 
 My poor man of genius had to sit on a jury two days, to the 
 ruin of his whole being, physical, moral and intellectual. . . . 
 While I, poverina, have been reacting against his reaction, till 
 that malady called by the cockneys ' mental worry ' fairly took 
 me by the throat, and threw me on my bed for a good many 
 days. And now I am but recovering, white as the paper I write 
 upon, and carrying my head as one who has been making a failed 
 attempt at suicide. . . . 
 
 The next special burden reported as dragging down Mrs. 
 Carlyle's v/eakened frame, is dated by her husband as falling 
 in the autumn of the same year, 1840, when, excusing her- 
 self for seldom writing to her mother-in-law at Scotsbrig, she 
 says: *I should be glad enough to write a letter now and 
 then, just to keep the devil from my elbow,' and goes on to 
 describe the downfall of the Fifeshire maidservant, from a 
 giving way to intemperance. She says: 'I am really much 
 attached to the poor wretch, who has no fault under heaven 
 but this one.' The matter ended as was inevitable; but not 
 till after a first, second, and third forgiveness and chance to 
 do better had been granted. 
 
 Carlyle, meantime, was ' reading voraciously ' in prepara- 
 tion for his ' Cromwell,' and growling away in the old style, 
 to which his wife professes a certain wholesome indifference. 
 But indifference was not in her nature, helpful as it would 
 often have been: and the year closed in more or less of 
 disquiet. 
 
 The bitter tone which made itself felt in later days, crops 
 up in a letter written to her friend Susan Hunter, now 
 Mrs. Sterling, by Mrs. Carlyle, in January 1841, in words 
 which show how little real satisfaction or happiness came to 
 her in her new sphere of life. Her character of ' Lion's 
 Wife,' she says, gives her enough compulsory writing to 
 disgust even a Duchess of Orleans: * applications from young 
 ladies for autographs; passionate invitations to dine; an- 
 
IMPERFECT UNDERSTANDING 167 
 
 nouncements of inexpressible longing to drink tea with 
 me.* All these were a weariness to her, and she began to 
 look on the world with a cynical distrust of its favours, and 
 perhaps many a secret longing after that old, quiet time, 
 when she was herself the centre of her little world, loved and 
 watched and petted. It was not her nature to play the part 
 of 'Lion's Wife,' small blame to her ! It would have been 
 almost impossible to find a man to whom she could have been 
 second; but that man did exist, and she did marry him, and 
 there entered into her a deep and suffering dissatisfaction, 
 traceable in all she ever wrote to those she loved and trusted, 
 and wholly uncomprehended by the one nearest to her. 
 She was a woman, tender and excitable, and her burst of un- 
 accountable tears over some trifling gift from John Sterling 
 shows a spirit pent up and ready to come forth at a touch. 
 But that touch, to bring peace, could only come from the one 
 man in the world; and from him, spite of a faithful attach- 
 ment, it did not come. 
 
 What more severe ordeal to a woman such as Jane 
 Carlyle than life with a husband who writes to his brother 
 John in 1840 : ' The absence of ill-fare and semi-delirium is 
 possible for me in solitude only. Solitude indeed is sad as 
 Golgotha, but it is not mad like Bedlam.' That ' solitude ' 
 was a term strictly applied, and meant an absolute severance 
 from the close contact of domestic life, no less than a freedom 
 from the galling fetters of society. 
 
 Carlyle was, as Mr. Froude tells us, unable to keep his 
 discomforts to himself, and passionately dilated on them to 
 his wife, blindly unaware of her own heavy burden of pain, 
 so that the time they spent together was often the hardest 
 bit of all, and her keen disposition and sharp, caustic tongue 
 made matters no better. There was no remedy. And 
 when we find Carlyle writing in his journal in April 1840: 
 ' If I were a little healthier — ah me ! all were well * — we 
 feel that only one side of the question is touched upon, 
 
1 68 LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 A. D. I 841-1846 
 
 Trouble at Templand — Sudden Alarm — Summons too late — Mrs. 
 Carlyle receives the news of her mother's death when on her 
 way to nurse her — Carlyle goes to Templand to wind up the 
 estate — Mrs. Welsh buried at Crawford — Heart-stricken letter to 
 Mrs. Russell of Thornhill — Troston Rectory and the Bullers — 
 Lady Harriet Baring — Mrs. Carlyle's return to Cheyne Row — 
 First meeting with Miss Jewsbury and the Paulets — ' The three- 
 cornered alliance ' — Household ' earthquaking ' in Cheyne Row — 
 Mrs. Carlyle's first expressed judgment of Lady Harriet Baring 
 — Stay at Ryde — Father Mathew — Loss of Strength — Need of a 
 quite place for Carlyle to write in — Failure of the attempt — Let- 
 ter to John Welsh of Liverpool — Carlyle's hopefulness of his 
 wife's health — Her visit to Liverpool and Seaforth (the Paulets) 
 — Visit to the Grange — Painful thoughts — ' Cromwell' concluded. 
 
 There is little to mark the year 1841, but some charming 
 letters to John Sterling, now at Falmouth. There had been 
 some slight misunderstanding between the two friends, and 
 Mrs. Carlyle writes : * Had I loved you little, I should not 
 have minded; but loving you much, I regarded myself as a 
 femme inco7tiprise and, what was still worse, maltreated. . . .' 
 The matter which caused the temporary coolness was purely 
 a literary one, unnecessary to dwell on here; but Mrs. Carlyle 
 ends with, * I care little what comes of John Sterling the 
 poet, so long as John Sterling the man is all that my heart 
 wishes him to be,' and no cloud ever came between them again. 
 
 But a far deeper trouble was near. Mrs. Welsh's health, 
 never strong, gave way. Some allusion, not meant as serious, 
 in a letter from Templand had roused anxiety, and after 
 Carlyle had written confidentially to Dr. Russell, and received 
 a cautious though hopeful answer, the blow fell, and 'on 
 
DEATH OF MRS. WELSH 169 
 
 February 23 or 21,' Carlyle tells us, 'came tidings of "a 
 stroke," apoplectic, paralytic; immediate danger now over, 
 but future danger fatally evident.' 
 
 Carlyle tells, in touching words, how his stricken wife 
 hurried off by night train for Liverpool, on her way to her 
 mother; he tells of the violent pain in which she started, 
 'her beautiful eyes full of sorrowful affection;' of the sad 
 greeting at Liverpool: 'All is over at Templand, cousin; 
 gone, gone ! ' and how with all tenderness, the pitying hands 
 laid the bereaved woman to rest, as best she could rest in her 
 sorrow and utter weariness. 
 
 It was on Feb. 26, 1842, that Mrs. Welsh breathed her 
 last, ' that first stroke, mercifully the last one.' Mr. Carlyle 
 immediately went to Templand to settle affairs there, and two 
 months passed in this sad and lonely manner, but, as he says, 
 ' not unhappy.' The unhappiness was at Cheyne Row, where 
 the blow that struck the quick-responsive heart of Mrs. 
 Carlyle, stifled the powers of life. 
 
 Mrs. Welsh was laid in Crawford churchyard, twenty 
 miles from Templand. It was long before the stricken woman 
 at Chelsea could write on the subject — we give an extract 
 from a letter. 
 
 To Mrs. Russell, Thornhill. 
 5 Cheyne Row, Chelsea: Tuesday, April 1842. 
 My dear Mrs. Russell, — I sit down to write to you at last ! 
 But how to put into written words what lies for you in my 
 heart ! If I were beside you, I feel as if I should throw myself 
 on your neck, and cry myself to rest like a sick child. At this 
 distance, to ask in cold writing all the heart-breaking things I 
 would know of you, and to say all the kind things I would say 
 for her and myself, is indeed quite impossible for me. You will 
 come and see me, will you not, before very long? I can never 
 go there again ; but you will come to me ? traveling is made so 
 easy now ! And I should feel such gratification in receiving into 
 my own house one who was ever so dearly welcome in hers, and 
 who, of all who loved her, was, by one sad chance and another, 
 
I 70 LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 the only one whose love was any help to her when she most 
 needed our love ! She blessed you for the comfort you gave her, 
 and you shall be blessed for it here and hereafter. The dying 
 blessings of such a pure fervent heart as hers cannot have been 
 pronounced on you in vain ; and take my blessing also, ' kind, 
 sweet woman ! ' a less holy one, but not less sincerely given ! 
 
 It was not until early in May that Carlylewas able to 
 return to his home in Chelsea, 
 
 where (he says) my poor, sorrow-stricken darling, with Jeannie, 
 her Liverpool cousin, had been all this while. ... I found her 
 looking pale, thin, weak ; she did not complain of health, but 
 was evidently suffering that way too ; what she did feel was of 
 the mind, of the heart sunk in heaviness ; and of this also she 
 said little, even to me not much. Words could not avail; a 
 mother and mother's love were gone, irrevocably. . . . 
 
 There was also in Mrs. Carlyle's heart the bitterness of 
 vehement and fruitless self-reproach as to real or fancied 
 shortcomings in her conduct as a daughter — a shadow which 
 falls on the most blameless hearts, when once the object of 
 love and duty is taken from them for ever; and Carlyle, in 
 his own loneliness, reproached himself in his turn, possibly 
 equally groundlessly, with an impatience of his wife's reiter- 
 ated expressions of pain on this very subject. 
 
 Mrs. Carlyle's letters to Mrs. Russell, of Thornhill, one of 
 her best-loved friends, and wife of the physician who had 
 attended Mrs. Welsh, are most touching in their abandon- 
 ment of sorrow. * Think of me — pray for me ! ' she says, out 
 of her depth of depression. The first anniversary of her 
 birthday, in July of that year, was naturally a sad one; but 
 Carlyle made a little gift of a smelling-bottle to his wife on 
 that day, and never again omitted the thoughtful attention 
 of some memento after the mother's death. 
 
 The month of August was spent by Mrs. Carlyle at 
 Troston Rectory, Suffolk, where the Rev. Reginald Buller 
 held the living, with his father and mother as guests also. 
 Carlyle was on the eve of a short trip to the Continent — a few 
 
THE 'LION'S' WIFE I71 
 
 days merely, with Spring Rice, on public business. Here 
 in the peaceful country village was no peace for the agitated 
 nerves of Mrs. Carlyle, 'dead weary* as she describes herself 
 to have been. ' Infernal serenades of asses, braying as if 
 the devil were in them,' with ' ever so many cocks chal- 
 lenging each other all over the parish,' banished all hope 
 of sleep. 
 
 In this first letter from Troston we find the first mention 
 of Lady Harriet Baring, afterwards Lady Ashburton. Mrs. 
 Carlyle ends with : ' God bless you, my dear husband ! I 
 hope you are rested, and going to Lady Harriet, and I hope 
 you will think of me a great deal, and be as good to me on 
 my return as you were when I came away. I do not desire 
 any more of you ! Your own — J. C 
 
 The Rev. Reginald does not seem to have struck Mrs. 
 Carlyle by the intellect and power which so distinguished 
 Carlyle's old pupil Charles, of whom Lord Houghton speaks 
 in such warm and generous terms in his highly interesting 
 work, ' Monographs.' But she was not in a state of health 
 to appreciate the commonplace, and again, on August 20, 
 bitterly complains to her husband of night-noises, of which a 
 healthy brain and nervous system would have been more or 
 less unconscious : ' Braying, lowing, crowing, cackling, 
 barking, howling, &c., the like of which I have not found in 
 Israel ! ' In thus expre;ssing herself we must bear in mind 
 that she well knew Carlyle to be equally susceptible to the 
 least disturbance, and could, or at least might, be expected 
 to understand her trouble. She adds : ' In the few moments 
 that I slept, I dreamed that my mother came to me, and 
 said that she knew of a beautiful place where it was so 
 quiet. . . .' 
 
 This is, indeed, what Mrs. Carlyle feared would come out 
 of her — ' the literature of desperation ; ' and we must bear in 
 mind that, from this time forth, we are speaking of a sick 
 woman, broken permanently in her nervous health and well- 
 being, and seeing all things with the inevitable exaggeration 
 
172 
 
 LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 of an overworn brain and saddened hopes. That she was 
 tragical and intense was absolutely inevitable to one in her 
 physical state, and it would be idle to discuss so sad, so 
 unalterably sad, a condition, in the once bright and dauntless 
 woman. 
 
 A * passing bell ' for some old parishioner who had died, 
 rung at an untimely hour, caused acute suffering, sleepless- 
 ness and fright to Mrs. Carlyle, who returned to Cheyne 
 Row early in September, and again poured forth her sad- 
 ness in letters to Mrs. Russell and Mrs. Aitken. It was true 
 of her, as Carlyle had said of himself, that, ' sick children, 
 who long now for this, now for that, are not well off any- 
 where. The thing they want, I suppose, is to get to 
 sleep well on their mother's bosom.' But that was not to be 
 as yet. 
 
 Growing popularity attracted a vast number of visitors to 
 Cheyne Row — to see, if it might be, the author of ' Hero 
 Worship,' * The French Revolution,' &c., the man who had 
 wrought such a mighty upheaval in thought and literature ; 
 and the * Lion's Wife ' had a handsome share of such rich in- 
 comings. For among those admirers was one who came to 
 know and to love both these remarkable people, and was 
 Mrs. Carlyle's closest friend through life — Miss Geraldine 
 Jewsbury, a Manchester lady, gifted, brilliant, and herself an 
 authoress, afterwards, also, for many years, reader and re- 
 viewer to the 'Athenaeum.' 
 
 Geraldine was eager, sprightly, original, and warm- 
 hearted — the most congenial nature Mrs. Carlyle could have 
 met with. We, who had the privilege of knowing her in 
 her later years, when she visited her brother, the late 
 Mr. Frank Jewsbury, in Manchester, can never forget the 
 quick, responsive brightness and very marked originality of 
 Geraldine Jewsbury. There were many points of character 
 not dissimilar between her and Mrs. Carlyle; and the friend- 
 ship was extended to Mr. Carlyle, who received it with less 
 of rapture, perhaps, but never failed to recognize the good 
 
A READ Y EXPEDIENT \ 73 
 
 points of Geraldine, though her impulsiveness sometimes 
 grated on him momentarily. 
 
 Miss Jewsbury was also very intimate with a Mr. and 
 Mrs. Paulet (he, Swiss by birth ; she, an English lady), who 
 lived at Seaforth, near Liverpool, and in time Mrs. Carlyle 
 came to know and visit the Paulets. The husband was an 
 estimable man, a merchant in good circumstances, and Mrs. 
 Paulet {^Betsy, as she soon came to be called in the letters 
 and chats of the ladies) was a charming and gifted woman, 
 attractive in many ways. 
 
 Three uncommon women like these found difficulties, no 
 doubt, in a ' three-cornered ' friendship, irregularly unreserved 
 and intimate, yet not altogether confidential, equally, amongst 
 the three. From discussing literary subjects they often 
 passed to personal ones, and, as all three were not always 
 present,- there arose in time that little 'rift within the lute' 
 which was natural under the circumstances. But peace came 
 out of the agitation, and one of its terms was, that each lady 
 returned to the other every scrap of writing which had passed 
 between them, — so far, at least, as Mrs. Carlyle and Miss 
 Jewsbury were concerned, whose correspondence had been 
 voluminous ; and probably in Mrs. Paulet's case also. 
 
 All three friends now having passed away, it would be 
 worse than useless to dwell on a storm which never really 
 affected the true heart-friendship between Mrs. Carlyle and 
 Miss Jewsbury, which lasted till the end — in 1866. One only 
 letter of this correspondence is in our hands, the sole repre- 
 sentative of hundreds — it was lent most kindly by John Stores 
 Smith, Miss Jewsbury's valued friend and literary executor. 
 It was written at the close of Mrs. Carlyle's life, as there is 
 abundant evidence to show, and will be given in its place. 
 
 It was in July 1843 that the house in Cheyne Row 
 needed painting and readjustment, and Carlyle had gone to 
 Wales to be out of the annoyance, leaving his wife to look 
 after the workmen, &c., with her maid as companion, in this 
 uncomfortable state of things. And Mrs. Carlyle, suffering 
 
1 74 ^IP^ I^ LONDON 
 
 as much as her husband did from the smell of paint, ingeni- 
 ously fitted up 'a sort of gipsy's tent' in the garden, with 
 arm-chair, little table, &c. It was constructed, as she tells 
 her husband, by her own hands, * out of the clothes' ropes 
 and poles, and the old crumb-cloth out of the library.' 
 
 We cannot but remember her gipsy blood, and feel that 
 she unconsciously adopted a plan most congenial to her 
 temperament, and must have thus passed some truly happy 
 hours, for she adds, ' one has no credit in being jolly in such 
 a pretty bower.' Here we have a reference to ' Mark Tapley,' 
 and we may mention that Charles Dickens was now known 
 personally to the Carlyles. Speaking of this ' tent,' Mrs. 
 Carlyle says — 'Woman wants but little here below; ' we might 
 add the emphatic conclusion of a venerable lady-friend : 'but 
 that little she OT?/j-/ //0?'^ /' — and it was not always feasible. 
 Writing to her Uncle John in Liverpool on July i8 Mrs. 
 Carlyle speaks of her home as ' possessed by seven devils — 
 a painter, two carpenters, a paperhanger, two nondescript 
 apprentice lads, and a spy, all playing the devil to the utmost 
 of their powers. . . .' Her tent, too, frail refuge, had an 
 awkward way of falling down on her head at the least puff of 
 wind. In fact, her vivid descriptions of this period of ' earth- 
 quaking' are highly characteristic. 
 
 Carlyle meantime visited Clifton and Chepstow, and writes 
 to his wife: 'You are very good; write always. Except by 
 your letters, I am, at present, disunited from all the earth.' 
 A visit to Bishop Thirlwall was a memorable incident of 
 this little tour. When Carlyle reflected that his wife was 
 weak, overwrought, and suffering from the heat, he urged 
 her to join him at a seaside lodging at Formby, near Sea- 
 forth, where the Paulets lived; but the plan came to nothing. 
 So Mrs. Carlyle remained at Cheyne Row, while her husband 
 again went to Scotland, in what Mr. Froude calls 'a period 
 of eclipse.' 
 
 Helen Welsh, her cousin from Liverpool, was now with 
 Mrs. Carlyle, and the house in Cheyne Row began to look 
 
RETURN TO CHELSEA 1 75 
 
 clean and pretty. 'Thanks,' she writes to Carlyle, 'for 
 your constant little letters; when you came back, I do not 
 know how I shall learn to do without them. . . . But, my 
 dear, I must stop: you see that my head is bad, and that 
 I am making it worse. Bless you ! ' 
 
 On August 9 Mrs. Carlyle set off, with old Mr. Sterling, 
 to spend a few days at Ryde, where her discomforts seem to 
 have been many and acute. Here occurred the remarkable 
 incident of her enthusiastic meeting with Father Mathew, 
 which shows her keen and impulsive nature at its very 
 height. We give an extract from her letter to her husband, 
 on this subject. The date is August 9, 1843: — 
 
 . . . And now let me tell you something which you will 
 perhaps think questionable, a piece of Hero- Worship that I have 
 been after. My youthful enthusiasm, as John Sterling calls 
 it, is not extinct then, as I had supposed; but must certainly be 
 immortal ! Only think of its blazing up for Father Mathew ! 
 You know I have always had the greatest reverence for that 
 priest ; and when I heard he was in London, attainable to me, I 
 felt that I must see him, shake him by the hand, and tell him I 
 loved him considerably ! I was expressing my wish to see him, 
 to Robertson, the night he brought the Ballad Collector ; and 
 he told me it could be gratified quite easily. Mrs. Hall had 
 offered him a note of introduction to Father Mathew, and she 
 would be pleased to include my name in it. ' Fix my time, then.' 
 ' He was administering the pledge all day long in the Com- 
 mercial Road.' I fixed next evening. 
 
 Robertson, accordingly, called for me at five, and we rumbled 
 off in omnibus, all the way to Mile End, that hitherto for me 
 unimaginable goal ! Then there was still a good way to walk ; 
 the place, the ' new lodging,' was a large piece of waste ground, 
 boarded off from the Commercial Road, for a Catholic cemetery. 
 I found 'my youthful enthusiasm ' rising higher and higher as I 
 got on the ground, and saw the thousands of people all hushed 
 into awful silence, with not a single exception that I saw — the 
 only religious meeting I ever saw in cockneyland which had not 
 plenty of scoffers hanging on its outskirts. The crowd was all 
 in front of a narrow scaffolding, from which an American cap- 
 
I 76 LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 tain was then haranguing it ; and Father Mathew stood beside 
 him, so good and simple-looking ! Of course, we could not push 
 our way to the front of the scaffold, where steps led up to it ; so 
 we went to one end, where there were no steps or other visible 
 means of access, and handed up our letter of introduction to a 
 policeman ; he took it and returned presently, saying that Father 
 Mathew was coming. And he came ; and reached down his 
 hand to me, and I grasped it ; but the boards were higher than 
 my head, and it seemed our communication must stop there. 
 But I have told you that I was in a moment of enthusiasm ; I 
 felt the need of getting closer to that good man. I saw a bit of 
 rope hanging, in the form of a festoon, from the end of the 
 boards ; I put my foot on it ; held still by Father Mathew's 
 hand ; seized the end of the boards with the other ; and, in 
 some, to myself (up to this moment), incomprehensible way, 
 flung myself horizontally on to the scaffolding at Father 
 Mathew's feet ! He uttered a scream, for he thought (I suppose) 
 I must fall back ; but not at all ; I jumped to my feet, shook 
 hands with him and said — what ? ' God only knows.' He made 
 me sit down on the only chair a moment ; then took me by the 
 hand as if I had been a little girl, and led me to the front of the 
 scaffold, to see him administer the pledge. From a hundred to 
 two hundred took it ; and all the tragedies and theatrical repre- 
 sentations I ever saw, melted into one, could not have given me 
 snch emotion as that scene did. There were faces both of men 
 and women that will haunt me while I live ; faces exhibiting 
 such concentrated wretchedness, making, you would have said, 
 its last deadly struggle with the powers of darkness. There was 
 one man, in particular, with a baby in his arms ; and a young 
 girl that seemed of the ' unfortunate ' sort, that gave me an 
 insight into the lot of humanity that I still wanted. And in the 
 face of Father Mathew, when one looked from them to him, the 
 mercy of Heaven seemed to be laid bare. Of course I cried; but 
 I longed to lay my head down on the good man's shoulder and 
 take a hearty cry there before the whole multitude ! He said 
 to me one such nice thing. ' I dare not be absent for an hour,' 
 he said ; ' I think always if some dreadful drunkard were to 
 come, and me away, he might never muster determination per- 
 haps to come again in all his life ; and there would be a man 
 lost ! ' 
 
INTER VIE W WITH FA THEK MA THE VV I J J 
 
 I was turning sick, and needed to get out of the thing, but, in 
 the act of leaving him — never to see him again through all 
 time, most probably — feeling him to be the very best man of 
 modern times (you excepted), I had another movement of 
 youthful enthusiasm which you will hold up your hands and 
 eyes at. Did I take the pledge then? No; but I would, though, 
 if I had not feared it would be put in the newspapers ! No, not 
 that ; but I drew him aside, having considered if I had any 
 ring on, any handkerchief, anything that I could leave with him 
 in remembrance of me, and having bethought me of a pretty 
 memorandum-book in my reticule, I drew him aside and put it 
 in his hand, and bade him keep it for my sake; and asked him 
 to give me one of his medals to keep for his? And all this in 
 tears and the utmost agitation ! Had you any idea that your 
 wife was still such a fool! I am sure I had not. The Father got 
 through the thing admirably. He seemed to understand what 
 it all meant quite well, inarticulate though I was. He would not 
 give me a common medal, but took a silver one from the neck 
 of a young man who had just taken the pledge for example's 
 sake, telling him he would get him another presently, and then 
 laid the medal into my hand with a solemn blessing. I could 
 not speak for excitement all the way home. When I went to 
 bed I could not sleep; the pale faces I had seen haunted me, 
 and Father Mathew's smile; and even next morning, I could not 
 anyhow subside into my normal state, until I had sat down and 
 written Father Mathew a long letter — accompanying it with 
 your ' Past and Present ! ' . . . 
 
 It is to be feared that old Mr. Sterling was hardly the 
 companion for Mrs. Carlyle. A noisy hotel had been changed 
 for lodgings, where discomforts of a still more unbearable 
 kind awaited the nervous and sleepless woman. A letter 
 from Miss Jewsbury the next day, in connection with a 
 young servant for whom Mrs. Carlyle was kindly finding a 
 place in Manchester, gave Mrs. Carlyle the excuse for instant 
 return to town. She speaks kindly of old Mr. Sterling, but 
 estimates his conversational powers as low, since, in his 
 decline and suffering, ' he cannot even talk, for every minute 
 needing to roar out " This is torture, by Jove ! My God, 
 
178 LIFE IN LONDON' 
 
 this is agony ! " ' and she ends her letter by subscribing her- 
 self ' bug-bitten, bedevilled, and out of my latitude.' 
 
 On August 13 she has safely returned to Cheyne Row, and 
 tells her husband, who is still at Scotsbrig, that she was, or 
 ought to be, ' the most thankful woman in Chelsea.' But 
 in the same letter are the words: * Oh! my mother, my own 
 mother ! ' After a good sleep in her own * red bed,' she 
 awoke to activity, and ' fell immediately to painting and 
 glazing with my own hands, not to ruin you altogether,' and 
 she ends with ' Pray for me ! ' A German governess. Miss 
 Bolte, whose name often occurs, spent an evening with Mrs. 
 Carlyle, who was trying to place her in a situation — ever 
 anxious, as she was, to help others. Miss Bolte is described 
 as 'a fine, manly little creature.' 
 
 Depressing days followed, failing strength, and very 
 unlovely household discomforts, needless to enter on here. 
 Still were the kindly deeds never neglected: the 'five pounds 
 for poor old Mary, before you leave the country;' the gentle 
 reception of Garnier, a revolutionary exile, all out of tune 
 and out of heart, whose troubled soul she smoothed with her 
 tender womanly hand, so that, on parting, he said, ' You have 
 made me pass one evening pleasantly, and I came very 
 miserable.' It was towards the end of this month that Mrs, 
 Carlyle ' realised ' the sofa, of which she writes so graphically 
 to her husband, with the eagerness and pleasure of a child 
 describing a new toy. 
 
 There was a little disappointment at the fact of Dr. John 
 Carlyle arriving at Cheyne Row on a visit before Carlyle's 
 own arrival. But she bravely says: * When you come, I shall 
 insist on going into some quiet, comfortable room with you, 
 and locking the door till we have had a quiet, comfortable 
 talk. . . .' 
 
 These anticipations were not realised. Carlyle returned 
 from his travels 'very bilious,' and, as a consequence, doubt- 
 less, irritable, and all the completed labours after order and 
 cleanliness in the house were swallowed up in one wild long- 
 
CARLYLE RETURNS TO CHELSEA I 79 
 
 ing on his part for a quiet place to write in. An ' accursed 
 pianoforte next door ' was the deciding aggravation. Some- 
 thing must be done, and that speedily; and many expedients 
 were tried, but without avail, to arrange a quiet room for 
 Carlyle to work in. Mrs. Carlyle writes to Mrs. Aitken in 
 October 1843: 
 
 My dear Jane, — Carlyle returned from his travels very bilious 
 and continues very bilious up to this hour. The amount of bile 
 that he does bring home to me, in these cases, is something 
 ' awfully grand ! ' Even through that deteriorating medium he 
 could not but be struck with a ' certain admiration ' at the 
 immensity of needlework I had accomplished in his absence, in 
 the shape of chair-covers, sofa-covers, window curtains, &c., &c., 
 and all the other manifest improvements into which I had put 
 my whole genius and industry, and so little money as was hardly 
 to be conceived ! For three days his satisfaction over the 
 rehabilitated house lasted ; on the fourth, the young lady next 
 door took a fit of practising on her accursed pianoforte, which 
 he had quite forgotten seemingly, and he started up disen- 
 chanted in his new library, and informed heaven and earth in a 
 peremptory manner that ' there he could neither think nor live,' 
 that the carpenter must be brought back and ' steps taken to 
 make him a quiet place somewhere — perhaps best of all on the 
 roof of the house.' Then followed interminable consultations 
 with the said carpenter, yielding, for some days, only plans 
 (wild ones) and estimates. The roof on the house could be 
 made all that a living author of irritable nerves could desire: 
 silent as a tomb, lighted from above; but it would cost us 120/. ! 
 Impossible, seeing that we may be turned out of the house any 
 year ! so one had to reduce one's schemes to the altering of 
 rooms that already were. By taking down a partition and 
 instituting a fire-place where no fire-place could have been 
 fancied capable of existing, it is expected that some bearable 
 approximation to that ideal room in the clouds will be realised. 
 But my astonishment and despair on finding myself after three 
 months of what they call here ' regular mess,' just when I had 
 got every trace of the workpeople cleared away, and had said 
 to myself, ' Soul, take thine ease, or at all events thy swing, for 
 thou hast carpets nailed down and furniture rubbed for many 
 
I So LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 days!' just when I was beginning to lead the dreaming, 
 reading, dawdHng existence which best suits me, and alone suits 
 me in cold weather, to find myself in the thick of a new ' mess: ' 
 the carpets, which I had nailed down so well with my own 
 hands, tumbled up again, dirt, lime, whitewash, oil, paint, hard 
 at work as before, and a prospect of new cleanings, new sewings, 
 new arrangements stretching away into eternity for anything I 
 see ! ' Well,' as my Helen says (the strangest mixture of philos- 
 opher and perfect idiot that I have met with in my life), ' when 
 one's doing this, one's doing nothing else anyhow ! ' And as 
 one ought to be always doing something, this suggestion of 
 hers has some consolation in it. . . . 
 
 Three days of satisfaction were a scanty reward for the 
 continuous and anxious efforts made by Mrs. Carlyle for her 
 husband's comfort. In a letter to Mrs. Sterling she expresses 
 herself vividly on the subject. 
 
 Up went all the carpets which my own hands had nailed 
 down, in rushed the troop of incarnate demons, bricklayers, 
 joiners, white-washers, &c. . . . Down went a partition in one 
 room, up went a new chimney in another. Helen, instead of 
 exerting herself to stave the torrent of confusion, seemed to be 
 struck [no wonder] with temporary idiotcy; and my husband 
 himself, at sight of the uproar he had raised, was all but 
 wringing his hands and tearing his hair. . . . Myself could have 
 sat down and cried, so little strength or spirit had I left. . . . 
 
 Sad to tell, this re-arrangement of rooms, when completed, 
 proved an entire failure, and the distracted writer, after 
 < shifting about in the saddest way, like a domestic wandering 
 Jew, returned to his original library.' 'Alas!' adds his 
 wife, * one can make fun of this on paper, but in practice it is 
 anything but fun, I assure you. There is no help for it, 
 however; a man of genius cannot hold his genius as a 
 sinecure !' 
 
 It was in November of this year that Mrs. Carlyle writes 
 of her own suffering to the kind uncle John in Liverpool; 
 piteously bewails her ' solitude ' in that bed-chamber, where 
 she has 'transacted so many headaches, so many influenzas,' 
 
 I 
 
SUFFERINGS AND PAINFUL MEMORIES l8l 
 
 and says she is ' Oh ! so lonely ! as in some intermediate 
 stage betwixt the living world and the dead ! ' For Carlyle 
 was now buried, in his own fashion, namely in the production 
 of his * Cromwell,' and a notable diminution ensued in the 
 time he could spend with his wife. 
 
 It was in June of 1844, that she ventured on a visit to her 
 relatives and friends in Liverpool and that neighbourhood. 
 The winter had again been very depressing. In the March 
 preceding, Carlyle had anxieties about his beloved old 
 mother, and made touching entries in his Journal as to her 
 possible decline. The more slowly advancing decay ever 
 beside him, he failed to see. His 'eyes were holden'! 
 ' Jane,' he says, * gets better in the bright weather. All is 
 bright here.* But these words were in a letter to cheer his 
 mother. In his Journal he says on May 8: 'My progress 
 in "Cromwell" is frightful. . . . A thousand times have I 
 regretted that this task was ever taken up. ... I am oftenest 
 very sad.' And so the double sadness went on in these two 
 lives, and other hope was utterly vain. 
 
 After a most trying journey Mrs. Carlyle arrived at her 
 uncle's house in Maryland Street, Liverpool, and met the 
 most cordial welcome, but tells her husband that, * instead of 
 being able to feel glad to see them, something twisted itself 
 about my throat and across my breast, as if I were going 
 to be strangled, and I could get no breath without screaming.' 
 It was at this house that she had met the news of her 
 mother's death. AVith a not unnatural womanly wilfulness, 
 Mrs. Carlyle wished her husband to miss her presence at 
 Cheyne Row, and rejoiced at the written tokens of this, 
 adding, ' It is curious how much more uncomfortable / feel 
 without you ! I am always wondering, since I came here, 
 how I can, even in my angriest mood talk about leaving you 
 for good and all; for if I were to leave you to-day on that 
 principle I should need absolutely to go back to-morrow to 
 see how you were taking it.' 
 
 July II found her at Seaforth House, vv'ith the Paulets, 
 
1 8 2 LIFE IN LOND ON 
 
 whence she wrote lovingly to her husband, over whose 
 birthday gift to her she had 'cried and laughed,' longing 
 to give him * an emphatic kiss ' by way of thanks. 
 
 The end of September she was again in her Chelsea home, 
 and Carlyle proceeded on his first visit to the Grange, where 
 Lady Harriet Baring was staying with her father, Lord 
 Ashburton, v/hile Mrs. Carlyle was much occupied with 
 kindly and heroic ministrations to the unfortunate Plattnauer, 
 an anxious guest. Her influence on this man was remark- 
 able, though she herself barely alludes to it, and none can 
 ever know what he owed to her. But it was a dull and joyless 
 time for Mrs. Carlyle, unenlivened, to any appreciable extent, 
 by all the brilliant society that now flocked around her. 
 
 The visit to the Grange was soon over, and some frag- 
 ments from her own note-books, destroyed by herself for 
 the most part, give an idea of her life up to the summer of 
 1845, when she again visited ' uncle John' and the Paulets. 
 She seems as impatient as ever with the commonplace order 
 of things around her, complains of 'the eternal smell of 
 roast meat ' in that hospitable household, and comforts her- 
 self in her misery by the reflection that perhaps * others are 
 more to be pitied that they are not miserable.' ' Somehow 
 /, "as one solitary individual," would rather remain in hell 
 — the hell I make for myself with my restless digghig — than 
 accept this drowsy placidity.' This theory, Mrs. Carlyle 
 certainly and most inevitably carried out. We would not 
 ' hear her enemy say so,' but a more thorough and absolute 
 judgment was never made. Her brains 'tormented her' by 
 her own confession. '■But what to dot ^ Could Carlyle or 
 any other have helped her materially ? We think not. Per- 
 haps a quiet cigarette with Miss Jewsbury, who really loved 
 her, was her greatest solace at this time. A game of chess 
 with Mr. Paulet was also soothing, and she had still spirit 
 enough to sign herself to Carlyle — ' Your own adorable wife.' 
 
 Carlyle was now himself coming north — his wife return- 
 ing to London. She had written him an angry letter about 
 
WOMANL Y ANGER AND REPENTANCE 1 83 
 
 his changes of plan, and had promptly repented. On 
 August 20 she writes to him, ' husbands are so obtuse. 
 They do not understand one's movements of impatience' 
 want always to be treated with the respect due to genius; 
 exact common-sense of their poor wives, rather than "the 
 finer sensibilities of the heart;" and so the marriage state 
 . . "has come to what ye see " — if not to immortal smash as 
 yet, at least to within a hair's breadth of it.' 
 
 By the middle of September the * Cromwell ' was finished, 
 and Carlyle, having spent some few days at Seaforth, went to 
 his own people, while his wife returned to Chelsea, * to meet 
 again,' as she writes in a letter to a friend, ' when he has had 
 enough of peat-bog, and his platonically beloved silence. . . .' 
 Mrs. Carlyle herself returned for another of those inexplicable 
 * household earthquakes,' so wearisome even in their mention, 
 and for which she was so eminently unfitted in her weakened 
 state. Her cousin, Helen Welsh, received her, and the visits 
 of Mazzini and others helped her solitude. Her impressions 
 of a grand amateur theatrical representation, got up by 
 Dickens and Foster, with other distinguished co-adjutors, 
 are most amusing, in her letter to Carlyle of September 23, 
 though the evening was fatiguing. But next day a charming 
 call from Alfred Tennyson, 'all to herself,' was one of the 
 pleasant results of her presence on the occasion. 
 
 The serious illness of Macready was a pain to Mrs. Carlyle, 
 as he had been present on the said occasion, and in his usual 
 health; and hardly less terrible, in prospect of Carlyle's return, 
 was the re-appearance of a dog which was supposed to have 
 been ' put down ' at Christmas. * The calmness of a great 
 despair ' overcame the anxious wife at these unholy barks. 
 ' Oh destiny accursed! ' she says, * what use of scrubbing and 
 sorting ? All this availeth nothing so long as the dog sitteth 
 at the washerman's gate.' A skilful note put down the 
 nuisance, and peace reigned once more. 'Thank God,' she 
 writes, * you still have quietude to return to.' The dog, set 
 at large, ' behaved just like any other rational being.' 
 
184 Z//^£■ IN LONDON 
 
 On October 7, Mrs. Carlyle writes to her husband — ' Ah ! 
 my dear; yes, indeed ! If I could quench the devil also, 
 you might turn your face homewards with comparative 
 security.' Pecuniary annoyances represent part — only a 
 part — of the diabolic influences here alluded to, but never 
 was more thrifty and conscientious manager than herself, 
 and her extreme over-sensibility alone called forth this 
 outcry. 
 
 Early in December the Carlyles paid a long-promised visit 
 to Mr. and Lady Harriet Baring at Bay House, Alverstoke, 
 Hants, and the first impression made on Mrs. Carlyle by 
 her brilliant hostess was evidently a favourable one. In a 
 letter to Mrs, Russell on returning from Bay House, she 
 describes Lady Harriet as 'the very cleverest woman, out of 
 sight, that I ever saw in my life (and I have seen all our 
 " distinguished authoresses "), moreover, she is full of energy 
 and sincerity, and has, I am sure, an excellent heart.' Yet 
 here lay the source of a bitter and terrible alienation between 
 the two who had so faithfully hitherto stepped beside each 
 other in sunshine and storm. But a lull came first, and in 
 the summer of 1846 Mrs. Carlyle again visited her Lancashire 
 friends, being joined by Carlyle in August after his six silent 
 weeks in Annandale. 'Sad as death,' he says, in his retro- 
 spective annotation, 'on my own and the world's confusions 
 and perversities, and the tragedies bred there for oneself and 
 others,' 
 
 From Seaforth Mrs. Carlyle wrote in much depression to 
 her friend, Mrs. Russell of Thornhill, and on the 14th she 
 writes to Carlyle, who was still at Chelsea, of her ' suffocating 
 misery ' at not having received her regular birthday letter 
 from him. She had been to ask for the letter, and the post- 
 mistress had said there was none that day. She had walked 
 home ' in a tumult of wretchedness.' She tells him her 
 tormenting thoughts: 'Were you,' she writes, 'so out of 
 patience with me that you had resolved to write to me no 
 more at all ? Had you gone to Addiscombe, and found no 
 
A TANGLED SKEIN 1 85 
 
 leisure there to remember my existence ? Were you taken 
 ill, so ill that you could not write? . , .' Some explanation 
 is needed here. There had been deep unhappiness in the 
 little household. Carlyle had written to a dear, tr-usted friend, 
 Erskine of Linlathen, on July 11, 'My wife went off a few 
 days since to Lancashire. She had been in a very weakly 
 way, . , . had much need of quiet and fresh air. ... I, too, 
 am battered and fretted into great sorrow of heart, that will 
 be difficult to cure in this world.* 
 
I 8 6 LIFE IN L OND ON 
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 A. D. 1 846-1 847 
 
 The dark cloud — Carlyle's anxiety — Mrs. Carlyle seeks counsel — 
 Mazzini's honourable and noble advice — The flight to Seaforth^ 
 Birthday gift and gentle words — Renewed counsels — Renewed 
 bitterness — Lord Houghton's estimate of Lady Harriet Baring — 
 Contrasts — Sad thoughts — Clough's Poem — Visit to W. E. Fors- 
 ter — Again at Addiscombe — Hopeless misunderstanding — The 
 healing of the wound rendered impossible. 
 
 Although Carlyle attributed his consuming and constant 
 discontent partly to ' the nature of the beast,' we know that 
 he had much to try him, to try any man, at this special time. 
 A thick cloud of wretchedness had followed a visit paid by 
 Mrs. Carlyle to Addiscombe. She had returned, as she said, 
 'with a mind all churned to froth,' and after most painful 
 scenes, had fled to the Paulets at Seaforth and failed to re- 
 port her safe arrival. Carlyle wrote in alarm: < My dear,' he 
 said, ' I hope it is only displeasure, or embarrassed estrange- 
 ment from me, that robs me of a note this morning. I will 
 not torment myself. Perhaps an unfriendly letter would be 
 worse. Never have we parted so before, and all for ?iothi?ig ! 
 Adieu, dearest, for that is always your title, if madness prevail 
 not. Do not doubt of me, do not yield to the Enemy of us 
 all, and may God bless thee always ! ' 
 
 But Mrs. Carlyle had been too deeply stirred, and, before 
 leaving London, had taken the strong step of consulting a 
 justly esteemed friend, Mazzini, at this painful crisis. His 
 replies shew how nobly worthy he was of the critical confidence. 
 ' Awake, arise, dear friend ! ' he writes. ' Beset by pain we 
 must go on, with a sad smile and a practical encouragement 
 
AN HONO URABLE CO UNSELLOR 1 8 7 
 
 from one another. Your life proves an empty thing, you say ! 
 Empty ? Have you never done good ? Have you never loved ? 
 Think of your mother, and do good. Set the eye to Provi- 
 dence. It is not a piece of irony that God has placed you 
 here; can't you trust Him a little longer?' 
 
 Again, on July 13, after receiving some gentle words from 
 his wife, Carlyle wrote enclosing his faithfully-remembered 
 birthday present, this time a little card-case with tender 
 messages. ' Accept my little gift,' he writes, ' and kiss it as I 
 have done.' The letter, with its enclosure, had been over- 
 looked, and it was the delay of two hours in its delivery which 
 called forth the painful words we have quoted. When once 
 safely in her hand, she again writes to her husband, ' I won- 
 der what love-letter was ever received with such thankfulness ? ' 
 , . . ' Yes,' she continues, ' I have kissed the dear little card- 
 case; and, now I will lie down awhile and try to get some 
 sleep, at least to quiet myself. Oh ! why cannot I believe it, 
 once for all, that, with all my faults and follies, I am *' dearer 
 to you than any earthly creature"?' (this last phrase, by 
 the way, originally quoted from one of Cromwell's letters to 
 his wife). 
 
 Mrs. Carlyle had again written to Mazzini, and again 
 received honourable and gentle counsel. On July 15 he wrote 
 to her: ' Yes ! Sad as death; but not basely sad. . . . You 
 believe in God; don't you think, after all, that this is nothing 
 but an ephemeral trial, and that He will shelter you to your 
 journey's end under the wide wing of His paternal love ? 
 
 You had, have, though invisible to the eyes of the body, your 
 mother, your father, too. Can't you commune with them ? I 
 know that a single moment of true fervent love for them will do 
 more for you than all my talking ! Were they now what you 
 call living, would you not fly to them, hide your head in their 
 bosom and be comforted, and feel that you owe to them to be 
 strong — that they may never feel ashamed of their own Jane ? 
 Why, can you think them to be dead, gone for ever, their loving 
 immortal souls annihilated ? Can you think that this vanishing 
 
1 88 LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 for a time has made you less responsible to them? Cajiyou, in 
 a word, love them less because they are far from sight ? I have 
 often thought that the arrangement by which loved and loving 
 beings are to pass through death is nothing but the last experi- 
 ment appointed by God to human love; and often, as you know 
 from me, I have felt that a moment of true soul-communing with 
 my dead friend was opening a source of strength for me unhoped 
 for, down here. Did we not often agree about these glimpses 
 of the link between ours and the superior life ? Shall we now 
 begin to disagree ? Be strong then, and true to those you loved, 
 and proud, nobly proud in the eyes of those you love or esteem. 
 Some of them are deeply, silently suffering, but needing strength 
 too, needing it perhaps from you. Get up and work; do not set 
 yourself apart from us. When the Evil One wanted to tempt- 
 Jesus, he led Him into a solitude. Believe me, my dear friend, 
 ever yours, 
 
 Joseph Mazzini. 
 
 This sympathy could not root out the deep pain from her 
 heart, but no words could have been wiser, had she but known. 
 
 This time was an eminently dreamy one for Mrs. Carlyle. 
 On hearing of the death of the old minister at Auchtertool, 
 and of her cousin Walter Welsh's succession to the appoint- 
 ment thus suddenly vacated, she writes to Mr, Carlyle — 
 
 What a mighty problem we make about our bits of lives, and 
 Death as surely on the way to cut us out of 'all that,' at least, 
 whatever may come after . . . one may go a far way in scep- 
 ticism; may get to disbelieve in God and the devil, in virtue and 
 in vice, in love, in one's own soul; never to speak of time and 
 space, progress of the species, rights of women, greatest happiness 
 of the greatest number, ' isms,' world without end; eveiything, 
 in short, that the human mind ever believed in, or ' believed that 
 it believed in '; only not in death. The most outrageous sceptic 
 even I, after two nights without sleep — cannot go ahead against 
 that fact — a rather cheering one on the whole — that, let one's 
 earthly difficulties be what they may, death will make them all 
 smooth sooner or later, and either one shall have a trial at exist- 
 ing again under new conditions, or sleep soundly through all 
 eternity. That last used to be a horrible thought for me, but it 
 
'KIRKCA LD Y HELEN ' 1 8 9 
 
 is not so any longer. I am weary, weary to such a point of 
 moral exhaustion, that any anchorage were welcome, even the 
 stillest, coldest, where the wicked should cease from troubling, 
 and the weary be at rest, understanding both by the wicked and 
 the weary myself. 
 
 Carlyle had, as he says, left home, not guessing at all how 
 ill she was. How should he guess ? He had no means of 
 guessing; no clue to the desolation of that heart of hers ! 
 
 From Liverpool Mrs. Carlyle went on to Miss Jewsbury's 
 quiet place in Manchester, and this faithful friend ministered, 
 as she best knew how, to the storm-tossed spirit and ex- 
 hausted frame. Nor was the task an ungrateful one, for her 
 guest writes on August 23: * It has brought back something 
 like color into my face and something like calm into my 
 heart. . . .' 
 
 From Scotsbrig Carlyle took a short trip to Ireland, 
 Dublin, Belfast &c., while what he calls 'a sordid form of 
 servile chaos ' went on in the house at Cheyne Row. After 
 eight years, the valued, though not faultless domestic, 
 
 * Kirkcaldy Helen,' had left the Carlyles, and the presence of 
 
 * a temporary servant ' seems to have driven the little house- 
 hold almost to despair. The return of Helen on probation, 
 ended in ' open and incurable drunkenness,' and once more, in 
 December 1846, Mrs. Carlyle was wretched in her domestic 
 arrangements, was herself three weeks ill in bed with a doctor 
 daily attending her, and quite worn out with what she calls, 
 in a letter to Mrs. Sterling (Susan Hunter), 'the disgusting 
 history.' It was clearly a case wherein 'the patient must 
 minister to herself,* and as the real cause of suffering lay 
 deeper than in the short-comings of servant-girls; it may 
 be well to say something here of the undoubted sorrow 
 caused to Mrs, Carlyle by Carlyle's friendship with Lady 
 Harriet Baring, afterwards Lady Ashburton. 
 
 Carlyle was fastidious, and his most attractive opening 
 into literary society was through the Ashburtons. Had he 
 neglected to follow up this opportunity, London society 
 
190 
 
 LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 might, in consequence of liis own peculiarities, have been in 
 some sense closed to him. As guest in that house, he met on 
 equal terms many distinguished men of rank and letters, 
 and though he may have spoken of them afterwards in 
 ludicrously caustic and severe terms, he was perfectly alive 
 to the advantage of meeting them. Lady Ashburton, on her 
 part, a happy, brilliant, and ambitious woman, prominent in 
 the best society in town, naturally courted the presence at 
 her frequent social gatherings of Thomas Carlyle, one of the 
 'lions ' of the day, one whose crude and startling originality 
 gave to her evenings a flavour unattainable elsewhere. And 
 it was interesting and * piquant,' no doubt, to outsiders, to 
 hear this hostess, with her own marked individuality, speak 
 in sparkling and unfettered terms, drawing forth yet more 
 unbridled rejoinders from Carlyle. 
 
 Lord Houghton's short memorial of Lady Ashburton in 
 * Monographs ' is most interesting to those who care about 
 the Carlyles. Prefaced by an admirable portrait, and written 
 with a sincere admiration and that chivalry with which the 
 writer would be sure to treat of a woman's characteristics — it 
 does not impress us favourably; and very little penetration is 
 needed to convince the thoughtful reader that those two 
 natures were antagonistic, and could by no means amalga- 
 mate. Mrs. Carlyle had her peculiar characteristics, Lady 
 Harriet Baring had hers. If the latter had been repressed 
 in her childhood — as she tells Lord Houghton — the conse- 
 quences were unfortunate, for as she frankly adds: 'I was 
 constantly punished for my impertinence, and you see the 
 result: / think I have made up for it si7ice !^ And if Mrs. 
 Carlyle had been an idolised only child, as she had been, 
 she * made up for it ' in another way, and, in her acutely 
 sensitive state, felt pain where no pain was intended, and 
 bitterly resented that ' demeanour of superiority ' shown by 
 Lady Harriet Baring to others than to herself, to none, surely, 
 in whom it evoked more irretrievable suffering. 
 
 The invitations to Bath House were almost invariably to 
 
THE BEARABLE AND THE UNBEARABLE 19I 
 
 the two — Carlyle and his wife — but were often only accepted 
 by the former, who, utterly unconscious of the harm that was 
 being done, paid a penalty out of all proportion to the fancied 
 slight — as any one will admit who reads the letters and jour- 
 nals of Mrs. Carlyle, written during the twelve years of this 
 largely imaginary, or at least avoidable, grievance. That the 
 ' King of the Forest ' should amiably show his claws and be 
 put through his paces in the drawing-rooms of Bath House, 
 to a crowd of admiring and sometimes curious guests, was, no 
 doubt, very gratifying to Lady Harriet and her friends. The 
 other side of the question, none the less natural, is, that Mrs. 
 Carlyle, who had clung to her husband through the hard, 
 lonely days of obscurity and non-success, having held him up 
 by her unfailing belief in his powers, and given health and 
 strength lavishly, to make his path smooth for him — now be- 
 gan to feel as if, after all, it were not she who reaped the 
 golden harvest of his rapidly growing success, but this bril- 
 liant and fashionable lady, whom she could not feel to be her 
 superior intellectually, and who knew none of the dark, terri- 
 ble, sunless hours spent in the Chelsea home, when a despair 
 of all things cast at times so real and so tangible a cloud over 
 the married pair. Poverty had been hard, loneliness had 
 been hard, but these she could bear, the other she could not 
 bear. 
 
 To speak of jealousy in any ordinary sense of the word, 
 would be manifestly absurd; but the burden was heavy, and 
 a long period of cutting sorrow ensued. We can only pity, 
 with a true and tender pity, so much wretchedness. A less 
 womanly woman would have suffered less, but here was one 
 eminently feminine to the heart's core, and persistently craving 
 those little marks of tenderness so dear to woman, so out- 
 stripping all that the most splendid genius can do, in the way 
 of rendering a woman's life sweet, harmonious, and altogether 
 acceptable. 
 
 We do not blame Carlyle. Even with that mother whom 
 he so dearly loved, the intercourse was mainly composed of a 
 
19^ 
 
 LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 silent sitting by the fireside of an evening, in the old ' house- 
 place,' with a tranquillising pipe of tobacco, or of his returning 
 from his long rambles to a simple meal, partaken of in com- 
 parative silence; and now and then, at meeting or parting, 
 some pious and earnest words from the good soul to her son. 
 And how can we expect that it could dawn on him to be dif- 
 ferent with this eager, passionate-hearted wife ! He could 
 not know it ; and she could not teach him. At one time, 
 dyspeptic and pre-occupied, he took to dining alone, hoping to 
 avert digestive difificulties, but it followed that Mrs. Carlyle 
 also dined alone — a dreary arrangement for her; for even in 
 handing the salt to a woman, both tenderness and courtesy 
 may be shown, which shall make that trifling action almost a 
 caress. 
 
 There is a short poem by the late Arthur Hugh Clough 
 — that fine and gentle spirit — which has always associated it- 
 self, to our thinking, with the position of this married pair. 
 We quote the poem in this place as intensely expressive. Its 
 appropriateness will at once strike the reader. 
 
 Qua cwsian Ventiis. 
 As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay 
 
 With canvas drooping, side by side, 
 Two towers of sail at dawn of day 
 
 Are scarce, long leagues apart, descried; 
 
 When fell the night, upsprung the breeze. 
 And all the darkling hours they plied, 
 
 Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas 
 By each was cleaving, side by side : 
 
 E'en so — but why the tale reveal 
 
 Of those whom — year by year unchanged, 
 
 Brief absence joined anew to feel, 
 
 Astounded, soul from soul estranged ? 
 
 At dead of night their sails were filled. 
 And onward each rejoicing steered: — 
 
 Ah, neither blame, for neither willed. 
 Or wist what first with dawn appeared ! 
 
INEVITABLE BLINDNESS 1 93 
 
 To veer how vain! On, onward strain, 
 Brave barks! In light, in darkness too, 
 
 Through winds and tides^ one compass guides, — 
 To that, and your own selves, be true. 
 
 But O blithe breeze, and O great seas, 
 Though ne'er, that earliest parting past, 
 
 On your wide plain they join again. 
 Together lead them home at last! 
 
 One port, methought, alike they sought, 
 One purpose hold where'er they fare, — 
 
 O bounding breeze, O rushing seas, 
 At last, at last, unite them there! 
 
 Carlyle's unconsciousness of the actual cause of his wife's 
 pain makes us very tender in thinking of them both. In 
 August, 1846, writing to her from Scotsbrig, he says: * Oh, 
 my dearest, how little I can make thee know of me ! . . . 
 Adieu, my own Jane, whom nothing can divide from me ! " 
 The silence on his wife's part that was causing Carlyle such 
 pain, arose from a plan he had made to join the Barings, 
 while in Scotland, on a few days' tour, Mrs. Carlyle being 
 cordially invited to join the party. But she was in no mood 
 to do so; and the five days given to the trip were anything 
 but propitious. Carlyle deeply felt the coldness which was 
 unaccountable to him, and when he did receive a letter from 
 his wife, he was full of good resolutions and penitence. 
 * Home,' he writes, * is the word, and remember one thing, to 
 write a little oftener to me, and as near the old tone as you 
 can come ! . . .* On August 29, he writes: ' But there will 
 come a day when all that will be intelligible again. I should 
 be miserable if I thought there would not ! ' There was a 
 blindness in the eyes of both these noble natures and only 
 Death was to remove it. 
 
 It is interesting to note Mrs. Carlyle's sound and 
 original views on ' altruism ' as given in an extract of a 
 letter from her to her cousin Helen Welsh of Liverpool, and 
 dated 
 
194 
 
 LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 Chelsea: Jan. 20, 1847. 
 Dearest Helen, — One hears much fine talk in this hypocritical 
 age about seeking and even finding one's own happiness in 'the 
 happiness of others; ' but I frankly confess to you that I, as one 
 solitary individual, have never been able to confound the two 
 things, even in imagination, so as not to be capable of clearly 
 distinguishing the diff^erence; and if every one would endeavor, 
 as I do, to speak without cant, I believe there would be a pretty 
 general admission on the part of sinful humanity that to eat a 
 comfortable beef-steak when one is hungry yields a satisfaction 
 of a much more positive character than seeing one's neighbour 
 eat it ? For the fact is, happiness is but a low thing, and there 
 is a confusion of ideas in running after it on stilts. When Sir 
 Philip Sidney took the water from his own parched lips to give 
 it to the dying soldier, I could take my Bible oath that it was not 
 happiness he felt; and that he would never have done that much- 
 admired action if his only compensation had been the pleasure 
 resulting to him from seeing the dying soldier drink the water; 
 he did it because he could not help himself; because the sense 
 of duty, of self-denial, was stronger in him at the moment than 
 low human appetite; because the soul in him said, do it; not 
 because utilitarian philosophy suggested that he would find his 
 advantage in doing it, nor because Socinian dilettanteism 
 required of him a beautiful action ! . . . , 
 
 Part of January and February of 1847 was spent by the 
 Carlyles with the Barings at Bay House, near Alverstoke, 
 where Mrs. Carlyle was again very ill — though still able, at 
 times, to enjoy the bright society around her. Part of 
 August was spent at Matlock, where W. E. Forster visited the 
 Carlyles and shewed much kindness. Responding to his 
 pressing wish, they spent a fortnight with him at Rawdon 
 Hall, whence Carlyle departed for Scotsbrig. 
 
 Lord Houghton remarks, with some naivete: ' It was with 
 no disregard of her sex that Lady Ashburton (as she had then 
 become) preferred the society of men.' Possibly, Mrs. Carlyle 
 may have shared this preference, but the visits to the Barings 
 certainly gave no pleasure or profit to /ler, and the long 
 years up to 1857, when Lady Ashburton died, were among 
 
SILENCE NOT ALWA YS GOLDEN 
 
 195 
 
 the hardest in the life of Mrs. Carlyle — awakening in her 
 a quicker sense of the want in her own life, to which Carlyle 
 was blind, and which she felt all the more while he sought 
 the society of Lady Ashburton, in his own simplicity and 
 absence of all knowledge of the pain he caused. This sorrow 
 as to the intercourse with the Baring family was a constant 
 fret to the lonely wife. It shewed sometimes in a silent 
 bitterness — sometimes in still more bitter utterances. It would 
 have been as nothing had essentials been different. 
 
 July 15, 1847, was another of Mrs. Carlyle's now dreaded 
 birthday anniversaries. Gifts and loving tokens, including a 
 brooch from Carlyle, had caused her to ' fall a-crying: ' there 
 were too many sad associations mixed up with the little 
 festival. She describes herself to Helen Welsh as ' unable to 
 sleep or eat, hardly able to sit upright,' and adds that her 
 husband urges her to try a change to Haddington, where the 
 kind Misses Donaldson would receive her with open arms. 
 She speaks of herself as ' already worn out * with the eifort 
 of writing the letter. This ended in a week's visit to the 
 Grange, where Mrs. Carlyle's health continued very feeble, 
 and again the year ended in discouragement. Mr. Froude 
 has told the whole story of that unhappy year with truth and , 
 admirable delicacy, and it would be idle to do other than refer 
 the reader to his 'Carlyle's Life in London,' vol. i., chapter 
 xiv., where every detail is given. It only remains to say: 
 ' Oh, the pity of it ! — the pity of it ! ' 
 
 The painful subject was tacitly left, unhealed, but for the 
 most part held in the background — no open breach of the 
 friendly footing was admitted — but that is often the veryv 
 worst way of curing an evil, easier at the mom.ent, possibly, 
 but entailing untold complications later on. September, 
 therefore, found Mrs. Carlyle at Cheyne Row again; her 
 husband still at Scotsbrig. Old Mr. Sterling had died, and 
 Mrs. Carlyle describes herself to John Forster as ' a sadder 
 and a wiser woman.' So the year closed sadly enough; 
 though the anxiety of poverty had been some time removed, 
 
196 LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 a deeper care had taken its place ! And still the kindly visits 
 of friends failed to cheer the drooping spirit; outside sources 
 of pleasure and interest could not lighten the cloud which 
 weighed on Mrs. Carlyle. 
 
 Lady Harriet Baring did not mend matters by well-meant 
 assiduities: her medical emissary, Dr. Fleming, gravely 
 assuring the delicate and suffering Mrs. Carlyle that Lady 
 Harriet considered she had brought all her illness by * unheard- 
 of imprudence in diet.' But this did not prevent Mrs. Carlyle 
 'from again visiting Lady Harriet Baring at Addiscombe, a 
 step surely taken to please Carlyle. She returned to Cheyne 
 Row on October i, writing to Carlyle ' before starting,' lest 
 she should be too ill to do so immediately on her return, and 
 knowing he would be anxious about his poor * Goody.' We 
 cannot resist the thought that a continual correspondence 
 fro7Ti a disiatice, during some of these sad years, would have 
 been no imperfect substitute for personal intercourse between 
 this married pair. Carlyle feeling that Lady Harriet was the 
 most considerate of hostesses, must have been pained by his 
 wife's embittered account of the short visit to that house 
 where /le felt himself at ease. 
 
 The selfish indifference of one of Lady Harriet's housemaids 
 left Mrs. Carlyle, unable to light her bedroom fire. Chilly 
 and feeble as she was, this was a cruel neglect. It cannot be 
 supposed that the hostess knew anything of this discomfort, 
 but the effect was equally painful. Lady Harriet, however, 
 always thought Mrs. Carlyle needed * bracing,' instead of the 
 tenderest care at all times. The delicate woman keenly felt 
 ^hat her frequent ailing was treated as 'hypochondria,' and 
 this was certainly an erroneous supposition, and galling to 
 a high spirit. It is painful to find Mrs. Carlyle saying, in a 
 letter to her husband, 'When I look at my white, white face 
 in the glass, I wonder how anyone can believe I am fancying ! ' 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 A. D. 1847-1849 
 
 Return to Cheyne Row — Renewed illness — Bitter reflections — Disap- 
 pointment — Confidences to Uncle John Welsh — A winter's visit 
 of Carlyle to the Barings — Mrs. Carlyle remaining at Cheyne 
 Row — Remonstrances of Miss Jewsbury — Long illness of Mrs. 
 Carlyle — Consultations with John Forster — Visit to Addiscombe 
 — Death of Lord Ashburton — Carlyle's tour in Ireland — The for- 
 gotten plaid — Mrs. Carlyle visits Lady Harriet Baring (now Lady 
 Ashburton) at Alverstoke — Brilliant society but no sleep — Death 
 of John Sterling — Declining health of Jeffrey — Haddington — 
 Betty Braid, the ' old nurse ' — Scenes of childhood revisited — 
 ' Matthew Baillie ' — Mrs. Carlyle visits her father's grave — 
 Sunny Bank — Sad and loving meetings — ' Old Jamie ' — Manches- 
 ter and Miss Jewsbury — Illness of Helen Welsh of Liverpool. 
 
 Mrs. Carlyle returned home only to fall ill again, and was 
 too weary at the end of a week's so-called * rest* to be able to 
 bear to listen to the lengthy discussions of Mazzini and Dr. 
 John Carlyle on the subject of ' Dante,' and speaks of 
 * sending them both away together'; a sign that much was 
 amiss, as the brilliant, versatile woman could certainly have 
 turned the talk into what direction she pleased, had she not 
 been exhausted in mind and body, disheartened, indifferent. 
 
 A call from Lady Harriet Baring gave some slight 
 satisfaction. On October 9 Mrs. Carlyle says, speaking of 
 this visit: 'I could not but think from her manner that she 
 had bethought her I had been rather roughly handled on my 
 last visit.' It may have been so, but where the prosperous 
 and the unhappy are brought into any sort of forced inter- 
 course, every touch is a wound. 
 
 In November of 1847 Mrs. Carlyle writes an unusually 
 sharp and biting letter to John Forster. The causes of bitter- 
 ness were various and so potent, as to draw from the writer 
 
 197 
 
IgS LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 the half-jesting determination of suiciding herself. Inability, 
 from illness, to go to Notting Hill to see a bust of Carlyle, 
 then in progress, makes her say, ' Unfeeling as it looked to 
 let myself be withheld by any weather from going to see my 
 husband's bust, I thought it would really be more unfeeling 
 to risk an inflammation in my husband's wife's chest, which 
 makes my husband's wife such a nuisance, as you, an unmar- 
 ried man, can hardly figure.' Then, she writes it with tears 
 in her eyes, she cannot go to the theatre on Monday, whither 
 Forster was to take them, and, most serious of all, Carlyle 
 was furious at her looking over * proofs ' of a novel by her 
 friend, Geraldine Jewsbury, declaring fhat she did not know 
 bad grammar when she saw it any better than Miss Jewsbury 
 did, and that if she had any faculty, she might find better 
 employment for it, etc. This last was hard to bear, for Mrs. 
 Carlyle had a finished and remarkable literary style of her 
 own, and would have made a brilliant use of it, had she not, 
 from the first, been overshadowed by the towering genius 
 and exacting personality of her husband. 
 
 The middle of December 1847 finds her pouring out her 
 sad thoughts and her flashing wit to her uncle, John Welsh, 
 in Liverpool, having, as she tells him, ' coughed herself all to 
 fiddle-strings in the course of a week,' and feeling * the 
 family affections bloom up strong.' She speaks of Miss 
 Martineau and mesmerism in terms more striking than com- 
 plimentary. Animal magnetism she calls ' a damnable sort 
 of tempting of Providence,' from which she holds herself 
 entirely aloof. 
 
 'In January 1848,' says Mr. Froude, 'came an indispen- 
 sable visit to the Barings. Mrs. Carlyle was to have gone, 
 and they were to have stayed four weeks, but the winter was 
 cold; she was feeble and afraid of a chill.' Pressing invita- 
 tions from Lady Harriet, and urgent letters from her 
 husband, took no effect on her determination to remain 
 where she was. Writing on January 17 to her husband, then 
 at Bay House, Alverstroke, she says: 
 
LINKED TOGETHER 
 
 199 
 
 I will never, with the health I have, or rather have not, engage 
 to leave home for a long fixed period another winter. . . . Be- 
 sides, is not home — at least, was it not, in more earnest times — 
 ' the woman's proper sphere ' ? Decidedly, if she ' have nothing 
 to keep her at home,' — as the phrase is — she should find some- 
 thing, or die! . . . Amusement, after a certain age, is no go; 
 even when there are no other nullifying conditions: it gets to be 
 merely distraction. . . , To be sure, it is hard on flesh and 
 blood, when one has ' nothing to keep one at home,' to sit down 
 in honest life-weariness and look out into unmitigated zero, . . 
 
 And Carlyle is writing to her, 'Why do I complain to 
 poor thee? . . . Only, \i you had been strong I would have 
 told you how very weak and wretched /was.' Ten days 
 proved enough for Carlyle of the restraints of society, after 
 which he fairly * fled home,' and soon obtained the consola- 
 tion of glimpses of future work, his only anodyne. 
 
 Mrs. Carlyle again consulted John Forster in her ' delicate 
 embarrassment ' of not wishing Miss Jewsbury's forthcoming 
 novel to be dedicated to herself and Mrs. Paulet, * not wish- 
 ing,' as she wrote, ' to give pain to Geraldine, still less to give 
 offence to my husband.' 
 
 A long illness of three months closed with a visit to the 
 Barings at Addiscombe, Carlyle being in solitude and his be- 
 loved silence at Chelsea. 
 
 How strong the link, after all, that bound this strangely 
 assorted couple. Writing on April 13, 1848, to her husband 
 Mrs. Carlyle says: ' I have nothing to complain of here as to 
 diet, or hours, or noise; and I have not had one well moment, 
 day or night, except that day you came.^ 
 
 But all was sadly amiss with Mrs. Carlyle's health, and be- 
 ing left one evening alone, unexpectedly, at Addiscombe, she 
 describes it as ' like a morphia dream ' — the first mention of 
 a drug to which, in after days, we know she was forced to re- 
 sort, occasionally, under medical advice. 
 
 The return for a time of the old servant Helen, promised 
 comfort, but all Mrs. Carlyle's charitable efforts could not 
 
200 LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 rescue the girl from bad habits, which ended in ' a final crash.' 
 She was, however, quickly and satisfactorily replaced. Mrs. 
 Carlyle, revived in spirit, was busy making a screen covered 
 with prints. Her fine artistic taste thus found some occupa- 
 tion — though she complains that books ' take no hold ' on her, 
 and that, 'being an only child,' she * never wished to sew ! ' 
 
 A change had taken place at Addiscombe. The kindly 
 old Lord had died in May, and Mr. Baring was now Lord 
 Ashburton. 
 
 It was in July of this year, 1849, that Carlyle went for a 
 six weeks' tour in Ireland.* His wife had seen him off on 
 his journey, then went home and cried a little, then found he 
 had left his plaid behind in the bustle of departure. It was 
 a chilly day, and after a frantic desire to plunge into the 
 water and swim after him with the plaid in her mouth, she 
 had dismissed the idea, proceeded to the kitchen, and silently 
 boiled her strawberries, like a practical woman. She then 
 betook herself to Bath House,f to accompany Lady Harriet, 
 now Lady Ashburton, to Addiscombe, driving thither in an 
 open carriage, and arriving, * shivering with cold, excessively 
 low, and so vexed about the plaid. No sympathy there ! 
 thank God ! . . . All day I was fancying you shivering like 
 myself.' 
 
 A brilliant house-party was now assembled at Addiscombe, 
 none wittier among that company than was Mrs. Carlyle her- 
 self, who paid for her bright sallies by insomnia and head- 
 ache, and complained of the ' tearing spirits ' everyone was 
 in ! when, her short visit over, she had some of these lively 
 spirits in to afternoon tea. Too tired to keep another engage- 
 ment of her own, she ' read the new Copperfield,' but had 
 talked too much for sleep. 
 
 A visit to W. E. Forster, en route for Auchtertool, occurs 
 on July 20, and Mrs. Carlyle's account of her experiences at 
 
 * Carlyle had sailed from London on June 30, 1849, ^^r Dublin on his 
 Irish tour. 
 \ The town-house of the Ashburtons, 
 
SHADOWS ON THE FA THWA V 20I 
 
 Ben Rhydding will be read in its place. That eager, nerve- 
 tortured frame was a bad subject for < packing.' 
 
 It was on July 17, 1849, that Carlyle, then at Cork, ended 
 a long and interesting letter to his wife: * Adieu, dear Jeannie. 
 O adieu ! My heart and head are very weary; in all dispirit- 
 ment I turn (as by old want) to you ! . . . This birthday I 
 was among the Knockmeledown mountains, . . . and could 
 send my dear Goody no gift — only wishes, wishes ! ' And 
 only three days later his wife ended her letter to him, with 
 the words, * God bless you ! All to be said worth the saying 
 lies in that ! ' The shadows had begun to fall thickly on this 
 pathway, never a sunny one ; the beloved and loyal John 
 Sterling had died in September of 1844, and now the kind 
 Jeffrey was fast fading away. 
 
 Carlyle had spent an unsettled and mainly joyless summer, 
 while Mrs. Carlyle had gone on from her cousin's, at Auchter- 
 tool Manse, Kirkcaldy, to Haddington, saddest and dearest of 
 places to her, unvisited now by her for twenty-three years; 
 indeed, ever since her marriage. There was for her a solemn 
 gladness in the midst of all the newly-awakened pain; but 
 Carlyle was ' hag-ridden ' : a miserable few days at Auchter- 
 tool, where he stopped to see his wife, was followed by a most 
 uncomfortable visit to the Ashburtons in a Highland shooting- 
 box. Glen Truin,* and he again fled to Scotsbrig. But even 
 the peaceful influences there failed to give him rest, so utterly 
 was he ' out of tune.' 
 
 While he was on this visit, his wife wrote to him from the 
 hospitable roof of the Misses Donaldson, at Sunny Bank, 
 Haddington, and wrote of ' headache and heartache,' which 
 attended her even in that charmed circle. The meeting 
 between her and old Betty Braid, as given in the ' Letters 
 and Memorials,' is most touching. It was something for the 
 weary, sad woman to sit on her old nurse's knee and be called 
 her * dear bairn ! ' She called also on three of her father's 
 
 * Lord Ashburton's deer-hunting station, in Macpherson of Cluny's 
 country. 
 
202 LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 sisters, Elizabeth, Ann, and Grace Welsh. Mrs. Carlyle tells 
 us that they were ' unlike him.' She would never have 
 admitted the claim of any mortal to be like him. 
 
 But the real significance of the Haddington visit lay in 
 Mrs. Carlyle's intensely sorrowful revisiting of old scenes of 
 her childhood — as told in the narrative from her leaving 
 Rawdon, when she looked so ill that W. E. Forster insisted on 
 accompanying her to Morpeth, where she had arranged to 
 spend the night, to her actual arrival at Sunny Bank. A new 
 morning 'bright as diamonds,' followed the drizzling day of the 
 journey, and in conversation with W. E. Forster, Mrs. Carlyle, 
 in a quiet walk which rendered her 'unusually communica- 
 tive,' spoke of the fact that her maternal grandmother was 
 'descended from a gang of gipsies ' — was, in fact, grand-niece 
 to Mathew Baillie, who ' suffered at Lanark,' that is, was 
 hanged there, and this fact, told probably in a spirit of play- 
 fulness, was felt by Forster as ' a genealogical fact,' which 
 made Mrs. Carlyle at length intelligible to him: 'a cross 
 between John Knox and a gipsy.' 'By the way,' she adds, 
 ' my uncle has since told me that the wife of that Mathew 
 Baillie, Margaret Euston by name, was the original of Sir 
 Walter Scott's " Meg Merrilies." ' Whatever of gipsy 
 'strain' was attributed to Mrs. Carlyle, and justly, as we 
 think, she was none the less tender-hearted, loving, sensitive, 
 to an uncommon degree. 
 
 The emotions of that Haddington visit were overpowering. 
 Arrived at her journey's end, July 25, 1849, ^^^ says: — 
 
 There I was at the end of it ! Actually in the ' George Inn,' 
 Haddington, alone, amidst the silence of death ! 
 
 I sat down quite composedly at a window, and looked up the 
 street toward our old house. It was the same street, the same 
 houses; but so silent, dead, petrified ! It looked the old place 
 just as I had seen it at Chelsea in my dreams, only more dream- 
 like ! Having exhausted that outlook, I rang my bell, and told 
 the silent landlord to bring tea and take order about my bed- 
 room. The tea swallowed down, I notified my wish to view ' the 
 
A LONELY I'ISLT 203 
 
 old church there,' and the keeper of the keys was immediately 
 fetched me. In my part of Stranger in search of the Picturesque. 
 1 let myself be shown the way which I knew every inch of, 
 shown ' the school-house ' where myself had been Dux, ' the play- 
 ground,' ' the boolin' green,' and so on to the church-gate; which, 
 so soon as my guide had unlocked for me, I told him he might 
 wait, that I needed him no further. 
 
 The churchyard had become very full of graves; within the 
 ruin were two new smartly got-up tombs. His * looked old, old ; 
 was surrounded by nettles: the inscription all over moss, except 
 two lines which had been quite recently cleared — ^by whom ? 
 Who had been there before me, still caring for his tomb after 
 twenty-nine years ? The old ruin knew, and could not tell me. 
 That place felt the very centre of eternal silence — silence and 
 sadness, world without end ! When I returned, the sexton, or 
 whatever he was, asked, ' Would I not walk through the church ? ' 
 I said ' Yes,' and he led the way, but without playing the cicerone 
 any more; he had become pretty sure there was no need. Our 
 pew looked to have never been new-lined since we occupied it; 
 the green cloth was become all but white from age ! I looked at 
 it in the dim twilight till I almost fancied I saw my beautiful 
 mother in her old corner, and myself, a bright-looking girl, in 
 the other ! It was time to ' come out of that ! ' Meaning to 
 return to the churchyard next morning, to clear the moss from 
 the inscription, I asked my conductor where he lived — with his 
 key. 'Next door to the house that was Dr. Welsh's,' he an- 
 swered, with a sharp glance at my face; then added gently, 
 ' Excuse me, me'm, for mentioning that, but the minute I set 
 eyes on ye at the " George," I jaloosed it was her we all looked 
 after whenever she went up or down.' * You won't tell of me ? ' 
 I said, crying, like a child caught stealing apples; and gave him 
 half-a-crown to keep my secret, and open the gate for me at eight 
 next morning. Then, turning up the waterside by myself, I 
 made the circuit of The Haugh, Dodd's Gardens, and Babbie's 
 Butts, the customary evening walk in my teens; and, except that 
 it was perfectly solitary (in the whole round I met just two little 
 children walking hand in hand, like the Babes of the Wood), the 
 whole thing looked exactly as I left it twenty-three years back; 
 
 * Her father's. 
 
204 ^^^^ ^^ LONDON 
 
 the very puddles made by the last rain I felt to have stepped 
 over before. But where were all the the living beings one used to 
 meet? What could have come to the place to strike it so dead? 
 I have been since answered — the railway had come to it, and 
 ruined it. At all rates ' it must have taken a great deal to make 
 a place so dull as that ! ' Leaving the lanes, I now went boldly 
 through the streets, the thick black veil, put on for the occasion, 
 thrown back; I was getting confident that I might have ridden 
 like the Lady Godiva through Haddington, with impunity, so 
 far as recognition went. I looked through the sparred door of 
 our old coach-house, which seemed to be vacant; the house 
 itself I left over till morning, when its occupants should be 
 asleep! Passing a cooper's shop, which I had once had the run 
 of, I stept in and bought two little quaighs; then in the character 
 of travelling Englishwoman, suddenly seized with an unaccount- 
 able passion for wooden dishes, I questioned the cooper as to the 
 past and present of his town. He was the very man for me, 
 being ready to talk the tongue small in his head about his town's- 
 folks — men, women, and children of them. He told me, amongst 
 other interesting things, ' Doctor Welsh's death was the sorest 
 loss ever came to the place,' that myself went away into England 
 and — died there !' adding a handsome enough tribute to my 
 memory. ' Yes ! Miss Welsh ! he remembered her famously, 
 used to think her the tastiest young lady in the whole place; 
 but she was very — not just to call proud — ^very reserved in her 
 company.' In leaving this man I felt more than ever like my 
 own ghost; if I had been walking after my death and burial, 
 there could not, I think, have been any material difference in my 
 speculations. 
 
 My next visit was to the front gate of Sunny Bank, where 
 I stood some minutes, looking up at the beautifully quiet house; 
 not unlike the ' outcast Peri ' done into prose. How would my 
 old godmother and the others have looked. I wondered, had they 
 known who was there so near them ? I longed to go in and 
 kiss them once more, but positively dared not; I felt that their 
 demonstrations of affection would break me down in a torrent 
 of tears, which there was no time for; so I contented myself 
 with kissing the gate (!), and returned to my inn, it being now 
 near dark. Surely it was the silentest inn on the planet ! not a 
 living being, male or female, to be seen in it except when I rang 
 
A WELCOME OF TEARS 
 
 205 
 
 my bell, and then the landlord or waiter (both old men) did my 
 bidding promptly and silently, and vanished again into space. 
 On my re-entrance I rang for candles, and for a glass of sherry 
 and hot water; my feet had been wetted amongst the long grass 
 of the churchyard, and I felt to be taking cold ; so I made myself 
 negus as an antidote, and they say I am not a practical woman ! 
 Then it struck me I would write to Mr. Carlyle one more letter 
 from the old place, after so much come and gone. Accordingly 
 I wrote till the town clock (the first familiar voice I had heard) 
 struck eleven, then twelve; and, near one, I wrote the Irish 
 address on my letter, and finally put myself to bed — in the 
 ' George Inn ' of Haddington, good God ! I thought it too 
 strange and mournful a position for ever falling asleep in ; never- 
 theless, I slept in the first instance, for I was 'a-weary a-weary,' 
 body and soul of me ! 
 
 In the earliest morning she haunted the place, finding it 
 hard to believe the people were * only asleep, and not dead ' — 
 ' Non omnis moriar ' — truly, while such warm emotion flowed 
 and overflowed this tender heart, there was still vital force in 
 the dead past, however lifeless the present had become ! 
 
 The touching meeting with the old ladies at Sunny Bank 
 came off next day, when, with heart thumping ' like, like 
 anything,' the delicate woman went through the ordeal of a 
 welcome of love and tears, and, finally, an attached old man- 
 servant, once with Dr. Welsh, now ostler at the George, 
 called to see Mrs. Carlyle. ' And I threw my arms around 
 his neck — that did I,' says Mrs. Carlyle, while ' he stood 
 quite passive and pale, with great tears rolling down.' And 
 by and by the omnibus took the traveller to the railway, and 
 she was * back into the present,' as she says, with the keen 
 and almost disastrous emotions of the last few days left 
 behind, and cousin Jeannie (now Mrs. Chrystal) to welcome 
 her to Edinburgh, 10 Clarence Street, whence to her aunt's 
 for a few days, a brief visit to Scotsbrig, and then home to 
 Chelsea. 
 
 The holiday had been unfavourable in many ways, and 
 
206 LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 from Liverpool, on her way home, Mrs. Carlyle writes to her 
 husband on September 14 — he being still at Scotsbrig — in 
 depressed spirits. She was, however, to have the happiness 
 of seeing Miss Jewsbury in Green-heys, Manchester, before 
 her actual return to Chelsea, and there would be much un- 
 burdening of the heart in the visit. The Liverpool visit was 
 unusually sad from the fact that Helen Welsh was in hope- 
 lessly ill health. * She protests that she is getting better,' 
 writes Mrs. Carlyle, 'but there is death in her face.' 
 
 K 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 A. D. 1849-1851. 
 
 Introduction to James Anthony Froude — Arthur Clough — Spedding 
 — Froude's impressions — Mutual loneliness of the Carlyles — Mrs. 
 Carlyle's letter to Mrs. Aitken — Note to John Forster — Visit to 
 The Grange by Carlyle — ' Nero ' and ' Shandy ' — Nero's letter — 
 Failing ideals — Society felt to be hard work by Mrs. Carlyle — 
 Latter Day Pamphlets concluded — Carlyle in Wales — Renewed 
 household ' earthquakings ' at 5 Cheyne Row — Failing strength 
 of Mrs. Carlyle — Sad thoughts — Fruitless regrets and good reso- 
 lutions. 
 
 The month of June 1849 had been marked by a very im- 
 portant event, which we cannot pass over here. For it was 
 early in this year — before Carlyle's Irish tour — that Carlyle 
 made the acquaintance of James Anthony Froude, that ac- 
 quaintance which was so soon to ' enter the region, and take 
 the place, with the things that cannot die.' The first intro- 
 duction had been made through Arthur Hugh Clough, who, 
 we believe, left Oxford about the same time as Mr. Froude, 
 and whose poems, few as they are, remain to show how bril- 
 liant a genius and how noble a nature were comparatively 
 prematurely extinguished. 
 
 The ' Sage of Chelsea ' was, at this time, about fifty-four 
 years old (we quote from Mr. Froude), 'tall, upright, beard- 
 less, the eyes, which became lighter with age, of a deep violet, 
 with fire burning at the bottom of thein, which flashed out at 
 the least excitement.' 
 
 Mr. Froude, who was accompanied by his friend Sped- 
 ding, describes this first visit, on a June evening, when, the 
 talk in the garden ended, Mrs. Carlyle gave them tea indoors. 
 
 Mr, Froude says, ' Her features were not regular, but I 
 
 207 
 
2o8 LIFE IN lONDON 
 
 thought I had never seen a more interesting looking woman. 
 Her hair was raven black, her eye dark, soft, sad, with dan- 
 gerous light in them. Carlyle's talk was rich, full, and 
 scornful; hers delicately mocking. She was fond of Sped- 
 ding, and kept up a quick, sparkling conversation with him, 
 telling stories at her husband's expense, at which he laughed 
 himself as heartily as we did.' This graphic description 
 gives our readers the best possible account of these remark- 
 able people, as they appeared at this time. Beneath lay the 
 depths yet to be sounded by that friend. 
 
 Carlyle, writing in his journal of that same year says, 
 * How lonely am I now grown in the world; how hard, .... 
 all the old tremulous affection lies in me, but it is as if frozen. 
 So mocked, and scourged, and driven mad by contradictions, 
 it has, as it were, lain down in a kind of iron sleep. . . . God 
 help me ! God soften me again ! ' A piercing cry this from 
 a man's heart. 
 
 And Mrs. Carlyle, writing about the same time to the 
 good mother-in-law at Scotsbrig, says: 'The settling down 
 at home after all these wanderings has been a serious piece 
 
 of work for both Mr. C and myself; for me, I have only 
 
 managed it by a large consumption of morphia. . . - My 
 visit to Scotsbrig was the one in which I had the most un- 
 mixed satisfaction; for along with my pleasiire at Haddington 
 and Edinburgh, there was almost more pain than I could 
 bear ! ' 
 
 A kind letter from Mrs. Aitken, of Dumfries, written in 
 the same month, brought a reply which must be given here: 
 
 To Mrs. Aztken, Dumfries. 
 
 5 Cheyne Row: October, 1849, 
 My dear Jane, — Your letter was one of the letters that one 
 feels a desire to answer the instant one is done reading it — an 
 out-of-the-heart letter, that one's own heart (if one happen to 
 have one) jumps to meet. But writing, with Mr. C. waiting for 
 his tea, was, as you will easily admit, a moral impossibility; and- 
 after tea there were certain accursed flannel shirts (Oh ! the 
 
AN UNCHANGED HEART 
 
 209 
 
 alterations that have been made on them!) to ' piece ! ' and yes- 
 terday, when I made sure of writing you a long letter, I had 
 a headache, and durst not either write or read, for fear of having 
 to go to bed with it. To-day, I write; but with no leisure, 
 though I have no ' small clothes ' to make — nor any disturbance 
 in that line (better for me if I had); still I get into as great 
 bustles, occasionally, as if I were the mother of a fine boisterous 
 family. 
 
 Did you hear that I found bugs in my red bed on my return ? 
 I, who go mad where a bug is! and that bed ' such an harbour for 
 them ' — as the upholsterer said ! Of course, I had it pulled in 
 pieces at once, and the curtains sent to the dyeing — at immense 
 expense — and ever since I have been lying in the cold nights 
 between four tall, bare posts, feeling like a patient in a London 
 hospital. To-day, at last, two men are here putting up my 
 curtains, and making mistakes whenever I stay many minutes 
 away from them; and as soon as their backs are turned, I have 
 to go off several miles in an omnibus to see Thackeray, who has 
 been all but dead, and is still confined to his room, and who has 
 written a line to ask me to come and see him. And I have a 
 great sympathy always with, and show all the kindness in my 
 power to, sick people — having so much sickness myself, and 
 knowing how much kindness then is gratifying to me. 
 
 So, you see, dear, it is not the right moment for writing you 
 the letter that is lying in my heart for you. But I could not, 
 under any circumstances, refrain from telling you that your 
 letter was very, very welcome ; that the tears ran down my face 
 over it — though Mr. C. was sitting opposite, and would have 
 scolded me for 'sentimentality,' if he had seen me crying over 
 kind words merely; and that I have read it three times, and 
 carried it in my pocket ever since I got it, though my rule is to 
 burn all letters ! Oh, yes ! there is no change in me, so far as 
 affection goes, depend upon that ! But there are other changes, 
 which give me the look of a very cold and hard woman 
 generally ! 
 
 I durst not let myself talk to you at Scotsbrig, and, now that 
 the opportunity is passed, I almost wish I had ! But I think it 
 not likely, if I live, that I will be long of returning to Scotland. 
 All that true, simple, pious kindness that I found stored up for 
 
2 lO LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 me there, ought to be turned to more account in my life. What 
 have I more precious ? 
 
 Please burn this letter — I mean, don't hand it to the rest; 
 there is a circulation of letters in families that frightens me from 
 writing often: it is so dificult to write a circular to one ! 
 
 . . . For me, I am really better; though I may say, in pass- 
 ing, that Mr. C.'s ' decidedly stronger' is never to be depended 
 on in any account he gives of me, as, so long as I can stand on my 
 legs, he never notices that anything ails me: and I make a point 
 of never complaining to him unless in case of absolute extremity. 
 But I have, for the last week, been sleeping pretty well, and able 
 to walk again, which I had not been up to since my return. 
 
 About the bonnet: send it by any opportunity you find, just 
 as it is: I can trim very nicely myself, and, perhaps, might not 
 like Miss Montgomery's colour. But I cannot have it for nothing, 
 dear ! If Miss G. won't take money, I must find some other 
 way of paying her. 
 
 God bless you, dear Jane, and all yours ! Remember me to 
 James: and never doubt my affection for yourself, as I shall 
 never doubt yours for me. 
 
 Ever, 
 
 J. W. C* 
 
 In this letter Mrs. Carlyle delineated herself truly when 
 she said, * There is no change in me, so far as affection goes. 
 . . . But there are other changes.' There were changes 
 unseen by mortal eye, but telling their stern record to the 
 Unseen Listener perhaps ! There may have been, at this 
 time, a desperate longing after a fuller life — an impatience 
 of discordant and hopeless realities — the * Shall I go on, or 
 no ? ' so simply written, but the fruit of such complicated 
 difficulties in human lives. Unchanged in her old attach- 
 ments and her lasting powers of tenderness, she certainly was. 
 
 Thackeray, who had been dangerously ill, had asked 
 Mrs. Carlyle to come and see him; and she, sick and suffer- 
 ing herself, was promptly setting out on the kind errand. 
 
 Mrs. Aitken's letter had brought the tears to Mrs. 
 
 * See ' Letters and Memorials,' Vol. II. Letter 117. 
 
SILENT PK0TES7' 2 I I 
 
 Carl)'le's eyes. She spoke truly as to many outward mani- 
 festations; but our own opinion, founded no less upon these 
 letters than on intimate conversation with many who knew 
 and loved her, causes us vehemently to protest against harsh 
 judgment being formed of her. She never complained to her 
 husband — what woman of spirit would have done so ? She 
 fought her fight out, in more or less loneliness, 'alongside ' of 
 a man who truly loved her, but was incapable of showing 
 her the tenderness she needed. He himself was conscious, at 
 times, of a want in himself, dimly and vaguely felt and never 
 put into words. The time for deeds was past, while she, 
 driven in on herself, was intent on doing her part, making 
 no sign, save by scornful and bitter manifestations, which 
 were unlikely to draw tenderness out of any man, least of all 
 out of Thomas Carlyle ! 
 
 Very characteristic is a note written by Mrs. Carlyle to 
 John Forster in November 1849, beginning piously, * God's 
 will be done, dear Mr. Forster,' in regard of an invitation 
 to meet Mr. Dickens, which Mrs. Carlyle was too ill to 
 accept. She goes on: *If one said otherwise, // tvould do 
 itself all the same.' A book she here mentions as by a young 
 authoress, is, presumably, * John Halifax,' whose beloved and 
 accomplished writer, afterwards Mrs. Craik, became an in- 
 timate friend of Mrs. Carlyle, as time went on. Mrs, Carlyle's 
 comment on Miss Mulock's book, which we suppose to have 
 been 'John Halifax,' is too significant to be passed over. 
 Writing to Forster again in December 1849, after thanking 
 him for the book, she says, 'It quite reminds one of one's 
 own "love's young dream." I like it, and I like the poor girl 
 who can still believe, or even "believe that she believes," all 
 that. God help her ! . . .' 
 
 About this time a much humbler element of happiness 
 entered her saddened life, in the shape of the little dog 
 ' Nero,' who was an attached pet of Mrs. Carlyle's, and who 
 lies buried in the garden at Cheyne Row, after ten years of 
 companionship, such as dogs sometimes know how to give. 
 
2 I 2 LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 In December, Mrs. Carlyle begins a note to John Forster, 
 'I died ten days ago, and was buried at Kensal Green — at 
 least, you have no certainty to the contrary. . . . ' This was 
 a reminder of an unkept promise to visit her when she needed 
 cheering. 
 
 A sad letter to Mrs. Russell, of Thornhill, marks the last 
 day of 1849. Nervous suffering had almost conquered the 
 brave spirit of Jane Welsh Carlyle; she had been detained 
 in Manchester by severe illness, when anticipating a joyful 
 though necessarily short visit to Miss Jewsbury ; and she had 
 fallen intoa lassitude, inevitable after such prolonged suffering. 
 The little dog 'Nero' is mentioned as a relieving novelty; 
 but the clouds drew close about that bright personality, so 
 ready to shine out with the smallest encouragement, under 
 circumstances that should be congenial; too few, alas ! in 
 that life so heavily handicapped. 
 
 It was in January 1850 that Carlyle paid a short visit to 
 The Grange, — Robert Lowe, Delane (of the * Times '), with 
 Monckton Milnes, being the other guests. Lady Ashburton 
 had playfully given Carlyle the designation of * Boreas ' 
 about this time. No letter was received by him from his 
 wife on this occasion, save the graceful and clever one 
 written as from little Nero, which we quote from 'Letters 
 and Memorials:' 
 
 To T. Carlyle, The Grajige, Alresford, Hants. 
 
 5 Cheyne Row, Chelsea: Tuesday, Jan, 29, 1S50. 
 Dear Master, — I take the liberty to write to you myself (my 
 mistress being out of the way of writing to you she says) that 
 you may know Columbine and I are quite well, and play about as 
 usual. There was no dinner yesterday to speak of; I had for my 
 share only a piece of biscuit that might have been round the 
 world; and if Columbine got anything at all, I didn't see it. I 
 made a grab at one of two ' small beings ' on my mistress's plate; 
 she called them heralds of the morn; but my mistress said, 
 ' Don't you wish you may get it ? ' and boxed my ears. I wasn't 
 taken to walk on account of its being wet. And nobody came, 
 
'NERO'S' LETTERS 213 
 
 but a man for ' burial rate; ' and my mistress gave him a rowing, 
 because she wasn't going to be buried here at all. Columbine 
 and I don't mind where we are buried. 
 
 This is a fine day for a run; and I hope I may be taken to see 
 Mohe and Dumm. They are both nice well-bred dogs, and 
 always so glad to see me; and the parrot is great fun, when I 
 spring at her; and Mrs. Lindsay has always such a lot of bones, 
 and doesn't mind Mohe and Dumm and me eating them on the 
 carpet. I like Mrs. Lindsay very much. 
 
 Tuesday evening. 
 
 Dear Master, — My mistress brought my chain, and said ' Come 
 along with me, while it shined, and I could finish after.' But 
 she kept me so long in the London Library, and other places, 
 that I had to miss the post. An old gentleman in the omnibus 
 took such notice of me ! He looked at me a long time, and 
 then turned to my mistress, and said 'Sharp, isn't he?' And 
 my mistress was so good as to say, ' Oh yes ! ' And then the old 
 gentleman said again, ' I knew it ! easy to see that ! ' And he 
 put his hand in his hind-pocket, and took out a whole biscuit, a 
 sweet one, and gave it me in bits. I was quite sorry to part 
 from him, he was such a good judge of dogs. Mr. Greig from 
 Canadagua and his wife left cards while we were out. Colum- 
 bine said she saw them through the blind, and they seemed nice 
 people. 
 
 Wednesday. 
 
 I left off, last night, dear master, to be washed. This morn- 
 ing I have seen a note from you, which says you will come to- 
 morrow. Columbine and I are extremely happy to hear it; for 
 then there will be some dinner to come and go on. Being to see 
 you so soon, no more at present from your 
 
 Obedient little dog, 
 
 Nero. 
 
 This same little dog had been lost for a day, and ' floods 
 of tears ' shed over his absence. He and the cat, ' Colum- 
 bine,' were a merry pair of playthings, though Mrs. Carlyle 
 had said that Nero was, of course, neither so pretty nor so 
 clever as ' Shandy,' of whom Carlyle had written to Miss 
 Welsh in 1822 that he was 'a dog of worth, undoubtedly.' 
 
2 1 4 LIFE IN LOND ON 
 
 Poor Shandy is not quite forgotten, for Lieutenant-Colonel 
 David Davidson, in his charming ' Memories of a Long Life ' 
 (Douglas, Edinburgh, 1890), gives a portrait of the animal, 
 the work of one of those itinerant artists so often seen in 
 those days. This one, Brooks, had been engaged to paint 
 the boy brothers of Colonel Davidson,* and Shandy had 
 been borrowed of Mrs. Welsh to give effect to the group. 
 
 More interesting is Colonel Davidson's vivid recollections 
 of Mrs. Carlyle herself, as he knew her before he went to 
 India, at the age of sixteen, she being some few years older. 
 < I see her now,^ he says, < her raven locks and dark, liquid 
 eyes, contrasting with her fair complexion; and features 
 which, if not quite regular, yet flashed with bright intel- 
 ligence, softened in tender sympathy, or sparkled with the 
 choicest fun.' 
 
 Times were changed in 1850. 'The mould was smelled 
 above the rose,' the tint was that of long suffering and 
 struggle. Lady Ashburton, gay and full of smartness, had 
 given Mrs. Carlyle the name of ' Agrippina ' at this time, 
 since Nero was her companion; but the joke must have failed 
 to arouse much real merriment in Mrs. Carlyle, who was 
 craving of Mrs. Russell, of Thornhill, *a slip of the Temp- 
 land sweetbriar,' in memory of that mother whose loss was 
 never forgotten. 
 
 In March, Mrs. Carlyle spent a few days at Addiscombe, 
 and wrote to ' Master Nero ' under cover to T. Carlyle, Esq., 
 words half sweet, half bitter, calling him * My poor orphan ! 
 my dear good little dog !' but adding, ' The lady for whom I 
 abandoned you — to whoftt all family ties yield — is pretty well 
 again, as far as I can see.' 
 
 In a letter to Mrs. Aitken, written in April, she says: 
 * My " beau-ideal " of existence this long while has been 
 growing further and further from that ''getting on," or 
 rather "^^/on," in society which is the aim of so much female 
 aspiration and effort.' Here, again, she speaks of Nero, and 
 * See Appendix. 
 
LONDON SOCIETY AND ITS LIMITATIONS 215 
 
 says she is * no longer alone any more.' But surely a closer 
 and dearer companionship was needed by the sensitive and 
 delicate woman, beloved whenever she was truly understood, 
 and open to the least touch of human tenderness. 
 
 Mrs. Carlyle found London society rather hard work. 
 She would have taken much delight in the slip of Templand 
 sweetbriar, sent duly by kind Mrs. Russell, but it was * past 
 hope,' having ' hurried itself to put out leaves when it should 
 have been quietly taking root — a procedure,' she adds, * not 
 confined to sweetbriars ! * Her bitter view of London society 
 tells of sad unhappiness at her own heart, for London society 
 is very excellent and pleasant and desirable, to those who 
 bring the requisite state of mind, and has as often, we sup- 
 pose, served as a panacea and antidote, as it has caused re- 
 vilings such as are showered upon it by this suffering lady. 
 ' People dare not let themselves think or feel in this centre 
 of frivolity and folly,' she writes in July 1850; 'they would 
 go mad if they did, and universally commit suicide.' 
 
 On the last day of this month, Carlyle, having finished 
 the * Latter Day Pamphlets,' went off to Wales, ' solitary and 
 silent,' his wife still in weak health. ' Not much of it,' she 
 had written to Mrs. Russell, ' but I make it do !^ Her letters 
 to her husband at this period were not enlivening, sparkling 
 as they are with native wit and originality. Again the 
 ' beaming spirits ' of callers are complained of, the silence and 
 sadness of others found equally hard to bear. 
 
 ' Took morphine last night,' she writes on August 4 to her 
 husband, * and slept some. . . .' Towards the end of that 
 month she writes to him: 
 
 Yes! yes! I have composed myself — am quiet. You shall 
 have no more wail or splutter from me on this occasion. If I had 
 been an able-bodied woman, instead of a thoroughly broken- 
 down one, I should surely have had sense and reticence enough 
 not to fret you, in your seclusion, with details of my household 
 money. ... I was really no more responsible for what I wrote 
 than a person in a brain fever would have been. , . . 
 
2 I 6 LIFE IN L OND ON 
 
 Truly * the grasshopper had become a burden ' to Mrs. 
 Carlyle. 
 
 The house needed some ordinary cleaning, but it is not 
 often that ' sweeps, white-washers, and carpet-beaters ' cause 
 such distraction to the lady of the house. Mrs. Carlyle was 
 ill, and unfit for the least annoyance. It was, literally, to her 
 as ' the Sack of Troy,' relieved at times by the reading of new 
 books, and successful games of chess with Anthony Sterling. 
 The early return to town of Erasmus Darwin in September 
 brightened her a little, and a three hours' visit from Elisabeth 
 Pepoli soothed her, but proved a farewell — unsuspected at 
 the time by Mrs. Carlyle, who adds later: ' Alas ! what a way 
 to part ! ' 
 
 Carlyle was now at Scotsbrig, and had innocently asked 
 his ever-attentive wife for some ' buttons ' not attainable 
 where he was. He had assured her that if the buttons 
 arrived on Wednesday they would be in abundant time. To 
 which her sharp reply is, ' I should think they would, and 
 '' don't you wish you may get them ? " ' Two months of house- 
 hold ' earthquaking ' had left her weak and irritable. The 
 buttons were, no doubt, bought and sent at the earliest pos- 
 sible moment. 
 
 Carlyle was about to return from Scotland and Mrs. 
 Carlyle going on a visit to the Grange. That she felt for his 
 sensitiveness and what it entailed on him, is touchingly ap- 
 parent in a letter to him, dated September 23, when he was 
 still at Scotsbrig. 
 
 Alas! dear (she writes), I am very sorry for you. You, as well 
 as I, are too vivid; to you as well as to me has a skin been given 
 much too thin for the rough purposes of human life. ... It 
 does not at all raise my spirits that you are likely to arrive here 
 (at Cheyne Row) in my absence. You may be better without 
 me as far as my company goes. I make, myself, no illusion on 
 that head. . . . God knows how gladly I would be sweet-tem- 
 pered, and cheerful-hearted, and all that sort of thing, for your 
 single sake, if my temper were not soured and my heart saddened 
 beyond my own power to mend them. 
 
A FEMININE IMPULSE 21 7 
 
 • And Carlyle, also soured and saddened, was incapable of 
 binding up those wounds; all his love, and he did love her 
 in his own way, was powerless to make her happy. 
 
 We think there was a deeper understanding between those 
 two isolated natures than the world could ever know of, and 
 that the long years of faithful holding together tell of it, to 
 those who can enter reverently within the veil, though hardly 
 perhaps to that much larger class who would ' rush in where 
 angels fear to tread.' 
 
 The visit to the Grange, another of those small martyr- 
 doms undergone by Mrs. Carlyle to please her husband, began 
 early in October; and the first sensation of the guest on 
 arrival was a disposition to lay her head down on the table 
 and cry; her next impulse, the wild one of taking the next 
 train back to Chelsea and her husband. But the knowledge 
 that either step would be thought ' ridiculous,' quenched the 
 two longings effectually. She had some sweet thoughts in 
 her lonely, sleepless hours. It was only in August that her 
 husband had written to her, * Thanks to thee — oh ! know 
 that I have thanked thee sometimes in my silent hours as no 
 words could ! . . . . the thing that is in my heart is known, 
 or can be known, to the Almighty Maker alone ! ' 
 
 But to take real, daily human comfort from such words 
 as these, unaccompanied by those manifestations so dear to 
 a human heart — the look, the kiss, the touch with love in it 
 — would have been asking too much; and the gap remained, 
 the loneliness, the desolation; and though some of us may 
 smile at some of Carlyle's 'miseries,' no one, we think, 
 certainly no true woman, can see just cause for the half- 
 pitying judgment, made by some, on the long-drawn-out 
 mental and bodily suffering of Mrs. Carlyle. 
 
 He wrote to her on his arrival at Scotsbrig that he was 
 * a very unthankful, ill-conditioned, bilious, wayward and 
 heartworn son of Adam.' And we can only respectfully con- 
 clude that it was with him as he said. 
 
 A short visit to friends in Cumberland brought his holiday 
 
2 1 8 LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 to a close; he had promised his wife to be as amiable as he 
 could on his return; and in answer to her bitter regret that 
 her company was now become so useless to him, had said, 
 * Oh, if you could but cease being conscious of what your 
 company is to me.' Thoughts of his ' poor Goody ' blotted 
 out the fine scenery of the Lake district; Carlyle felt himself 
 most miserable — begging pity and pardon from poor ' Goody, 
 whom God bless ' 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 A. D. 1851-1853 
 
 Carlyle's visit to the Marslialls — Tennyson and his bride — Disgust at 
 the Exhibition of 1851 — Visit to Malvern — Verdict thereon — Miss 
 Gully's letter — Mrs. Carlyle again at the Grange — Repairs at 
 Cheyne Row — Visit to Macready — Carlyle's ' Life of Frederick' — 
 He sails for Rotterdam — A serious undertaking — Mrs. Carlyle 
 visits Lady Ashburton — Carlyle's second German tour — Discom- 
 forts — Return to 5 Cheyne Row of Mrs. Carlyle — Further 
 ' earthquakings ' — A second visit of Mrs. Carlyle to the Lady 
 Ashburton — Sleeplessness — Depression — The old letter — Car- 
 lyle's return — Commencement of ' Frederick' — Mrs. Carlyle with 
 the John Carlyles at Moffat — Return to softer conditions at 
 Chelsea. 
 
 It was at the Marshalls', at Coniston, that Carlyle met 
 Tennyson, then lately married, and approved Mrs. Tennyson's 
 wit, sense, and * glittering blue eyes;' * augured,' in fact, 'well 
 of the adventure.' But his own faithful wife was distracted 
 at his return in her absence. She would have rushed back 
 from the Grange to meet him. Carlyle would not hear of 
 this, nor would Lady Ashburton. Prepared for a lonely home, 
 he says, ' I shall know better than ever I did what the com- 
 fort is, to me, of being received by you when I arrive worn 
 out, and you welcome me with your old smiles. . . .* As a 
 compromise, Carlyle accepted Lady Ashburton's proposal that 
 he should spend a short time at the Grange with his wife 
 before finally settling down in Chelsea for the winter. It was 
 an unhappy time with Carlyle, the oft-times suspected < Nadir ' 
 of his fortunes was felt to be in full force. He felt 'lonely, 
 shut up,' — silently prayed for ivork, his one solace on earth. 
 
 It was the middle of October before the Carlyles were 
 again at Cheyne Row. A quiet winter was marked for Mrs. 
 
 219 
 
2 2 O LIFE IN L OND ON 
 
 Carlyle by rather better health; and Christmas found her 
 busy with kindly gifts to old servants and pensioners in 
 Scotland; Mrs. Russell being her sympathetic almoner in these 
 deeds of love, A painful accident, which caused her to strike 
 her chest against the end of the sofa, caused some little dis- 
 quietude, but the apprehension was presumably out of pro- 
 portion to the actual injury. 
 
 Early in 1851, the visit of a highly sentimental young lady, 
 whose guardians desired to place her with the Carlyles, dis- 
 turbed Mrs. Carlyle very much. The young lady seems to 
 have simplified matters by making an early marriage, to the 
 relief of perplexed guardians and friends. Mrs. Carlyle tells 
 her uncle, John Welsh: * Indeed, you can have no notion how 
 the whole routine of this quiet house was tumbled heels- 
 over-head. It had been, for three days and three nights, not 
 Jonah in the whale's belly, but the whale in Jonah's belly. . . .' 
 
 In the same letter is an account of a visit to Pentonville 
 Prison, equally inimitable in its caustic satire. The * solitary 
 system' might not have been bad for Carlyle, who, in the 
 spring of this same year confides to his Journal that he is 
 * weak, very irritable too,' and that it would be best for him 
 to be set to work * maistly in a place by himsel'.' The latter 
 expression is quoted from a * half-mad friend of James 
 Aitken.' Human help, as Mr. Froude says, there could be 
 none. His disgust at the Exhibition of 1851 drove him and 
 his wife to Malvern, where for a few weeks he was the guest 
 of Dr. Gully — ' paid his tax to contemporary stupor, and 
 found by degrees that water, taken as medicine, was the most 
 destructive drug he ever tried.' 
 
 A letter written many years afterwards by Miss Ellen 
 Gully, daughter of Dr. Gully, gives some interesting personal 
 impressions. The letter was written to the wife of a Unita- 
 rian minister in Southport. 
 
 I have been wanting to talk to you about the Carlyles (she 
 writes), but have never had time. ... I read the * Reminis- 
 cences,' and I thought it a melancholy production . . , it was 
 
OPINIONS OF AN ' OUTSIDER ' 22 I 
 
 very interesting, and it was well to let it be known that he 
 regretted his selfishness to his wife, but his groans (in Italian) 
 and endearing expressions concerning her, I think it was a 
 mistake to print. . . . Why should a spendid, bad-tempered man 
 have all his impulsive sayings and doings criticised, while worth- 
 less humorous fellows, whose only business is to attend to the 
 ' etiquettes,' and who would make a faultless picture, are allowed 
 to rest in their graves ? Many of Carlyle's sayings which I have 
 since seen complained of as vindictive and ungrateful, were, I 
 feel certain, said only in a humorous way to raise a laugh in 
 which he himself would join. ... I think Carlyle ought never 
 to have married anybody — he ought to have lived alone and had 
 a good cook. Mrs. Carlyle was wasted on him entirely, and 
 thrown into a sphere of life and duties for which she was quite 
 unsuited — he, in his richest days, would never have more than 
 one servant {this was afterwards changed), and you know how 
 servants-of-all-work cook; and he, dyspeptic, tore his hair if the 
 meat was tough. Their hospitality was beautiful . . . they neither 
 of them cared a bit about food, only he could not digest common 
 cookery! . . . I don't myself see that he had any right to indulge 
 in the delight of a witty wife, and yet indulge in his idiosyncrasy 
 of only having one cheap servant. ... I must admit that he was, 
 at times, selfish and not kind to his wife, when we knew them. 
 Totally inconsiderate of her health — I remember one or two 
 occasions, on which she, suffering far more than he, was sent 
 journeys by him in order to secure his comforts. . . . 
 
 So much for Miss Gully's opinions, which no doubt sprang 
 from a close and sympathetic observation. And in writing 
 of a woman, it is well sometimes to know what another 
 woman thinks ! 
 
 The month at Malvern over, Carlyle fled to Scotsbrig, and 
 his wife to her kind and loving friends, the Jewsburys, at 
 Manchester; being determined to keep up some little rem- 
 nant of * water cure ' all the same. She speaks warmly of the 
 Gullys in her first letter to Carlyle, dated September 5, 1851. 
 * The more I think of these people,' she says, * the more I 
 admire their politeness and kindness to us.' 
 
 December found Mrs. Carlyle again at the Grange, much 
 
22 2 LIFE IN L OND ON 
 
 depressed by three weeks' bad cold contracted there, much 
 exercised in her mind as to customary gifts to her poor 
 friends at Dumfries, and again turning to Mrs, Russell, of 
 Thornhill, whose ready kindliness never failed her. 
 
 It is amusing to read that Mrs. Carlyle, Avho had been seeing 
 much of Macaulay at this time, admits that, for ' copious talk- 
 ing, he beats Carlyle hollow,' — but not in quality, apparently. 
 
 The year 1852 opened dismally enough with * repairs ' of 
 the house in Cheyne Row. We are left to wonder why two 
 people ' without incumbrance,' did not straightway walk into 
 some other house, 'ready swept and garnished,' sooner than 
 undertake what is called 'thorough repair,' when it entailed 
 so much inevitable suffering ! But we conclude that they 
 would rather 'dree their weird,' or that no other idea ever 
 occurred to them. Mrs, Carlyle writes in the summer of 
 1852, to Mrs, Russell, of Thornhill, as to this new 'earth- 
 quaking. She was, as she says, ' needed to keep the work- 
 men from falling into continual mistakes,' but it was a relief 
 to her when Carlyle went off to Mr. Erskine of Linlathen ! 
 Mrs. Carlyle was tired out. ' If you saw me,' she writes to 
 Mrs, Russell, ' sitting in the midst of falling bricks and clouds 
 of lime-dust, and a noise as of battering-rams, you wouldn't 
 wonder that I make my letter brief.' 
 
 The dying off of the little Templand sweet-briar just now 
 grieved her ! ' I am vexed,' she says, ' and can't help feeling 
 the sweet-briar's unwillingness to grow with me; a bad omen, 
 somehow.' 
 
 Mrs. Carlyle's letters to her husband at this time have 
 something of despair, almost of desperation, in them. Her 
 visit to the dying Mrs. Macready is told with deep and 
 simple pathos. The omens were not hopeful as to her own 
 health, cheery as are her accounts of herself. The journey 
 was a long one to Sherborne, via Frome, and Mrs. Carlyle 
 says she rendered herself at Paddington station with a bag on 
 one arm and her ' blessed ' (Nero) in a basket on the other. 
 In August, Mazzini's mother died, and again the ofifice of 
 
THE PLAN OF 'FREDERICK' 
 
 223 
 
 consoler fell on her to whom it was, perhaps, one of the few 
 consolations she was susceptible of, in her weak and weary 
 state. 
 
 And now Carlyle's mighty and restless spirit had at 
 length conceived another design. He would write the Life 
 of Frederick the Great, and with a view to collecting mate- 
 rial, started from the port of Leith, on board the Rotterdam 
 steamer en route for Bonn, and other places, on August 30, 
 1852. ' For Carlyle to write a book on Frederick' — as Mr. 
 Froude justly says — 'would involve the reading of a moun- 
 tain of books, memoirs, journals, state-papers. The work 
 with Cromwell would be child's play to it ' — and so it proved ! 
 That tremendous book made prolonged and entire devasta- 
 tion of any satisfactory semblance of home-life, or home- 
 happiness. 
 
 It was in December of 1851 that Lady Ashburton asked 
 Mrs. Carlyle to spend that month with her, Carlyle being 
 buried in * Jomuni and the Seven Years' War.' It was not 
 easy for Mrs. Carlyle to accept, with due graciousness, this 
 well-meant invitation, and she took counsel with Dr. John 
 Carlyle. 'Heaven knows,' she wrote, 'what is to be said 
 from me individually ! If I refuse this time, she will quarrel 
 with me outright ! That is her way, and, as quarrelling with 
 her would involve also quarrelling with Mr. C, it is not a 
 thing to be done lightly.' Mrs. Carlyle went, however, to 
 the Grange, while her husband remained shut up with his 
 preliminary work. He managed later to join his wife at the 
 Grange, and finished the year there. 
 
 Six months of comparative quiet followed before Carlyle 
 sailed again for Rotterdam on a second German tour, in 
 August 1852. A characteristic anecdote occurs prior to 
 this voyage in a letter from Mrs. Carlyle to the mother at 
 Scotsbrig. Carlyle had been suffering from indisposition, 
 it would seem, and said to the servant, ' I should like tea 
 for breakfast this morning, but you need not hurry* The 
 fact was, he wished a little extra time for his ablutions, 
 
224 LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 but the servant was much agitated, and thought it such an 
 unlikely thing for the master to say, that ' it quite made her 
 flesh creep.' 
 
 And now Carlyle was grappling with the discomforts of 
 foreign travel, and his wife had paid another visit to Ad- 
 discombe, returning, sleepless and fatigued, to temporary 
 lodgings at No. 2 Cheyne Row, her weary feet finding no 
 rest. In September, she was again in her own chaos at No. 5, 
 and straightway took regularly ill, * in desperate agony, with 
 a noise going on around me like the crack of doom. . . . 
 I have passed a good many bad days in this world, but 
 certainly never one so utterly wretched from mere physical 
 and mental causes as yesterday.' This was her own sad 
 account. 
 
 It may be contended that mere inconvenience ought not 
 to produce such dire consequences. In a healthy system the 
 effects would be different, no doubt, but disease had made 
 sad inroads on Mrs. Carlyle's nervous powers, and she simply 
 spoke of things as she felt them, the true test of effect, and so 
 far of absolute y^c/, in such matters. That there are people 
 who love the sound of the * hurdy-gurdy ' at night, and of the 
 early cock at dawn, did not prevent poor John Leech dying 
 of London noises. 
 
 It was in this year that Dr. John Carlyle was engaged to 
 be married, and Mrs. Carlyle's comment is that, 'having 
 known each other for fifteen years, it is possible they mayn't 
 be marrying on a basis of fiction.' Facts were present to 
 her, poor soul, when she lay on her back, 'in an agony,' 
 directing and hounding on the workmen who were to make 
 5 Cheyne Row a comfortable and desirable residence for 
 Mr. Carlyle on his return. 
 
 On September 13, 1852, Mrs. Carlyle had been hearing 
 from her husband, and writes, 'What a pity you can't get any 
 good sleep,' adding, 'It is not German beds only, however, 
 that one cannot get sleep in. Three nights ago, in despera- 
 tion, I took a great dose of morphia for the same state of 
 
 4 
 
A DIFFICULT QUESTION 225 
 
 things, and was thankful to get four hours of something like 
 forgetfulness by that "questionable" means!' Thomas 
 Erskine of Linlathen had been writing to Mrs. Carlyle that 
 'he loved her much, and wished he could see what God 
 intended her for ! ' Her answer, as quoted by herself to 
 Carlyle, is a sad one. 
 
 I answered his letter (she says), begging him to tell me ' what 
 God intended me for,' since he knew and I didn't. It would be 
 a satisfaction even to know it. It is surely a kind of impiety to 
 speak of God as if He, too, were ' with the best intentions always 
 unfortunate.' Either I am just what God intended me for, or 
 God cannot ' carry out ' His intentions, it would seem. And in 
 that case I, for 'one solitary individual,' can't worship Him the 
 least in the world. 
 
 Some lives seem so dedicated to inevitable suffering that 
 we can only bow the head and refrain from explanations — 
 any mere matter-of-fact discussion on the subject is useless. 
 
 Long histories of petty domestic worries, crushing enough 
 in their way, and needless to dwell on here, fill many of these 
 letters to Carlyle. Workmen had been dilatory, and Mrs. 
 Carlyle says, on October 5, to her husband: 'I have not a 
 word of comfort to give; I am wearied and sad and cross, and 
 feel as if death had been dissolved into a liquid and I had drunk 
 of it till I was full ! Good gracious ! that wet paint should 
 have the power of poisoning one's soul as well as one's 
 body ! ' It is not always thus, surely; but here was a soul 
 and body ill-attuned, sick, sad, lonely. 
 
 Turning over some boxfuls of old letters, Mrs. Carlyle 
 came upon Dr. Welsh's ' Day-Book,' removed the cover, 
 and found a large letter lying inside, addressed to her in her 
 mother's handwriting — 'with three unbroken seals of her 
 ring.' It was not, alas ! the wished-for letter of farewell,' 
 but contained the deed making over Craigenputtock to 
 Mrs. Welsh, executed some time before the marriage to 
 Thomas Carlyle, to whom, on the mother's death, the prop- 
 erty had again been legally transferred. 
 
226 LIFE IN L OND ON 
 
 A few words, only, from the mother's hand, were written 
 in the envelope of this unexpectedly found letter. ' When 
 this comes into your possession, my dearest child, do not 
 forget my sister. G. W., Templand: May, 1827.' That 
 gentle sister had long passed away — and Mrs. Carlyle could 
 do nothing all the day after finding the letter but weep, 
 with that saddest grief which attends the past and the 
 irretrievable. 
 
 The breaking-in of thieves into the unfinished house was 
 quite a healthy diversion compared with such sadness — and 
 Mrs. Carlyle's account to Dr. John Carlyle of this latter 
 event is truly excellent reading. In December she writes, 
 on the last day of the year: 
 
 To Mrs. Russell, Thor7ihill. 
 
 5 Cheyne Row: Friday, Dec. 31, 1852. 
 My dear Mrs, Russell, — Here is another year; God help us 
 all ! I hope it finds you better than when I last heard of you 
 from my friends at Auchtertool. I have often been meaning to 
 write to you without waiting for a New Year's Day; but in all 
 my life I never have been so driven off all letter-writing as since 
 the repairs began in this house. There were four months of 
 that confusion, which ended quite romantically, in my having to 
 sleep with loaded pistols at my bedside ! the smell of paint 
 making it as much as my life was worth to sleep with closed 
 windows, and the thieves having become aware of the state of 
 the premises. Once they got in and stole some six pounds' worth 
 of things, before they were frightened away by a candlestick 
 falling and making what my Irish maid called ' a devil of a row,' 
 it was rather to be called ' an angel of a row,' as it saved further 
 depredation. Another time they climbed up to the drawing- 
 room windows, and found them fastened, for a wonder ? Another 
 night I was alarmed by a sound as of a pane of glass cut, and 
 leapt out of bed, and struck a light, and listened, and heard the 
 same sound repeated, and then a great bang, like breaking in 
 some panel. I took one of my loaded pistols, and went down- 
 Stairs, and then another bang which I perceived was at the front 
 
TRANSIENT PEA CE 227 
 
 door. 'What do you want?' I asked; 'who are you?' 'It's 
 the policeman, if you please; do you know that your parlour 
 windows are both open ? ' It was true ! I had forgotten to close 
 them, and the policeman had first tried the bell, which made the 
 shivering sound, the wire being detached from the bell, and when 
 he found he could not ring it he had beaten on the door with his 
 stick, the knocker also being off while it was getting painted. I 
 could not help laughing at what the man's feelings would have 
 been had he known of the cocked pistol within a few inches of 
 him. All that sort of thing, and much else more disagreeable, 
 and less amusing, quite took away all my spirit for writing; then, 
 
 when Mr. C returned from Germany, we went to the Grange 
 
 for some weeks; then when I came home, and the workmen 
 were actually out of the house, there was everything to look for, 
 and be put in its place, and really things are hardly in their 
 places up to this hour. Heaven defend me from ever again 
 having any house I live in ' made habitable ! ' 
 
 Carlyle had returned from Germany, in October, ' half 
 dead . . . out of those German horrors of insomnia, indi- 
 gestion, and continued chaotic wretchedness.' He really 
 reminds usof a definition of the term ^ a /np/iibious,' occurrmg, 
 we think, in one of Dickens's works — as applied to a crea- 
 ture which ' cannot live in the water, and dies on the land.' 
 Carlyle fled upstairs to his poor ' Heroic Helper,' and found 
 that ' she, too, is fighting, has not conquered, that beast of 
 a task, undertaken voluntarily for one unworthy. . . .' 
 
 A short visit to the Grange ended this chaotic state of 
 things, and, once more, 5 Cheyne Row was free of workmen 
 and some peace was possible ! And now began the actual 
 work of ' Frederick,' which occupied the early months of 
 1853, and was only completed in January 1865. In July 
 Mrs. Carlyle had gone off to Moffat, where John Carlyle, 
 now married, had taken a house — and, strange to say, there 
 was still painting to be done in Cheyne Row. It was a 
 ghastly time to the over-sensitive Carlyle — the smell of the 
 paint and the crowing of * quite newly-invented cocks' in 
 the long, light summer mornings ! ' And above and below 
 
2 28 LIFE IN LONDON' 
 
 all, the want of ' sweet accord ' between the married pair ! 
 *Oh Jeannie,' he wrote to her, 'you know nothing about me 
 just now ! . . your lynx-eyes do not reach into the inner 
 region of me, and know not what is in my heart — what, on 
 the whole, always was and will always be there. I wish you 
 did ! I wish you did ! ' 
 
 Sitting all alone in his Chelsea garden he meditated on his 
 miseries; in one letter eloquently dilating on them, in the next 
 apologising for his weakness. 
 
 ' But what could I do ? ' he said, ' fly for shelter to my 
 mammy, like a poor infant with its finger cut; complain in my 
 distress to the one heart that used to be open to me } ' 
 
 ' Greater than man, less than woman,' as Essex said of Queen 
 Elizabeth. The cocks were locked up next door,and the fireworks 
 at Cremorne were silent, and the rain fell and cooled the July 
 air; and Carlyle slept, and the universe became once more 
 tolerable.* 
 
 * From Froude's Histoiy of Carlyle' s Life in London, Vol. ii. p. 131. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 A. D. 1853-1856 
 
 Declining health of old Mrs. Carlyle at Scotsbrig — Mrs. Carlyle 
 hastens to her — Womanly tenderness — The danger staved off — ■ 
 Return to Chelsea — Death of John Welsh of Liverpool — Visit of 
 the Carlyles to the Grange — The ' soundless ' room at Chelsea — 
 Return of JMrs. Carlyle — Noises — Death of Helen Welsh — Death 
 of Carlyle's mother — Wifely sympathy — Miss Jewsbury comes to 
 live in London — Miss Fox — Mazzini's farewell — Mrs. Carlyle's 
 Journal — Deep misery — Sympathy — Budget of a ' Femme Incom- 
 prise.' 
 
 At this time the good old mother at Scotsbrig shev^^ed signs 
 of fatal decline. The tidings of anxiety reached Mrs. Carlyle 
 at Moffat, where she was still the guest of Dr. and Mrs. 
 John Carlyle. Only a few days before she had been humor- 
 ously complaining of being kept awake on the night of 
 her arrival by ' a Jivoena, ' escaped from some travelling 
 menagerie, then she had had a narrow escape of accident on 
 the steep slope of a hill, but the greater trouble was to 
 come. 
 
 It was in a letter to Mrs. Braid (the much- loved old 
 servant 'Betty,') dated July 13th 1853, that Mrs. Carlyle 
 speaks of this anxiety. ' He (Carlyle),' she writes, ' is very 
 melancholy and helpless, left alone, at the best of times; and 
 now, I am afraid, he is going to have a great sorrow in the 
 death of his old mother.' 
 
 Mrs. Carlyle, with true womanly tenderness, hurried 
 
 away from Moffat to assist in nursing, and wrote beautiful 
 
 and comforting letters to her husband, which were thoroughly 
 
 appreciated by him. The immediate alarm passed, and Mrs. 
 
 Carlyle was able to return safely to Chelsea, breaking her 
 
 229 
 
230 LIFE IiV LONDON 
 
 journey at Liverpool, weeping much on her way thither, 
 partly, no doubt, from over-strain and fatigue, and partly at 
 the wrench it always gave her to leave her beloved Scotland. 
 Carlyle in his annotation upon this letter says — ' feet bleed- 
 ing by the way, over the thorns of this bewildered earth.' 
 
 In the letter to her husband, just quoted from, Mrs. 
 Carlyle says, ' Thanks for never neglecting ' 
 
 It was in October that John Welsh of Maryland Street 
 died, to the grief of all who knew him. Mrs. Carlyle, writing 
 to his daughter Helen, says: ' It was well he should die thus, 
 gently and beautifully, with all his loving kindness fresh as a 
 young man's; his enjoyment of life not wearied out; all our 
 love for him as warm as ever. . . .' 
 
 And now came the anything but soundless building of a 
 supposed * soundless ' room for Carlyle to write in, he having 
 reached, on August 1853, another 'nadir' of suffering ! The 
 Carlyles both then betook themselves to the Grange for 
 Christmas, after occupying Addiscombe alone for some weeks 
 previously at the kind request of the Ashburtons. The first 
 'silent apartment had turned out the noisiest in the house, 
 with infernal additions of cocks and macaws.' 
 
 Two days rest here, at the Grange (for Mrs. Carlyle), were 
 cut short by an awkward accident in the shape of a blow on 
 the head, which shocked the nerves and took away sleep, and 
 ended, somewhat unexpectedly, in her retiring to look after 
 the difficulties in Chelsea. The clever woman had the 
 keepers of nuisances legally bound down to silence by means 
 of a timely five-pound note, and a written agreement with 
 penalty attached. But news of Helen Welsh's death arrived 
 almost at the same time, she having survived her father but a 
 few weeks. 
 
 It was within a week of Christmas that Carlyle, still at 
 the Grange, had distinctly worse news of his mother, and 
 hurried away to Scotsbrig. In his Journal of January 8th, 
 1854, he writes: ' The stroke has fallen, my dear old mother 
 is gone from me ! ' There was yet time for a brief farewell, 
 
tr ue s ympa th y 231 
 
 The womanly sweetness with which Mrs. Carlyle writes to 
 her husband on this bereavement tells its own sure tale. 
 
 Oh, my dear (she writes), never does one feel oneself so utterly 
 helpless as in trying to speak comfort for great bereavements. I 
 will not try it. . . . And yet all griefs, when there is no bitter- 
 ness in them, are soothed down by Time. And your grief for 
 your mother must be altogether sweet and soft. You must feel 
 that you have always been a good son to her; that you have 
 always appreciated her as she deserved, and that she knew this, 
 and loved you to the last moment . . . made doubly sure to you 
 by her last look and words. Oh! what would I have given for 
 last words, to keep in my innermost heart all the rest of my 
 life. . . . 
 
 But the infinite distance lay between them. 
 
 Carlyle, probably, felt anything but the calming assur- 
 ance suggested by his wife. It is not natural or possible in 
 the first days of piercing pain! but the tie between him and 
 his mother had been no ordinary one, and there was a deep 
 loneliness in his heart. 
 
 The year 1854 was spent almost entirely in London. 
 The book on 'Frederick' loomed, as a huge thundercloud, 
 over that little horizon. The offer of quarters at the Grange 
 was not favourably received, and the July heats found the 
 Carlyles still in London. 
 
 We cannot feel that Mrs. Carlyle ever took kindly to the 
 ' purple and fine linen ' of those in more opulent circum- 
 stances than was she herself. Muddy boots and a soaked 
 mackintosh met a more cordial welcome from her, as a rule, 
 than did the daintily dressed occupant of a cosy brougham, 
 with its pair of high-stepping greys. It was not snobbish- 
 ness, not envy; but it v/as an indubitable fact, and had its 
 root in pride, in conscious superiority, in the sense of being 
 the second and not the first person in some of her guests' 
 minds. So we think. Again, there were the deep, un- 
 quenchable attachments to old home associations, which she 
 could share with Mrs. Russell or ' Old Betty,' but not with 
 
^32 LIFE IN L OND ON 
 
 any of the fine, fashionable folk who now surrounded her. 
 So she was sensitive at the inhabiting of the Grange during 
 the absence of its owners — dreaded ' the five housemaids,' 
 and it was, after all, not very surprising that it should be so. 
 
 A bright prospect was now held out in the intention of 
 Miss Jewsbury to come and live in London, ' a real gain' 
 as Mrs. Carlyle puts it. And it was always a refreshment, 
 even to outsiders like ourselves, to come in contact with that 
 bright and unique personality. 
 
 The Crimean War haunted Mrs. Carlyle day and night. 
 Near relative she had none, in danger, but there was Colonel 
 Sterling to be thought of, and she says in November 1854 to 
 Mrs. Russell : '■ I read the list of killed and wounded always 
 with a sick dread of finding his name.' 
 
 So Carlyle struggled through the dark, gloomy days with 
 his '■ unexecutable book '; and Mrs. Carlyle, after vainly look- 
 ing for a suitable seaside cottage, finally decided to remain at 
 Chelsea, and did so, over-worn, fatigued, and sleepless ! 
 
 We are forced to remember that Mrs. Carlyle could not be 
 what is called happy anywhere, whatever may have been the 
 impression of those who only saw this gifted pair at times 
 and briefly. The late Miss Caroline Fox formed, at first, an 
 impression hardly borne out by facts. ' They are a very happy 
 pair,' she says. 'She plays all manner of tricks on her hus- 
 band, telling wonderful stories of him in his presence, founded 
 almost solely on her bright imagination . . . .' and as early 
 as 1847 Caroline Fox quotes Mrs. Carlyle as saying, 'I often 
 wonder what right I have to live at all' Now, too, she spoke 
 of the world's hollowness, and of every year deepening her 
 sense of this; of half a dozen real friends as far too magnifi- 
 cent an allowance for anyone to calculate on — she would sug- 
 gest half a one: 'those you really care about die.' Of 
 Thomas Erskine, whom they both loved, Mrs. Carlyle said, 
 ' He always soothes me, for he looks so serene, as if he had 
 found peace.' 
 
 She, poor woman, certainly had not done so I 
 
FAREWELL TO MAZZINI l^to 
 
 In June 1849 Miss Fox 'steamed to Chelsea, and paid 
 Mrs. Caiiyle a humane little visit.' 'I don't think,' says 
 Miss Fox, ' she roasted a single soul or even body. She 
 talked in rather a melancholy way of herself and of things in 
 general, professing that it was only the Faith that all things 
 are well put together — which all sensible people viust believe 
 — that prevents our sending to the nearest chemist's shop for 
 six-pennyworth of arsenic. . . .' 'We said a few modest 
 words,' adds the gentle Quakeress, ' in honour of existence, 
 to which she answered, '■'■ But J can' t enjoy Joy,'' as Henry 
 Taylor says.' 
 
 Miss Fox also records Mazzini's farewell words to Mrs. 
 Carlyle on his departure at the time of the Milan insurrection. 
 ' Mrs. Carlyle had said he took leave of her as one who never 
 expected to see her again: he kissed her and said, " Be strong 
 and good until I return." ' In Mazzini Mrs. Carlyle lost a 
 true friend, strong and brave enough to see her faults, and 
 to say a timely word. Miss Fox, too, would have been a great 
 comforter, had circumstances cast the lot of the two women 
 together more closely. Little real help was possible, however, 
 at the present time, when the deep dissatisfaction of Mrs. 
 Carlyle at her husband's repeated visits to the Ashburtons at 
 Bath House was accentuated by all the stress of a sick body 
 and a sick mind — past help ! We cannot but think that had 
 it been possible for Mr. Carlyle to see clearly one fraction of 
 the pain he was causing, he might easily have given up this 
 friendship, all blameless as it was in itself, and let the greater 
 supersede the less. For the peace of her, whom he had vowed 
 to cherish, ivas, after all, the main thing, and were the wish 
 ever so unreasonable, most men would have seen it and acted 
 out the wife's desire. But he was not like other men, and he 
 did not see. Had he once seen, we do not doubt the result ! 
 
 As it was, the sadness became very heavy. Some extracts 
 from a journal kept by Mrs. Carlyle shew the depth of her 
 pain. We quote a few sentences. 
 
 Oct. 22, 1855. — ' Cut short last night by Mr. C.'s return 
 
234 Z//"ie IN LONDON 
 
 from Bath House ! That eternal Bath House ! I wonder 
 how many thousand miles Mr. C. has walked between here 
 and there, putting it all together, setting up always another 
 milestone and another betwixt himself and me ! ' 
 
 Oct. 25. — ' . . . My heart is very sore to-night, but I 
 have promised myself not to make this journal a " miserere," 
 so I will take a dose of morphia and do the impossible to 
 sleep.' 
 
 Nov. I. — ' Fine weather outside, but indoors, blowing a 
 devil of a gale. Off into space then, to get the green mould 
 that has been gathering upon me of late days brushed off by 
 human contact.' 
 
 Nov. 6. — ' . . . They must be comfortable people who 
 have leisure to think about going to Heaven ! My most con- 
 stant and pressing desire is to keep out of Bedlam.' 
 
 Nov. 7. — ' . . . What a sick day this has been with me ! 
 Oh ! my mother. Nobody sees when I am suffering now.' 
 
 Dec. 4. — ' Oh ! to cure anyone of a terror of annihilation, 
 just put him on my allowance of sleep, and see if he don't 
 get to long for sleep, sleep, unfathomable and everlasting 
 sleep, as the only conceivable heaven ! ' 
 
 March 24, 1856. — ' . . . Looking back was not intended 
 by nature, evidently, from the fact that our eyes are in our 
 faces, and not in our hind heads. Look straight before you 
 then, Jane Carlyle. . . . Look, above all, at the duty nearest 
 hand, and, what's more, do it!' 
 
 March 26. — * To-day it has blown knives and files; a cold, 
 rasping, savage day: excruciating for sick nerves. Dear 
 Geraldine, as if she would contend with the very elements on 
 my behalf, brought me a bunch of violets and a bouquet of 
 the loveliest, most fragrant flowers. Talking with her all I 
 have done, or could do. " Have mercy upon me, O Lord ! 
 for I am weak. , . , O Lord, heal me, for my bones are vexed. 
 My soul also is sore vexed — but Thou, O Lord! how long ? " ' 
 
 If the Journal was not a ' Miserere/ it was truly a ' De 
 Profundis.' 
 
A BRILLIANT WOMAN 
 
 n^ 
 
 August 1855 had witnessed a painful experiment. The 
 Ashburtons, knowing how Cariyle needed rest, had again 
 offered Addiscombe to him and Mrs. Cariyle, and thither 
 they repaired. But it proved a failure, and Mrs. Cariyle 
 went back to Chelsea with some suddenness, causing much 
 pain to her husband, who wrote at once to her in the ten- 
 derest terms, only wishing her to find rest if she could. 
 
 Christmas of 1855 found the Carlyle's again at the Grange 
 — but the visit was a very unhappy one for Mrs. Cariyle — 
 sick and sad, she struggled on ! It was in the autumn of 
 1855 that the Journal was begun from which such sad ex- 
 tracts have been given; the Journal from which, after her 
 death, Cariyle first came to know how unhappy she had been, 
 and that he had been partly the cause. 
 
 Few women could have composed the sparkling and able 
 'Budget of a Femme Incomprise,' dated February 12, 1855 
 — unique amongst feminine productions. Cariyle received it 
 with roars of laughter and promptly complied with the modest 
 demands made on him. ' Excellent,' he says, ' my dear, 
 clever Goody; thriftiest, wittiest and cleverest of women.' 
 He did not feel the hidden bitterness of the whole thing. 
 We give the ' Budget' * in full. 
 
 Budget of a Femme Incomprz'se, 
 
 I don't choose to speak again on the moitey questioti! The 
 ' replies ' from the Noble Lord are unfair and unkind, and little 
 to the purpose. When you tell me ' I pester your life out about 
 money,' that 'your soul is sick with hearing about it,' that T 
 had better make the money I have serve,' 'at all rates, hang it, 
 let you alone of it ' — all that I call perfectly unfair, the reverse 
 of kind, and tending to nothing but disagreement. If I were 
 greedy, or extravagant, or a bad manager, you would be justified 
 in ' staving me off' with loud words; but you cannot say that oi 
 me (whatever else) — cannot thi7ik it of me. At least, I am sure 
 that I never ' asked for more ' from you or anyone, not even 
 
 * From Froude's History of Carlyle's Life in Londott, Vol. ii. p. 162, 
 
236 LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 from my own mother, in all my life, and that through six-and- 
 twenty years I have kept house for you at more or less cost 
 according to given circumstances, but always on less than it costs 
 the generality of people living in the same style. What I should 
 have expected you to say rather would have been: 'My dear, 
 you must be dreadfully hampered in your finances, and dread- 
 fully anxious and unhappy about it, and quite desperate of 
 inaking it do, since /<??/; are " asking for more." Make me under- 
 stand the case, then. I can and will help you out of that sordid 
 suffering at least, either by giving you more, if that be found 
 prudent to do, or by reducing our wants to within the present 
 means.' That is the sort of thing you would have said had you 
 been a perfect man; so I suppose you are not a perfect man. 
 Then, instead of crying in my bed half the night after, I would 
 have explained my budget to you in peace and confidence. But 
 now I am driven to explain it on paper 'in a state of mind'; 
 driven, for I cannot, it is not in my nature to live ' entangled in 
 the details,' and I luill not. I would sooner hang myself, though 
 ' pestering you about moiTey ' is also more repugnant to me than 
 you dream of. 
 
 You don't understand why the allowance which sufficed in 
 former years no longer suffices. That is what I would explain to 
 the Noble Lord if he would but — what shall I say? — keep his 
 te7nper. 
 
 The beginning of my embarrassments, it will not surprise the 
 Noble Lord to learn, since it has also been ' the beginning of ' 
 almost every human ill to himself, was the repair itig of the house. 
 There was a destruction, an irregidarity, an incessant rectirrence 
 of small incidental expenses, during all that period, or two 
 periods, through which I found myself in September gone a 
 year, te?i pounds behind, instead of having some pounds saved 
 up towards the winter's coals. I could have worked round ' out 
 of that,' however, in course of time, if habits of impitichedhonsG.- 
 keeping had not been long taken to by you as well as myself, 
 and if new unavoidable, or not-to-be avoided, current expenses 
 had not followed close on those incidental ones. I will show 
 the Noble Lord, with his permission, what the new current ex- 
 penses are, and to what they amount per annum. (Hear, hear ! 
 and cries of ' Be brief ! ') 
 
 I. We have a servant of 'higher grade ' than we ever ven- 
 
D OMES TIC ANAL YSIS 237 
 
 tured on before; more expensive in money. Anne's wages are 
 16 pounds a year; Fanny's were 13. Most of the others had 12; 
 and Anne never dreams of being other than well fed. The others 
 scrambled inx their Hving out of ours. Her regular meat dinner 
 at one o'clock, regular allowance of butter, &c., adds at least 
 three pounds a year to X}s\Q.years bills. But she plagues us with 
 no fits of illness nor of drimkenness, no warnings nor complain- 
 ings. She does perfectly what she is /azlr/ and y.?!^ to do. I see 
 houses not so well kept with 'cook,' 'housemaid,' and 'man- 
 servant ' (Question ! ). Anne is the last item I should vote for 
 retrenching in. I may set her down, however, at six additional 
 pounds. 
 
 2. We have now gas and water 'laid on,' both producing 
 admirable results. But betwixt ' water laid on ' at one pound, 
 sixteen shillings per annum, with j/z////;/^ to turncock, and water 
 carried at fourpence a week, there is a yearly difference of 19 shil- 
 lings and four pence; and betwixt ^«^ all the year round and a 
 few sixpenny boxes of lights in the winter the difference may be 
 computed ■BlX. fifteen skt'llings. These two excellent innovations, 
 then, increase the yearly expenditure by one pound fourteen shil- 
 lings and four pence — a trifle to speak of; but you, my Lord, 
 born and bred in thrifty Scotland, must know well the proverb, 
 ' Every little mak's a mickle.' 
 
 3. We are higher faxed. Within the last eighteen months 
 there has been added to the Lighting, Pavement, and Improve- 
 ment Rate ten shillings yearly, to the Poor Rate one pound, to 
 the sewer rate ten shillings; and now the doubled Income Tax 
 makes a difference of 5/. i6s. Sd. yearly, which sums, added 
 together, amount to a difference of 7/. i6s. 8d. yearly, on taxes 
 which already amounted to 17/. 12s. Sd. There need be no re- 
 flections for want of taxes. 
 
 4. Provisions of all sorts are higher priced than in former 
 years. Four shillings a week for bread, instead of two shillings 
 and sixpence, makes at the year's end a difference of 3/. i8j. 
 Butter has kept all the year round 2d. a pound dearer than I ever 
 knew it. On the quantity we use — two pounds and a half per 
 week ' quite reg'lar ' — there is a difference of 21s. 8d. by the year. 
 Butcher's meat is a penny a pound dearer. At the rate of a 
 pound and a half a day, bones included — no exorbitant allowance 
 for three people — the difference on that at the year's end would 
 
238 LIFE IN L OND ON 
 
 be 2/. 5^, dd. Coals, which had been for some years at 2\s. per 
 ton, cost this year 26^., last year 29^., bought judiciously, too. 
 If I had had to pay 505. a ton for them, as some housewives had 
 to, God knows what would have become of me. (Passionate 
 cries of ' Question ! Question ! ') We burn, or used to burn — I 
 am afraid they are going faster this winter — twelve tons, one 
 year with another. Candles are ris: composites a shilling a 
 pound, instead of \od.; dips 8 pence, instead of ^d. or 6d. Of 
 the former we burn three pounds in nine days — the greater part 
 of the year you sit so late — and of dips two pounds a fortnight 
 on the average of the whole year. Bacon is id. a pound dearer; 
 soap ditto; potatoes, at the cheapest, a penny a pound, instead 
 of three pounds for id. We use three pounds of potatoes in two 
 days' meals. Who could imagine that at the year's end that 
 makes a difference of 1 5^-. id. on one's mere potatoes ? Compute 
 all this, and you will find that the difference on provisions cannot 
 be under twelve pounds in the year. 
 
 5. What I should blush to state if I were not at bay, so to 
 speak: ever since we have been in London yoic have, in the 
 handsomest manner, paid the winter's butter with your own 
 money, though it was not in the bond. And this gentlemanlike 
 proceeding on your part, till the butter became uneatable, was a 
 good two pounds saved me. 
 
 Add up these differences: — 
 
 
 
 & 
 
 s. 
 
 </. 
 
 I. 
 
 Rise on servant . 
 
 6 
 
 
 
 
 
 2. 
 
 Rise on light and water 
 
 I 
 
 14 
 
 
 
 3- 
 
 On taxes 
 
 7 
 
 16 
 
 8 
 
 4- 
 
 On provisions 
 
 12 
 
 
 
 
 
 5- 
 
 Cessation of butter . 
 
 2 
 
 
 
 
 
 You will find a total of ^29 10 8 
 
 My calculation will be found quite correct, though I am not 
 
 strong in arithmetic. I have thochtcred all this well in my head, 
 
 and indigjiation makes a sort of arithmetic, as well as verses. 
 
 Do you finally understand why the allowance which sufficed 
 
 formerly no longer suffices, and pity my difficulties instead of 
 
 being angry at them ? 
 
 The only thing you can reproach me with, if you like, is that 
 
 fifteen months ago, when I found myself already in debt, and 
 
UNDOUBTED ELOQUENCES 239 
 
 everything rising on me, I did not fall at once to pi)iching and 
 muddling, as when we didn't know where the next money was to 
 come from, instead of 'lashing down' at the accustomed rate: 
 nay, expanding into a ' regular servant.' But you are to recol- 
 lect that when I first complained to you of the prices, you said, 
 quite good-naturedly, ' Then you are coming to bankruptcy, are 
 you ? Not going to be able to go on, you think ? Well, then, 
 we must come to your assistance, poor critttir. You mustn't be 
 made a bankrupt of.' So I kept my mind easy, and retrenched 
 in nothing, relying on the promised 'assistance.' But when 
 ' Oh ! it was lang o' coming, lang o' coming,' my arrears taking 
 every quarter a more alarming cypher, what could I do but put 
 you in mind ? Once, twice, at the third speaking, what you 
 were pleasantly calling 'a great heap of money' — 15/. — was — 
 what shall I say ? — flung to me. Far from leaving anyl/iing to 
 meet the increased demand of another nine months, this sum 
 did not clear me of debt, not by five pounds. But from time to 
 time encouraging guards fell from the Noble Lord. ' No, you 
 cannot pay the double Income Tax; clearly, I must pay that for 
 you.' And again: ' I will burn as many coals as I like; if you 
 can't pay for them somebody must!' All resulting, however, 
 thus far in ' Don t you wish you may get it ? ' Decidedly I should 
 have needed to be more than mortal, or else ' a born daughter 
 of Chaos,' to have gone on without attempt made at ascertaining 
 •what co7ni}ig to my assistance meant: whether it meant 15/. with- 
 out a blessing once for all ; and if so, what retrenchments were 
 to be permitted. 
 
 You asked me at last money row, with withering sarcasm, 
 ' had I the slightest idea what amount of money would satisfy 
 me. Was I wanting 50/. more; or forty, or thirty? Was there 
 any conceivable sum of money that could put an end to my 
 eternal botheration ? ' I will answer the question as if it had 
 been asked practically and kindly. 
 
 Yes. I have the strongest idea what amount of money would 
 ' satisfy ' me. I have computed it often enough as I lay awake 
 at nights. Indeed, when I can't sleep now it is my ' difficulties' 
 I think about more than my sins, till they become ' a real 
 mental awgony in my own inside.' The above-named sum, 29/., 
 divided into quarterly payments, would satisfy me (with a certain 
 parsimony about little things, somewhat less might do), I 
 
240 
 
 LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 engaging my word of a gentlewoman to give back at the year's 
 end whatever portion thereof any diminution of the demand on 
 me might enable me to save. 
 
 I am not so unpractical, however, as to ask for the whole 29/. 
 without thought or care where it is to come from. I have 
 settled all that (Derisive laughter, and Hear, hear ! ), so that nine 
 pounds only will have to be disbursed by you over and above 
 your long-accustomed disbursements (Hear, hear ! ), You 
 anticipate, perhaps, some draft on your waste-paper basket. No, 
 my Lord, it has never been my habit to interfere with your ways 
 of making money, or the rate which you make it at; and if I 
 never did it in early years, most unlikely I should do it 7i(nu. My 
 bill of ways and means has nothing to do with making money, 
 only with disposing of the money made. (Bravo ! hear !) 
 
 1. Ever since my mother's death you have allowed me for old 
 Mary Mills 3/. yearly. She needs them no more. Cojitinue 
 these three pounds for the house. 
 
 2. Through the same long term of years you have made me 
 the handsomest Christmas and birthday presents; and when I 
 had purposely disgusted you from buying me things, you gave me 
 at the New Year 5/. Oh I know the meaning of that 5/. quite 
 well. Give me nothing; neither money nor money's worth. I 
 would have it so anyhow, and continue the 5/. for the house. 
 
 3. Ever since we came to London you have paid some 2/., I 
 guess, for butter, now become uneatable. Continue that 2/. for 
 the house; and we have already teti pounds which you can't 
 miss, not having been used to them. 
 
 4. My allowance of 25/. is a very liberal one; has enabled me 
 to spend freely for myself; and I don't deny there is a pleasure 
 in that when there is no household crisis; but with an appalling 
 deficit in the house exchequer, it is not only no pleasure but an 
 impossibility. I can keep up my dignity and my wardrobe on 
 a less sum — on 15/. a year. A silk dress, 'a splendid dress- 
 ing-gown,' 'a milliner's bonnet ' the less; what signifies that 
 at my age ? Nothing. Besides, I have had so many ' gowns* 
 given me that they may serve for two or three years. By 
 then, God knows if I shall be needing gowns at all. So 
 deduct 10/. from my personal allowance; and continue that for 
 the house. 
 
 But why not \xzxv?>i<tx \\ privately from my own purse to the 
 
HOUSEHOLD DIFFICULTIES 24 1 
 
 house one, and ask only for 19/. ? It would have sounded more 
 modest — -figured better. Just because ' that sort of thing ' don't 
 please me. I have tried it and found it a bad_^^ : a virtue not 
 its own reward ! I am for every herring to hang by its own 
 head, every purse to stand on its own bottom. It would worry 
 me to be thought rolling in the wealth of 25/., when I was 
 cleverly making 15/. do, and investing 10/. in coals and taxes. 
 Mrs. is up to that sort of self-sacrifice thing, and to find- 
 ing compensation in the sympathy of many friends, and in 
 smouldering discontent. I am up to neither the magnanimity 
 nor the compensation, but I am quite up to laying down 10/. of 
 my allowance in a straightforward, recognised way, without 
 standing on my toes to it either. And what is more, I am de- 
 termined upon it, -will not accept more than 15/. in the present 
 state of affairs. 
 
 There only remains to disclose the actual state of the ex- 
 chequer. It is empty as a drum. (Sensation.) If I consider 
 twenty-nine more pounds indispensable — things remaining as 
 they are — for the coming year, beginning the 22nd of March, it 
 is just because I have found it so in the year that is gone; and 
 I commenced that, as I have already stated, with 10/. of arrears. 
 You assisted me with 15/., and I have assisted myself with 10/., 
 five last August, which I took from the Savings Bank, and the 
 five you gave me at New Year, which I threw into the coal ac- 
 count. Don't suppose — ' if thou's i' the habit of supposing' — 
 that 1 tell you this in the z^^devout imagination of being repaid. 
 By all that's sacred for me — the metnory of my father and mother 
 — ^what else can an irreligious creature like me swear by? I 
 would not take back that money if you offered it with the best 
 grace, and had picked it up in the street. I tell it you simply 
 that you may see I am not so dreadfully greedy as you have 
 appeared to think me latterly. Setting ;/// 10/. then against 
 the original arrears, with 15/. in assistance irom you, it would 
 follow, from my own computation, that I should need 14/. more 
 to clear off arrears on the weekly bills and carry me on, paying 
 my way until 22nd of March, next quarter-day. (Cries of Shame ! 
 and Turn her out !) I say only ' shou/a need/ Your money is 
 of course yours, to do as you will with, and I would like to again 
 ' walk the causeway ' carrying my head as high — as — Mr. A., 
 the upholsterer, owing no man anythmg. and dearly T would like 
 
242 LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 to ' at all rates let you alone of it,' if I knew who else had any 
 business with my housekeeping, or to whom else I could properly 
 address myself for the moment; as what with that expensive, 
 most ill-timed dressing-gown, and my cheap ill-timed chiffonnier, 
 and my half-year's bills to Rhind and Catchpole, I have only 
 what will serve me till June comes round. 
 
 If I was a man, I might fling the gauntiet to Society, join 
 with a few brave fellows, and ' rob a diligence.' But my sex 
 ' kind o' debars from that.' Mercy ! to think there are women 
 — ^your friend Lady A., for example (' A'z^w^z^r^ .■' ' Sensation) — 
 I say for example ; who spend not merely the additamental 
 pounds I must make such pother about, hvXfoto' times my whole 
 income in the ball oi one night, and none the worse for it, nor 
 anyone the better. It is — what shall I say ? — 'curious,' upon 
 my honour. But just in the same manner Mrs. Freeman might 
 say: ' To think there are women — Mrs. Carlyle, for example — 
 who spend 3/. 2^. 6d. on one dressing-gown, and 1 with just 
 iivo loaves and eighteen peiice from the parish, to live on by the 
 week.' There is no bottom to such reflections. The only thing 
 one is perfectly sure of is ' it will come all to the same ulti- 
 mately,' and I can't say I'll regret the loss of myself, for one — 
 I add no more, but remain, dear Sir, your obedient humble 
 servant, Jane Welsh Carlyle. 
 
 And yet we fear that, as Mr. Froude says, * his was the 
 soft heart, and hers the stern one.' A sternness born of re- 
 pressed tenderness is very stern indeed, and, in this sense 
 perhaps, it 7iias so — to all appearance. That fiery heart, in 
 its unseen fetters, could not always be amiable — but like 
 ' poor Brutus — with himself at war, forgot the shews of love 
 to other men.' 
 
 1 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 A. D. 1856-1S58 
 
 Position between Mrs. Carlyle and Lady Ashburton — The Scotch jour- 
 ney — Carlyle at ' The Gill ' — Mrs. Carlyle at Auchtertool — 
 ' Seeking and finding ' — Sunny Bank — Tender Remembrances — 
 The return to London — Death of Lady Ashburton — Tribute to 
 her — Bitter reflections — Scotland again — First readings of a por- 
 tion of ' Frederick ' — Wifely pride — Mrs. Carlyle's return to 
 Cheyne Row — Discouragement — The kindness of Mr. Henry Lar- 
 kin— Another visit to Germany — Mrs. Carlyle at Lann Hall — 
 Holm Hill — Letters to Mr. Larkin — Cheyne Row once more — 
 Second marriage of Lord Ashburton — Mrs. Carlyle's thoughts of 
 her mother — The visit to ' Humble ' and Auchtertool — Carlyle 
 again in Annandale with his own people. 
 
 We cannot overlook the ' strained relations * between Mrs. 
 Carlyle and Lady Ashburton. Litention to wound, there 
 cannot have been, but * evil is wrought by want of thought, 
 as well as want of heart ' — and with all her gifts, we cannot 
 see that Lady Ashburton possessed that blessed one of being 
 able to put herself into other peoples places, mentally, and 
 from the heart — that gift upon which so much of the deepest 
 harmony of life depends. I quote an incident from Mr. 
 Froude's book, referring to this incident, slight in itself, and 
 only important as an illustration of the position in which 
 Mrs. Carlyle was placed on many occasions. 
 
 A small incident in the summer of 1856, though a mere trifle 
 in itself, may serve as an illustration of what she had to undergo. 
 The Carlyles were going for a holiday to Scotland. Lady Ash- 
 burton was going also. She had engaged a palatial carriage 
 which had been made for the Queen and her suite, and she 
 
 243 
 
244 ^^^^ ^^' LONDON 
 
 proposed to take the Carlyles down with her. The carriage 
 consisted of a spacious saloon, to which, communicating with it, 
 an ordinary compartment with the usual six seats in it was 
 attached. Lady Ashburton occupied the saloon alone. Mrs. 
 Carlyle, though in bad health and needing rest as much as Lady 
 A., was placed in the compartment with her husband, the family 
 doctor, and Lady A.'s maid; a position perfectly proper for her 
 if she was a dependent, but in which no lady could have been 
 placed whom Lady Ashburton regarded as her own equal in 
 rank. It may be that Mrs. Carlyle chose to have it so herself. 
 But Lady A. ought not to have allowed it, and Carlyle ought 
 not to have allowed it; for it was a thing wrong in itself. One 
 is not surprised to find that when Lady A. offered to take her 
 home in the same way she refused to go. ' If there were any 
 companionship in the matter,' she said bitterly, when Carlyle 
 communicated Lady A.'s proposal, ' it would be different; or if 
 you go back with the Ashburtons it will be different, as then I 
 should be going as part of your luggage without self-responsi- 
 bility.' Carlyle regarded the Ashburtons as great people, to 
 whom he was under obligations, who had been very good to him, 
 and of whose train he, in a sense, formed a part. Mrs. Carlyle, 
 with her proud, independent, Scotch republican spirit, imper- 
 fectly recognised these social distinctions. This, it maybe said, 
 was a trifle, and ought not to have been made much of. But 
 there is no sign that Mrs. Carlyle did make much of what was 
 but a small instance of her general lot. It happens to stand out 
 by being mentioned incidentally — that is all. But enough has 
 been said of this sad matter, which was now drawing near its 
 end. 
 
 It is hard to say where things end or bcgin^ with the subtle 
 combinations presented by human hearts. 
 
 Something remains, always, of what has entered deeply 
 into deep natures. 
 
 Arrived in Scotland, the party soon separated — Carlyle 
 leaving his wife with her cousins at Auchtertool, and pro- 
 ceeding to his sister Mary's, at The Gill, Annan — * seek- 
 ing and finding perfect solitude, kindness, and silence.' 
 Mrs. Carlyle wrote him from Auchtertool Manse, of the 
 
THE 'BLESSING' FORGOTTEN 245 
 
 comfort she felt with her good cousins there, but said she 
 was 'sad as death.' 
 
 A short visit to her aunt's at ' Craigenvilla,' Edinburgh, 
 did not help to lift the weight of bodily and mental depres- 
 sion — and by August 9, 1856, Mrs. Carlyle was once more at 
 Sunny Bank, Haddington, the home of her godmother. Miss 
 Donaldson. One of that kind group had died (Miss Kate), 
 so the welcome was mixed with tears. * Everybody is so kind 
 to me — Oh ! so kind, that I often burst out crying with pure 
 thankfulness to them all.' So wrote Mrs. Carlyle to her hus- 
 band, who was still at his sister's house. The Gill. The part- 
 ing from Haddington was again a wrench. Mrs. Carlyle 
 returned to her aunt's at ' Craigenvilla.' Many tender recol- 
 lections of the Haddington visit appear in the letters to 
 Carlyle. ' The people at Haddington,' she writes, ' seem all 
 to grow so good and kind as they grow old ! ' Among the 
 loving gifts showered on Mrs. Carlyle by the kind ladies at 
 Sunny Bank were two canaries — ' born in our own house, the 
 darlings !' she says; a good substitute for the disreputable 
 ' Chico ! ' 
 
 On August 26, a letter from Mr. Carlyle, arriving at the 
 same time with one from Aunt Ann,* who was on a visit in 
 Dumfriesshire — just at the moment of breakfast, cdtised quite 
 a flutter, sufficient to make these excellent ladies forget to 
 * ask the blessing.' Mrs. Carlyle was amused, and regretted 
 to old ' Betty ' that her aunts should live * in such a fuss of 
 religion.' But the aunts were dear to their niece, who was 
 glad she had made this return visit to them. 
 
 An invitation to some castle in Scotland had come to Mrs. 
 Carlyle, and was felt to be very unacceptable. < The honour 
 of the thing ' — she writes to Carlyle on August 23 — ' looks 
 too mean, and scraggy, and icy a motive to make me go a 
 foot length — or trouble myself the least in the world, with all 
 
 * One of the surviving daughters of John Welsh of Penfillan 
 (Grace, Elisabeth and Ann — aunts, therefore, of Mrs. Carlyle). 
 
246 LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 those tears and kisses I brought from Haddington, still moist 
 and warm on my heart. . . .' 
 
 Returned to Auchtertool, an unwise exertion made to hear 
 Dr. Guthrie on the Sunday she passed in Edinburgh, left 
 Mrs. Carlyle again very suffering. The eloquence of that 
 great preacher did not make ' the game worth the candle ' in 
 this case. 
 
 In September Mrs. Carlyle visited Scotsbrig, while her hus- 
 band was with the Ashburtons at Kinloch, Luichart, Ding- 
 wall. An unusual degree of irritation is shown in the two 
 letters Mrs. Carlyle wrote him during this visit, the fret of 
 the proposal that she should travel back to London with the 
 Ashburtons seemed to cut her to the quick. 
 
 Lady Ashburton is very kind to offer to take me back (she 
 had said). Pray make her my thanks for the offer. But, though 
 a very little herring, I have a born liking to ' hang by my own 
 head.' . . . 
 
 The concentrated bitterness of the words must have struck 
 home. 
 
 And now comes a letter written after the Carlyles had 
 both returned to 5 Cheyne Row, and dated October 10, 1856. 
 Again Mrs. Carlyle unburdens some of her heart-sadness to 
 Mrs. Russell of Thornhill. ' Oh ! my dear, my dear, my 
 dear ! ' she begins. ' To keep myself from going stark mad 
 I must give myself something pleasant to do for this one 
 hour. . . .' And then comes a lengthy narrative of ill-health 
 and grievances small and great, none small to her, poor, over- 
 wrought woman ! Home troubles — and servant troubles — 
 ' a house full of bugs and evil passions ' — as she herself 
 graphically states it ! Even the kind Geraldine Jewsbury 
 could not stem this torrent of discomfort ! Mrs. Carlyle 
 ends by begging the Russells, in a body, to think of her and 
 love her ! 
 
 Carlyle had deeply felt his wife's expressions as to the 
 proposed journey from Scotland to London, under Lady 
 Ashburton's convoy. He said her feeling was * wholly 
 
UNEXPECTED SOLVING OF A DIFFICULTY 247 
 
 grounded on misknowledge, or in deep ignorance of the cir- 
 cumstances . . .' and there was reason in his so saying, with 
 the light he had. 
 
 The year 1857 was to be a memorable one for these two 
 strangely-mated beings. January found them dining at dif- 
 ferent hours — little cheer at either meal, we must suppose. 
 Mrs. Carlyle was trying exercise in an omnibus — * some four- 
 teen miles of shaking, at the modest cost of one shilling.' 
 Mr. Carlyle's horse was giving him the highest satisfaction. 
 'The canaries,' writes Mrs. Carlyle in her letter to Mrs. Aus- 
 tin at The Gill, 'are the happiest creatures in the house — 
 the dog next.' This account was indicative of scanty joy in 
 the home — among the '■humans,' as the Americans say. 
 
 But a great cause of suffering was about to be removed, 
 and very unexpectedly. We quote from Carlyle.* He says: 
 'Monday, May 4, 1857. — At Paris, on her way home from 
 Nice, Lady Ashburton (born Lady Harriet Montague) sud- 
 denly died: suddenly to the doctors and those who believed 
 them; in which number, fondly hoping against hope, was L' 
 In his Journal at the time, May 6, 1857, he thus chronicles 
 the event: 'A great and irreparable sorrow to me, yet with 
 some beautiful consolations in it too. . . . 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 ! Her work — call it grand and noble endurance of 
 want of work — is all done ! ' Many years later, Mr. Froude 
 tells us of Carlyle's expressions regarding her. ' She was the 
 greatest lady of rank I ever saw, with the soul of a princess 
 and a captainess, had there been any career possible to her 
 but that fashionable one.' 
 
 Lord Houghton, in his ' Monograph ' on Lady Ashburton 
 says: ' The imperfect health against which Lady Ashburton 
 had long struggled with so much magnanimity, resulted in a 
 serious illness at Nice in 1857, and she died with resignation 
 and composure at Paris on her way to England. She was 
 
 * Letters and Monorials of Jane Welsh Carlyle. 
 
248 LIFE IN lONDON 
 
 buried in the quiet churchyard, near to the home her presence 
 had gladdened and elevated.' 
 
 Carlyle was present at the funeral, at Lord Ashburton's 
 particular entreaty, and was now more at leisure to consider 
 the other woman, whose martyrdom of suffering had never, 
 perhaps, seemed quite so noble and attractive, and to whom 
 * want of work ' was not added as an extra call for sympathy. 
 It would seem that a short visit to Addiscombe was paid by 
 the Carlyles some time after the event of Lady Ashburton's 
 death, for Carlyle says: 'I rode much about with Lord Ash- 
 burton in intimate talk, and well recollect this visit of per- 
 haps a week or ten days. . , . My Jane's miserable illness 
 now over, a visit to Haddington was steadily in view all sum- 
 mer.' So of these two women the ' one had been taken and 
 the other left' — the 'mill to grind ' being quite overpower- 
 ingly hard for the one that was left. We marvel that the frail 
 physique stood it out nearly another ten years, but her hour 
 was not yet come ! 
 
 On July 8, 1857, we find Mrs. Carlyle writing to her hus- 
 band, who was at Chelsea, from her old quarters. Sunny Bank, 
 Haddington. * They are the same heavenly kind creatures,' 
 she says, speaking of her entertainers, the Misses Donaldson 
 — and again, ' I cannot write, I am so wearied; oh, so dread- 
 fully wearied ! . . . If you could fancy me in some part of 
 the house out of sight, my absence would make little differ- 
 ence to you, considering how little I see of you, and how pre- 
 occupied you are when I do see you.' This savors not of 
 indifference, but of an unsubdued, unabated, craving for love 
 and notice from her husband. 
 
 Lord Ashburton had sent gifts to Mrs. Carlyle, personal 
 reminiscences of his late wife, the receipt of which had over- 
 come her very much, making her ' like to cry ! ' There was 
 pain on all hands for her just now. 
 
 It was while on this visit to Haddington, that she 
 visited her own old home, little altered, and full of asso- 
 ciations. It was voung Dr. Howden who lived there now, 
 
THE LANGUAGE OF HYPERBOLE 
 
 249 
 
 with his wife — that ' young girl-wife, who was so lovely and 
 wrote poetry — God help her ! ' Having left Haddington 
 Mrs. Carlyle writes on August 3 from Auchtertool, whither 
 she had gone on a short visit, in language decidedly hyper- 
 bolical. She speaks of having to 'assume the muzzle of 
 politeness ' in other people's houses; but evidently found it 
 hard to keep hers on. She refused other invitations, but 
 hoped for a few days more at Sunny Bank before returning 
 to London. 
 
 Her own ill-health caused much of the discomfort that 
 steadily attended her. At sight of Carlyle's own letters to 
 her she would now turn quite sick, and have to catch at a 
 chair, and sit down trembling, before opening one. We 
 must bear in mind the very forcible language habitually used 
 by Mrs. Carlyle, both as to her 'domestic earthquakings' 
 and other matters ! At this very time she writes to Carlyle 
 of a cousin, Jeannie, who, ' with her suite, did not arrive till 
 yesterday. The baby,' she says, * is about three finger- 
 lengths long; the two nurses nearly six feet each.' The 
 reader must smile, Carlyle himself must have been meant to 
 smile, at the lively exaggeration, and this test might be ap- 
 plied to much that Mrs. Carlyle said, in her years of suffering 
 especially; but it is impossible altogether to discount what 
 she says of her own physical pains, which were, indeed, be- 
 yond words to describe. 
 
 A short visit to Craigenvilla was marked by a most ap- 
 preciative and loving tribute to the portion of ' Frederick ' 
 now submitted to her. 'Oh ! my dear!' she says, 'what a 
 magnificent book this is going to be ! The best of all your 
 books!'' This letter Carlyle calls 'the one bit of pure sun- 
 shine that visited my dark and lonesome, and in the end, 
 quite dismal and inexpressible enterprise of ' Frederick ' ! 
 
 And now August 28 found Mrs. Carlyle again at Sunny 
 Bank, with the old ladies who loved her so. She read to 
 them, with wifely pride, the ' sheets ' of ' Frederick,' but was 
 wishing to be at home, and dreading the fatigue of the jour- 
 
250 LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 ney. The remembrance of her unfortunate journey north- 
 wards in July haunted her yet. It had been very bad, owing 
 to an over-crowded railway carriage and unusual discomforts. 
 Carlyle had lamented it tenderly at the time, and had 
 written: * You shall go into no more wretched saving of that 
 kind — never more ! ' alluding to the second-class carriage. 
 
 Carlyle had been kind to the canaries and to little ' Nero ' 
 in his wife's absence; he wished to be kind and to make 
 things easy for her. Her approval of the opening of 
 * Frederick' had delighted him. ' It would be worth while to 
 write books,' he says, ' if mankind would read them as you 
 do.' So the prospect was more cheery, and early in Septem- 
 ber Mrs. Carlyle returned, ' and there was joy in Nero, and 
 in the canaries, and in creatures more important.' But the 
 ' Friedrich affair' was a terrible trial, of thirteen years in all, 
 and its shadow soon fell again over the passing gleam of joy. 
 
 It was in the July of 1858 that Mrs. Carlyle had written to 
 her husband, then at Scotsbrig, of the difficulty of always 
 writing and reporting her bad health. She wished it — in legal 
 phrase — ' taken as read ' that she had sleepless nights, and 
 nervous suffering. She had no other tale to tell, though 
 Carlyle in his love, and his indomitable and blind hopeful- 
 ness, always expected better things. 
 
 Suppose (she writes), instead of putting myself in the omnibus 
 the other day, and letting myself be carried in unbroken silence 
 to Richmond and back again, I had sat at home, writing to you 
 all the thoughts that were in my head. . . . Not a hundredth 
 part of the thoughts in my head have been, or ever will be, 
 spoken or written — as long as I keep my senses, at least. Only 
 diOrCx. you, the apostle of silence, find fault with me for putting 
 your doctrine in practice. There are days when I must speak 
 things all from the lips outwards, or things that, being of the 
 nature of self-lamentation, had better never be spoken. . . . 
 
 It was in this month, namely, on July 19, 1858, that men- 
 tion is made of Mr. Henry Larkin, who for the last three 
 
HENR Y LARKIN 
 
 251 
 
 years had been rendering the most valuable and devoted help 
 to Carlyle in his ' Frederick ' and in many other literary mat- 
 ters, Carlyle appreciated the love-given services of this able 
 young man. In a note in the ' Letters and Memorials ' he 
 calls him ' a helper sent me by the favour of Heaven, as I 
 often said and felt in the years to come. . . . Never had I 
 loyaller or more effective help. ... A man to thank Heaven 
 for, as I still gratefully acknowledge.' 
 
 After much personal conversation with Mr. Larkin, we 
 feel we owe him much. Himself of a refined and sympathetic 
 nature, he was able to understand both Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle. 
 And it was to the latter that he was enabled to show a 
 brother's kindness, and from whom he received a grateful and 
 tender friendship. It was not till 1862 that Mr. Larkin 
 actually became the * neighbour' he had long proved himself, 
 to the Carlyles — by taking up his abode, after his marriage, 
 at No. 6 Cheyne Row — mainly at Mrs. Carlyle's wish. The 
 article, * A Ten Years' Reminiscence,' written by Mr. Larkin, 
 to which reference has been made as having appeared in the 
 'British Quarterly,' July 1881, is vivid and deeply interest- 
 ing, as throwing much light on the sad closing years of Mrs. 
 Carlyle's life. 
 
 Early in August she was at Bay House, with the 
 Ashburtons, and improved in health. ' I am quite comfort- 
 able, morally,' she writes on August 7; it was but a few weeks 
 since Carlyle had written to her: 
 
 My poor little Jeannie, my poor, ever-true life-partner, hold 
 up thy heart! We have had a sore life-pilgrimage together, 
 much bad road . . . little like what I could have wished or 
 dreamt for thee ! . . . Oh, forgive me ! forgive me for the much 
 I have thoughtlessly done and omitted; far, far at all times 
 from the poor purpose of my mind. And, God help us, thee, 
 poor suffering soul, and also me! 
 
 These piercing expressions of sadness were written while 
 Carlyle was in the fulness of his mental powers, and must 
 be set against the judgment of those who regard the des- 
 
252 LIFE IN L OND ON 
 
 perate remorse of some parts of the * Reminiscences ' as the 
 result of dotage. The man was conscious, as a brave and 
 tender man is at times conscious, that he might have made 
 a brighter home for this over-sensitive being. We can only 
 honor him for the expression of his feeling, and stand to the 
 belief that these two did\owe one another. 
 
 Another journey to Germany was now necessary for 
 Carlyle, and on August 24, 1858, he was at Hamburg, as 
 his starting-point for Dresden, via Liegnitz, Breslau, Prag. 
 Mrs. Carlyle writes to him at Dresden, on September 10, she 
 being on a short visit to Mr. and Mrs. Pringle at Lann Hall, 
 and contemplating a few days with the Russells, and also at 
 Scotsbrig, before her return to Cheyne Row. Haddington 
 was felt to be too much of a pull at her heart just now. But 
 she did manage an excursion to Craigenputtock. ' We took 
 some dinner with us, and ate it in the dining-room, with 
 the most ghastly sensations on my part.' So she wrote to 
 Carlyle. No one knew the much-changed woman, or guessed 
 at her identity. She came as the 'wraith ' of what she had 
 been — no more the light step, the dancing eye, the un- 
 quenched spirit ! 
 
 At Thornhill (Mrs. Russell's — Holm Hill) she found al- 
 ways comfort and solacement, and thither she now went. But 
 severe illness attacked her while there, and fearing Carlyle 
 would return to Cheyne Row before she possibly could, she 
 wrote the letter we give in fac-simile, to her faithful friend, 
 Mr. Henry Larkin. The letter is not dated, but Mr. Larkin 
 received it on September 25, 1858. 
 
 Thornhill, Dumfries, Tuesday. 
 ' Let him that standeth on the house-top, &c. &c. ! ' — Ach ! 
 yes ! dear Mr. Larkin. I was standing on the top of the topmost 
 chimney-pot of the house-top, and did jwt ' take heed ' till I 
 found myself lying all of a heap on my mother earth, with such a 
 dust raised about me as you have seldom seen ! — which means, 
 without metaphor, that my very brilliant career in these parts 
 has suddenly been cut short by an attack of Inflammation — 
 
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 ^^7^.^^^^ f>yyziI7^y^ 
 
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A WIFE'S VIEWS OF A HOME 253 
 
 which would probably have saved myself and ' others ' all further 
 trouble with me, had it not befallen in the house of a Dr. I — the 
 one living Doctor I know, or know of, in whom I have retained 
 confidence. His judicious treatment and unceasing cares at the 
 beginning, and his wife's devoted nursing, prevented the malady 
 gaining ground, and I am up now — after only two days and a half 
 in bed — about as well as I was before, only a little uncertain on 
 my legs, a little confused with the effects of morphia, a little less 
 conceited about my ' improvement,' and a great deal less impa- 
 tient to set out for London ! Set out I must, however, as early 
 as is consistent with ordinary prudence — for the idea of Mr. 
 Carlyle going about at home, seeking things like a madman, and 
 never finding them ! ' and of his depending on the tender mer- 
 cies of Charlotte for his diet, leaves me no rest — partly on 
 Charlotte's account, I confess, as well as on his own ! ' 
 
 So far as I can make out from his programme, written in the 
 style of The Lamentations of Jeremiah, he will arrive at Chelsea 
 some time of Thursday. He will sail from Antwerp on Wednes- 
 day, he says, ' if not sooner ' — and ' twenty-four hours more 
 and then — '; 'then he will be at Chelsea,' I fancy this to 
 mean. 
 
 I write to tell you, that you may go and see after him on 
 Friday — and be a mother to him, poor Babe of Genius, till I 
 come, which will be in the beginning of next week, I expect — if 
 all continue to go well with my bodily affairs. You need not give 
 Charlotte any more board-wages — she will live with her master 
 on tick as usual, till I come and resume the charge of that un- 
 happy household. I calculate on leaving this on Friday — but 
 shall be a few days amongst Mr. C's relations. Love to your 
 mother — it has several times crossed my mind with pleasure 
 what a beautiful pinmshion I have to go home to ! ! 
 
 Yours affectionately, 
 
 Jane Carlyle. 
 
 An amusing incident is given by Mr, Larkin as to this 
 home-coming of Mrs. Carlyle. She had written to him from 
 Thornhill a most urgent note to meet her, on her arrival at 
 Euston, and given all particulars. But Mr. Larkin met the 
 train and saw no trace of her, waited and carefully kept a 
 
254 Z//^£" IN LONDON 
 
 sharp look out— no Mrs. Carlyle appeared ! So, in some 
 anxiety, he returned home, and called next day at 5 Cheyne 
 Row to find her innocently wondering why he had not met 
 her! 'That it was a well-meant trick,' Mr. Larkin never 
 doubted; ' nor, on consideration, do we. 
 
 Carlyle had returned from Germany 'broken and de- 
 graded ' — but the already finished volumes c^ his ' Frederick' 
 were out of the printer's hands and were extremely suc- 
 cessful. ^ Much babbled of in newspapers,' he says, charac- 
 teristically, in his Journal of December 8, 1858. 
 
 At this time a memorable event took place. Lord Ash- 
 burton married again — a Miss Stuart Mackenzie — and this 
 lady was a true and kind friend of Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle, and 
 afterwards of him in his loneliness. No misunderstanding 
 now clouded the intercourse with the Ashburton family. 
 The Dowager Lady Sandwich, mother of Lady Harriet 
 Baring, continued to be a much-loved friend of Mr. and 
 Mrs. Carlyle — as, indeed, she had been throughout. Lord 
 Ashburton and his new wife had, however, gone at once to 
 Egypt, so that acquaintance had not begun (with the suc- 
 cessor to Lady Harriet) at the time of which we write. 
 The clean house, a little maid, radiant with ' virtue its own 
 reward,' and a jet black kitten, failed to keep up any cheer 
 in Mrs. Carlyle's heart. The London atmosphere, she said, 
 weighed on her like a hundredweight of lead. 
 
 Writing to Mr. J. G. Cooke on or about December 22, 
 1858, she says, in condolence on the death of this gentle- 
 man's mother: 'Yes; the longer one lives in this hard world 
 motherless, the more a mother's loss makes itself felt and 
 understood. ... It is sixteen years since my mother died, 
 as unexpectedly, and not a day, not an hour, has passed since 
 that I have not missed her, have not felt the world colder 
 and blanker for want of her. . . .' 
 
 Besides the want of the mother's sympathy, there were 
 other blanks and irretrievable causes of pain in Mrs. Carlyle's 
 life — many lying exclusively in herself, in a temperament 
 
SEEKING OUT AFTER THE IMPOSSIBLE 255 
 
 pitiably unsuited to ' human nature's daily food,' and finding 
 poison therein. 
 
 A dreary winter, that of 1858-59, leaves little to record. 
 It was in June 1859 that, writing to Miss Barnes, the daugh- 
 ter of her kind doctor, she, Mrs. Carlyle, says: 'And if you 
 will bring with you to-morrow evening whatever stock you 
 may have of ' faith, hope, and charity,^ I have no doubt but 
 we shall become good friends.' 
 
 It had been resolved that the Carlyles should escape the 
 heat of the London summer by a few months spent in Scot- 
 land. Rooms had been found in the farm-house of Humbie, 
 near Aberdour, and thither Carlyle went by steamer, with the 
 servant, Charlotte, his horse, and 'the blessed' (Nero). Mrs. 
 Carlyle, in very frail health, went first to Haddington and 
 joined her husband at Humbie after a few days' rest. 
 
 The visit to Humbie was not a success. Mrs. Carlyle was 
 too weak to walk in the woods with her husband, too nervous 
 to sit the willing horse 'Fritz,' the gift of the first Lady Ash- 
 burton, and October found the two restless natures once more 
 in Chelsea; not, however, before a visit had been paid at 
 Auchtertool, whence Mrs. Carlyle had written a highly orig- 
 inal letter of congratulation to Miss Barnes, on the an- 
 nouncement of her approaching marriage. The letter is given 
 here. 
 
 To Miss Barnes, King's Road, Chelsea. 
 
 Auchtertool House, KirkcaldyfAug. 24, 1859. 
 My dear Miss Barnes, — How nice of you to have written me a 
 letter, ' all out of your own head ' (as the children say), and how 
 very nice of you to have remarked the forget-me-not, and read 
 a meaning in it ! It was certainly with intention I tied up some 
 forget-me-nots along with my farewell roses; but I was far from 
 sure of your recognising the intention, and at the same time not 
 young enough to make it plainer. Sentiment, you see, is not 
 well looked on by the present generation of women; there is a 
 growing taste for fastness, or, still worse, for strong-mindedness ! 
 so a discreet woman (like me) will beware always of putting her 
 
256 
 
 LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 sentiment (when she has any) in evidence — will rather leave it — 
 as in the forget-me-not case — to be divined through sympathy; 
 and failing the sympathy, to escape notice. 
 
 And you are actually going to get married! you! already! 
 And you expect me to congratulate you! or ' perhaps not.' I 
 admire the judiciousness of that 'perhaps not.' Frankly, my 
 dear, I wish you all happiness in the new iife that is opening to 
 you; and you are marrying under good auspices, since your 
 father approves of the marriage. But congratulation on such 
 occasions seems to me a tempting of Providence. The triumphal- 
 procession-air which, in our manners and customs, is given to 
 marriage at the outset — that singing of Te Deum before the bat- 
 tle has begun — has, ever since I could reflect, struck me as some- 
 what senseless and somewhat impious. If ever one is to pray — 
 if ever one is to feel grave and anxious — if ever one is to shrink 
 from vain show and vain babble — surely it is just on the occasion 
 of two human beings binding themselves to one another, for 
 better and for worse, till death part them; just on that occasion 
 which it is customary to celebrate only with rejoicings, and con- 
 gratulations, and trousseaux, and white ribbon! Good God! 
 
 Will you think me mad if I tell you that when I read your 
 words, 'I am going to be married,' I all but screamed .? Posi- 
 tively, it took away my breath, as if I saw you in the act of tak- 
 ing a flying leap into infinite space. You had looked to me such 
 a happy, happy little girl! your father's only daughter; and he 
 so fond of you, as he evidently was. After you had walked out 
 of our house together that night, and I had gone up to my own 
 room, I sat down there in the dark, and took 'a good cry.' 
 You had reminded me so vividly of my own youth, when I, also 
 an only daughter — an only child — had a father as fond of me, as 
 proud of me. I wondered if you knew your own happiness. 
 Well ! knowing it or not, it has not been enough for you, it 
 would seem. Naturally, youth is so insatiable of happiness, and 
 has such sublimely insane faith in its own power to make happy 
 and be happy. 
 
 But of your father? Who is to cheer his toilsome life, and 
 make home bright for him ? His companion through half a life- 
 time gone! his dear ' bit of rubbish ' gone too, though in a dif- 
 ferent sense. Oh, little girl! little girl! do you know the blank 
 you will make to him ? 
 
A DECIDED FAILURE 
 
 257 
 
 Now, upon my honour, I seem to be writing just such a letter 
 as a raven might write if it had been taught. Perhaps the hen- 
 bane I took in despair last night has something to do with my 
 mood to-day. Anyhow, when one can only ray out darkness, 
 one had best clap an extinguisher on oneself. And so God 
 bless you ! 
 
 Sincerely yours, 
 
 Jane W. Carlyle. 
 
 It was not at the Manse that the Carlyles were now stay- 
 ing, but at a large comfortable house lent by a Mr. Liddell, 
 'where,' as Mrs. Carlyle writes to her friend Mr. George 
 Cooke, * we should have done very well had not Mr. C. 
 walked and rode and bathed himself into a bilious crisis, 
 just before leaving Humbie.' She describes her position 
 during a portion of this time, and we fear the instance 
 was not a solitary one, as being ' more like being keeper 
 in a mad-house, than being in the country for quiet and 
 change ' ; and yet, at the very outset of this ill-fated holiday, 
 Carlyle, writing to his brother John, who was to meet the 
 weary traveller, had said: 'Be soft and good with her: you 
 have no notion what ill any fuss or flurry does her.' The 
 discomforts of Humbie had been too much for both hus- 
 band and wife — they went afterwards to Auchtertool, as we 
 have said, and Carlyle subsequently into Annandale, to his 
 own people. 
 
258 LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 A. D. I 859-1 860 
 
 Life in Cheyne Row — Mrs. Carlyle's return — George Rennie's death 
 — Letters of Mrs. Carlyle on the subject to Mrs. Dinning of Bel- 
 ford, Northumberland — Carlyle at Thurso Castle — Mrs. Carlyle, 
 with Lady Stanley of Alderley, en route for Scotland — Holm Hill 
 — Misunderstanding as to date of Carlyle's return — Mrs. Carlyle 
 returns to Cheyne Row unnecessarily — Carlyle's remorse — Two 
 servants kept. 
 
 These were dreary days for the subject of this Memoir. 
 To quote from Mr. Froude a peculiarly powerful passage in 
 his 'Life in London,' Vol. II. p. 234: 
 
 Mrs. Carlyle grew continually more feeble, continual nervous 
 anxiety allowing her no chance to rally; but her indomitable 
 spirit held her up. She went out little in the evenings, but she 
 had her own small tea-parties, and the talk was as brilliant as 
 ever. If any of us were to spend the evening there, we gener- 
 ally found her alone; then he would come in, take possession of 
 the conversation, and deliver himself in a stream of splendid 
 monologue, wise, tender, scornful, humorous, as the inclina- 
 tion took him — but never bitter, never malignant — always ge- 
 nial, the fiercest denunciations ending in a burst of laughter at 
 his own exaggerations. Though I knew things were not alto- 
 gether well, and her drawn, suffering face haunted me afterwards 
 like a sort of ghost, I felt, for myself, that in him there could 
 be nothing really wrong, and that he was as good as he was 
 great. 
 
 This description is of high value, and gives a vivid picture 
 of part of the home-life at 5 Cheyne Row. 
 
 And now Mrs. Carlyle purposed to return all alone to 
 Chelsea, breaking her journey at York. She writes on 
 
WEARINESS BY THE WAY 259 
 
 September 22, 1859, from Scawin's Hotel, York, to Carlyle 
 at The Gill: ' With the recollection of the agonies of tired- 
 ness I suffered on the journey down, and for many days after, 
 still tingling through my nerves .... I kept determined 
 not to expose myself to that again '; so she went home with- 
 out hurry, and Carlyle was to spend a day or two with the 
 Stanleys of Alderley on his homeward journey; which gave 
 Mrs. Carlyle a little respite — not un-needed — for she was 
 fatigued and sleepless. 
 
 On September 29, she was nailing down drugget — with dis- 
 may at seams which had 'given' in the washing — and she 
 was neglecting her dinner and dinner-hour, and not keeping 
 up what little strength she had brought home. By October 
 3, Carlyle himself had arrived, but a small though deeply 
 felt trouble came first, which concerned the little dog 'Nero.' 
 Just before Carlyle's arrival, * the night before,' writes Mrs. 
 Carlyle to Mrs. Russell, ' Charlotte went to some shops, 
 taking the dog with her, and brought him home in her arms, 
 all crumpled together like a crushed spider.' A butcher's 
 cart had passed over the little Nero's throat and nearly 
 killed him. The accident distressed Mrs. Carlyle much, 
 and, as we shall see, ended in the dog's death a few 
 months later. 
 
 It was about this time that Dr. Russell retired from active 
 medical practice in Thornhill village, and took up his resi- 
 dence in his pretty new home. Of this change, to the new 
 Holm Hill, Mrs. Carlyle says to her friend: 'It will be ... . 
 more agreeable when you have once got over the fain of 
 change* This, in her own case, we think Mrs. Carlyle never 
 did. 
 
 There was a short visit to the Grange in January i860. It 
 was much enjoyed by Mrs. Carlyle, but about a fortnight 
 after the return to Cheyne Row ' Nero ' died, after much 
 suffering. Mrs. Carlyle wrote on Feb i, to Mr. Barnes, who 
 had evidently ministered to the poor little beast's painless 
 removal from life: * My gratitude to you will be as long as 
 
26o LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 my life, for shall I not, as long as I live, remember that poor 
 little dog ? Oh, don't think me absurd, you, for caring so 
 much about a dog. Nobody but myself can have any idea 
 what that little creature has been in my life. My insepar- 
 able companion during eleven years; ever doing his little best 
 to keep me from feeling sad and lonely ! ' 
 
 The weary year wore on. Events there were, but some 
 very sad ones. George Rennie, her old friend and lover, lay 
 dying in his house at 32 York Terrace, Regent's Park. His 
 wife had written to Mrs, Carlyle that he was at the point of 
 death, and that she, as his oldest friend, should know it. The 
 summons was promptly responded to, and it was the com- 
 panion of his childhood, the love of his early manhood, who 
 received his last breath and closed his eyes. It was another 
 link with Haddington taken from Mrs. Carlyle, and it was 
 keenly felt. She it was who broke the news of George 
 Rennie's death to his aunt, Mrs. Dinning, the ' Grace Rennie ' 
 of the dear old days. The letter, and one written a few days 
 later, have been kindly placed in our hands, and are given 
 here — touching in their evidence of deep feeling. It is with 
 reverence that they have been transcribed. 
 
 No. I. 
 Copy of letter from Mrs. Carlyle to Mrs. Dinning, The Terrace, 
 Belford, Northumberlatid. 
 
 {Postmark. — March 24, i860.) 
 
 32 York Terrace, Regent's Park : Friday 23rd (March, i860). 
 
 yiy ^^2lX 'Grace Re7i7iie' oi long ago, — It must be something 
 like forty years since I saw your sweet face, or had any exchange 
 of words with you ! Still, I recollect you well and kindly. I 
 wonder \iyoii have any recollection of me — of the little Jeannie 
 Welsh you were so kind to, and your nephew George so much in 
 love with? At least you will recollect my name, and the fact of 
 my existence, when recalled to you by this letter; and you will 
 recollect my beautiful mother, who was fond of you, well — after 
 all this life time, I am writing to you, not to recall myself to 
 your mind, but to tell you what you ought to be told, not merely 
 officially, but with some words of sympathy and detail. 
 
NOT ALTOGETHER PARTED 26 1 
 
 George— ^<?wr George Rennie and my George Rennie, is dead 
 — died yesterday morning at six o'clock — having been insensible 
 from the previous Sunday. By a strange fatality, it was I who 
 watched by him thro' his last night on earth. I, his first 
 love, who received his last breath and closed his eyes ! Was it 
 not a strange, sad thing ; after so many separations — so many 
 tossings up and down this weary earth ! His wife wrote to me 
 on Tuesday that he was at the point of death, and I, ' as his 
 oldest friend, should know it.' God bless her for that thought — 
 death abolishes all forms and ceremonies; so I went to her at 
 once, and begged to be let stay. She granted my petition, in- 
 deed she was quite worn out with sleeplessness and anxiety, and 
 was needing the help of one (who) could give it with such fellow- 
 feeling as I could. After that, I never left him till all was over. 
 He never was conscious for an instant — but still it was a satis- 
 faction to have been with Jiini at the last. Mrs. Rennie begged 
 me to stay with her, she was so desolate; tho' she bears up 
 bravely, and I was willing, for his sake, to be of any earthly use 
 to her, so long as my husband will spare me from my own 
 house. 
 
 If I saw you, I could tell you much about George that you 
 would like to hear; but just now I am so sorrowful and tired, 
 that I must content myself with saying, tho' he kept up no 
 intercourse with his relations, it was not from a cold or 
 changed heart. A few weeks before his death I spoke to him 
 about that part of his conduct which displeased me, and found 
 Xfa-aX pride, reserve, — his soured temper about the world — was at 
 the bottom of it all; he spoke affectionately of his aunt Grace, 
 and said he would take the first opportunity of going to see her 
 — ' would do many things too long neglected, could he only get 
 rid of those depressing headaches that made his life miserable.' 
 
 I think you will like to know this was his intention, tho' 
 never to be fulfilled ; and I offered to Richard to write the letter 
 he would else have written himself to tell you of his father's 
 death — that along with the news you might receive the comfort 
 to your good heart (it cannot be changed from the heart I 
 knew it), which the assurance of his kind feeling towards you 
 is calculated to give, and which /only, perhaps, had heard from 
 him. 
 
 Never was there a man — as I told him then — who did himself 
 
262 LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 more injustice. I believe he had the warmest, truest heart, but 
 it was encased in pride and distrust of others' affection for him, 
 making it of no use to them or himself. 
 
 God bless you ! Yours affectionately, 
 
 Jane Welsh Carlyle. 
 
 If you would write me a line one day, wouldn't I like to hear 
 of you from yourself. I never passed thro' Darlington, in com- 
 ing or going to Scotland, without thinking, ' Wasn't it in this 
 neighbourhood that Grace Rennie went to live?' 
 
 I daresay you will hardly be able to read this scrawl, I am so 
 tired. 
 
 No. II. 
 
 Letter from Mrs. Carlyle to Mrs, Dinning, The Terrace, Belford, 
 North limber la ml. 
 
 {Dated 071 envelope. — March 31, i860.) 
 
 5, Cheyne Row, Chelsea. 
 Oh, you dear, nice woman ! I should like to put my arms 
 round your neck and give you a hearty kiss ! It is such a 
 pleasure to meet with anyone in this changeful world whom one 
 can recognise for the same, after forty years, and _yf« look out 
 of that letter on me, the same ' Grace Rennie ' that was such a 
 favourite in my old home. Not that if we should see one another 
 face to face, we should not, I daresay, be mutually struck with 
 a certain sorrowful wonder at the alteration in our appearance; 
 for, ' Eh, sir ' {sic), as the old Ayrshire lady said on meeting, after 
 a lifetime, the companion of her youth, ' Eh, sir {sic), forty years 
 makes a great odds on a girl.' In outward appearance, yes. 
 None of us can carry off an additional forty years without ' a 
 great odds 'being perceptible to 'the naked eye.' But, thank 
 God, there are people — not many, but a few — who do continue 
 to keep their inner selves the same — v^Xxo won't let years get into 
 their hearts and minds to carry on any hardening, deteriorating 
 process there ! And you are such a one, dear Grace, I could 
 swear from your letter to me, and also from my recollection of 
 your eyes; it wasn't what is called ' the Devil's beauty' (youth) 
 that your eyes were so beautiful with, but the beauty that comes 
 of a loving, honest heart. 
 
A RETROSPECT 263 
 
 I have not seen your ' Henry,' nor heard of him. Please to 
 give him my address yourself (it is written at the top of this 
 sheet). . . . Tell him, moreover, that after four is the surest 
 time for finding me, and that a Chelsea omnibus will bring him 
 to within a few yards of my door. 
 
 I shall like so much to see him. . . . 
 
 Dear Grace, the things that are in my heart and memory 
 about poor George, would find more response ixorsxyou, I am 
 sure, than from her; and some day we shall surely meet, to have 
 a long talk about him. I don't know whether I shall be going 
 to Scotland this year; I was not minded to go, having spent all 
 last summer there; and my husband being too busy with his 
 book for taking any holyday {sic^ at all this coming summer. 
 But a new motive for going has arisen, which may, perhaps, 
 overcome the motives for staying at home. 
 
 You remember Sunny Bank and the Miss Donaldsons? — my 
 mother's ever kind, most trusted friends. They and I have 
 never lost sight of one another; their love for me has been like 
 the love of a mother. Of late years, since they were reduced to 
 two (the two eldest), and very suffering and sad, I have gone to 
 visit them every two years or oftener, besides writing to them 
 once a week. They cared so much for seeing me, and hearing 
 from me, and it was such a pleasure to me to be of any comfort 
 to them in their dreary, lonely, suffering times. Now, Miss 
 Donaldson (the eldest), who has been blind, deaf, and dying for 
 the last two years, but with as warm a heart and as clear a mind 
 as she had in her prime, is dead; and none of us can be other 
 than thankful at her release. But poor Miss Jess — the last of 
 them all— and, since ever I remember, the most ailing of them 
 all — to think of her, alone, at Sunny Bank, to struggle with ever- 
 increasing infirmities; that makes me very sorrowful, and if she 
 would like me to come to her, when the London neice, and other 
 relatives who have gathered about her, but will soon ' tire of the 
 dullness,' leave her to her solitary fate, why, I should just 
 have to provision my husband for two or three weeks, give my 
 servant as minute instructions about him as if he were a three- 
 years-old baby — {Baby just old enough to get into the fire), and 
 take the 'North British.' Then, as sure as you live, I would 
 get out at Belford and have a few hours' talk with you, ' face to 
 face, and soul to soul ' — (as one's poetry book had it long ago. 
 
264 i^IP£ I^ LONDON 
 
 Why should one cease to be poetical because one is getting near 
 to sixty ? I see no reason). 
 
 But if I go at all, it will not be for two or three months yet; 
 and very likely I may not go north this year. Let us hope in 
 that case that we may meet another year. Meanwhile, after 
 having been kindly remembered by you for forty years, I need 
 not fear being forgotten by you in one. And so, good-by dear, 
 with best wishes for all your belongings, 
 
 Jane Welsh Carlyle. 
 
 Little record marks the months of a spring and summer 
 evidently felt to be most depressing. In August of this year, 
 i860, Carlyle went to Thurso Castle, as the guest of Sir 
 George Sinclair, and took his work with him. The 'Frederick* 
 still weighed horribly upon the biographer. In one of his 
 annotations on a letter of his wife to Mrs. Russell, earlier in 
 the year, he said: ' My darling must have suffered much in all 
 this — how much ! . . . Never once by word or sign, in all 
 her deep misery, did she hint what she, too, was suffering. . . . 
 Me only did she seem to pity in it ! ' Thurso proved a 
 congenial resting and working place for Carlyle, and his wife 
 writes one of her sparkling letters to the kind host, Sir 
 George Sinclair, saying: * Pray do keep him as long as you 
 like.' 
 
 It was strange that 5 Cheyne Row was again the scene 
 of a domestic * earthquaking.' ' Upholsterers and painters 
 plashing away for their lives; and a couple of bricklayers 
 tearing up flags in the kitchen.' 
 
 T(j Carlyle himself, his wife complained that a letter just 
 received from him would read charmingly in his biography, 
 and might be quoted in Murray's Guide Book, but said that 
 she, ' as one solitary individual, had not been charmed with it 
 at all.' But she was too ill and weak to be ' charmed ' at this 
 time. She was to have some Scotch air, too, and was on her 
 way to the Stanleys of Alderley, Congleton, Cheshire, to 
 break the long journey by the rest, and Lady Stanley's great 
 kindness. Miss Jewsbury and Mr. Larkin, kind and sym- 
 
THE THREAD OF LIFE WEARS THIN 265 
 
 pathising friends, 'saw her off', at Eustonon August 23, i860. 
 From Alderley Park, she meant to go to the attached rela- 
 tions at The Gill for a few days, and then on to the ever-dear 
 Mrs, Russell of Holm Hill, where she was always happy and 
 soothed. * To have a doctor for one's host was a consideration 
 of some weight with me,' she writes to Carlyle. 
 
 But, two days later, her visions of rest had all turned to 
 ashes. Carlyle had just discovered that he could do no more 
 at Thurso and must get home again. He had really intended 
 prolonging his absence in Annandale before his actual return, 
 but had omitted to make it clear, and Mrs. Carlyle had ima- 
 gined his absence would have been a much longer one, so the 
 blow to her was a very heavy one. To give up the visit to 
 Mrs. Russell was a hard task — and the poor lady, writing, 
 tells her friend: * I could sit down and take a hearty cry ! ' 
 
 The length of time needed for posts to and from Thurso 
 aggravated matters, and added an unnecessary bitterness to 
 the change of plan. For, after giving up all her own wishes 
 and hurrying home to Chelsea, a letter was forwarded to Mrs. 
 Carlyle, — a letter which had gone round by Alderley and 
 missed her there, — with the news that, after all, Carlyle had 
 been persuaded to stay on longer at Thurso, and thence 
 to visit friends in Scotland before returning. He wished Mrs. 
 Carlyle could now be persuaded to start again on her travels, 
 but that could not be. She could not, as he had proposed, 
 ' rectify her huge error.' She was not strong enough, and she 
 was too deeply annoyed at the needless disappointment. Her 
 doctor, too, told her that ' no change could do her good that 
 involved fatigue or fret of mind.' So at Chelsea she remained. 
 
 A household improvement in the shape of tivo servants, 
 which had been Carlyle's own arrangement, was some help to 
 the wearied mistress of 5 Cheyne Row, and it was in a most 
 humble and dejected state of mind that he arrived late in 
 September. He sincerely wished to be considerate, but 
 failed of it, as some of the best and noblest fail, where a 
 smaller and more ordinary nature will calmly succeed without 
 
266 LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 effort. His sleeping-room being above that of his wife was a 
 cause of suffering to her in her highly nervous condition. 
 
 My own wakings up (she writes to Mrs. Austin of The Gill, 
 in October i860) some twenty or thirty times every night of my 
 life, for years and years back, are as nothing compared with 
 hearing him jump out of bed overhead, once or sometimes twice 
 during a night. . . . Now that my nerves have had a rest, and 
 that I am more ' used to it,' I get to sleep again when all is quiet, 
 but God knows how long I may be up to that. And when he 
 has broken sleep, and I no sleep at all, it is sad work here, I 
 assure you. 
 
CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 A. D. 1S61-1863 
 
 Mrs. Carlyle's craving for her ' one little maid-servant ' — Death of 
 Arthur Hugh Clough — Mrs. Carlyle's visit to Ramsgate with 
 Miss Jewsbury — Sleeplessness — Longings to visit Mrs. Russell — 
 Estimate of men — Miss Barnes' marriage — Deaths of dear friends 
 — Folkestone — Mrs. Carlyle accomplishes her visit to Holm Hill 
 and Craigenvilla — ' Old Betty ' — Visit to Auchtertool — Home 
 again — Illness of Lord Ashburton in Paris — Mrs. Carlyle's wish 
 to go and be useful — Sad letter to ' Old Betty ' — The Carlyles 
 at the Grange — Neuralgia or Rheumatism causing Mrs. Carlyle 
 increasing pain — The accident soon after return to Cheyne Row 
 — Carlyle's account — Mr. Froude's account — Mr, Larkin's ac- 
 count. 
 
 The increase in the domestic staff gave no comfort to Mrs. 
 Carlyle. She was constantly being seized, in the dead of 
 night, with a wild desire to clear the house of these new- 
 comers, and take back her 'one little Charlotte,' which she 
 eventually did, retaining the most promising of the t'NO exist- 
 ing ' helps,' a young and cheerful girl. The two maid-serv- 
 ants, respectively 19 and 17, kept up, says Mrs. Carlyle, 'an 
 incessant chirping and chattering and laughing . . . pleasant 
 to hear.' So there came a little imported brightness into the 
 sad home 
 
 In this year Arthur Hugh Clough — the pure-minded, con- 
 scientious, gifted, loving, and lovable friend — died at Flor- 
 ence. He was much valued by all who knew him, and Mr. 
 Froude was specially anxious that Carlyle should write some 
 few words to his honoured and dear remembrance. But Car- 
 lyle could not do it; every moment was claimed by 'Fred- 
 erick.' 
 
 The year i860 had closed in extreme cold. Gifts of seal 
 
 furs and soft Indian shawls failed to keep up Mrs. Carlyle's 
 
 267 
 
268 LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 vitality. There is another sort of chill even harder to minis- 
 ter to. * If one's skin were a trifle thicker, all these worries 
 would seem light,' she says. 
 
 Renewed domestic earthquakings rendered the summer of 
 1861 as trying as ever, and again, a projected visit to Mrs. 
 Russell of Thornhill must be given up — a heavy disappoint- 
 ment ! A short visit to Ramsgate with Miss Jewsbury was sub- 
 stituted, but it was not favourable to Mrs. Carlyle's health. 
 The accounts of this * quiet lodging ' are very amusing. 
 
 From early morning till late night cries of prawns, shrimps, 
 lollipops — things one never wanted, and will never want .... 
 and if that were all. But a brass band plays all through our 
 breakfast, and repeats the performance often during the day, 
 and the brass band is succeeded by a band of Ethiopians, and 
 that again by a band of female fiddlers, and interspersed with 
 these are individual barrel organs, individual Scotch bagpipes, 
 individual French horns. 
 
 And even there the trouble did not stop, for to that over- 
 wrought brain there were 
 
 Hundreds of cocks getting waked up, say, at one in the morn- 
 ing, and never going to sleep again — these cocks — but for min- 
 utes, and there are three steeple clocks that strike in succession, 
 and there are doors and gates that slam, dogs that bark occa- 
 sionally, and a saw-mill, and a mews, and, in short, everything 
 you could wish 7iot to hear. 
 
 Later on she says: 'Indeed, noise seems to be the grand 
 joy of life at Ramsgate ! ' 
 
 This bitter complaint contrasts strangely with the pathetic 
 letter to Mrs. Russell, written on August 30, soon after Mrs. 
 Carlyle's return to Cheyne Row. 
 
 I had set my heart (she writes) on streaming off by myself 
 to Holm Hill, and taking a life-bath, as it were, in my quasi- 
 natural air, in the scene of old affections, not all past and gone, 
 but some still there as alive and warm, thank God, as ever. . . 
 Ah ! my dear, your kindness goes to my heart, and makes me 
 like to cry, because I cannot do as you bid me. . . I tried him 
 
LIFE 'S PHA SES 2 69 
 
 (Mr. C.) alone for a few days, when I was afraid of falling serious- 
 ly ill, unless I had change of air. . . But the letter that came 
 from him every morning was like the letter of a Babe in the 
 Wood, who would be found buried with dead leaves by the robins 
 if I did not look to it, 
 
 ' This few days ' was the visit to Ramsgate; a little later the 
 Carlyles accepted the cordial invitation of the dowager Lady 
 Sandwich, mother of the first Lady Ashburton, to visit her at 
 Harewood Lodge, Berks, but an attack of lumbago, which 
 Carlyle suffered from during that time, took all benefit from 
 the visit. 
 
 New Year's Day 1862, opened pleasantly with a dainty 
 little gift of an * egg-cup,' sent to Mrs. Carlyle by her friend 
 Mr. Cooke, but she was quite unable to face the thought of 
 being present at the marriage of Miss Barnes, and calls the 
 bride-elect, ' Oh you agonising little girl,' for proposing her 
 presence at the ceremony. 
 
 An accident to Dr. Russell from the falling of the lid of a 
 safe on his fingers, calls forth a burst of sympathy, followed 
 by some sharp remarks on the conduct of men generally. 
 * Whether,' she writes, 'it be their pride, or their impatience, 
 or their obstinacy, or their ingrained spirit of contradiction, 
 that stupefies and misleads them, the result is always a certain 
 amount of idiotcy, or distraction, in their dealings with their 
 whole bodies.' This was plainly 'badinage,' real fun, to be 
 met with a cheery laugh, not real conviction wrapped in 
 bitter words. And this distinction should often be made, by 
 those who can see it, in judging the utterances of Mr. and 
 Mrs. Carlyle. 
 
 The dreaded wedding ceremonial of Miss Barnes, in Feb- 
 ruary 1862, was graced by the presence of Mrs. Carlyle, after 
 much preliminary warning, at St. Luke's Church. 
 
 Warm summer weather brought its freight of sorrows. 
 The deaths of Elisabeth Pepoli, Lady Sandwich, and the 
 bright young American lady, Mrs. Twisleton, pained her 
 sadly. The loss of Lady Sandwich, who was eighty years of 
 
± JO LIFE IN L OND ON 
 
 age, was the hardest to bear — * the most charming companion, 
 and the warmest, loyallest friend,' writes Mrs, Carlyle to Mrs. 
 Russell on June 5, 1862. So Mrs. Carlyle longed, with an 
 eager, feverish longing, to get away from London, 'to think 
 over all this in quiet ' ; but she was ' on duty,' her husband 
 still struggling with the two remaining volumes of * Frederick.' 
 Fortunately Mrs. Carlyle went, ere the month was out, to the 
 Ashburtons at Folkestone, where her husband joined her 
 for a short time, after her first week there. The second Lady 
 Ashburton was a most cordial friend to the Carlyles. 
 
 Back again at Chelsea by July 20; things were not cheer- 
 ful, and when Carlyle accepted an invitation to visit the 
 Marquis of Lothian at Blickling Park, Norfolk, Mrs. Carlyle, 
 declining her part in the visit, resolved to go to her beloved 
 Mrs. Russell at Holm Hill, and wrote to tell her so. There 
 was, as usual, a hindrance. * This related to a bruised, 
 sprained, or otherwise bedevilled foot,' caused by a fall in 
 stepping back on the pavement and striking her foot violently 
 against the kerbstone, when returning late at night from a 
 call to ask after a sick lady at Islington. The journey was 
 taken, however, and she reported herself better in everyway, 
 even ' the foot.' 
 
 The departure from Holm Hill, on her return, was, Mrs. 
 Carlyle tells her husband, ' like the partings of dear, old long 
 ago. . . . And then the journey through the hills to that 
 lonely little churchyard ' (Crawford, where Mrs. Welsh's 
 grave was), 'all that caused me so many tears, that to-day 
 my eyes are out of my head, and I am sick and sore ! ' 
 She writes these words from Craigenvilla, where she was 
 visiting her aunts. The date is September 2. On the same 
 day she writes, with desperate sadness, to Mrs. Russell, her 
 late hostess, and speaks of 'going in an omnibus for a dose 
 of morphia to Duncan and Flockhart's.' She, no doubt, had 
 a physician's prescription which could be made up if needful. 
 'It will calm down my mind,' she says, ' for once — generally 
 my mind needs no calming, being sunk in apathy.' In 
 
 1 
 
TIRED OUT 271 
 
 closing the letter Mrs. Carlyle says: ' Oh, my dear, my dear ! 
 Shall I ever forget those green hills, and that lovely church- 
 yard, and your dear, gentle face ? ' 
 
 Seeing * Betty,' the old Haddington nurse, was another 
 pull at her tired heart. It was this kind ' Betty ' (Mrs. Braid), 
 upon whom Colonel Davidson called and whose graphic 
 account of Dr. Welsh's death is quoted in the appendix. 
 
 Mrs. Carlyle felt bound to spend a few days at Auchter- 
 tool Manse, with her cousins, the Rev. Walter Welsh and his 
 wife, and she did so, though 'missing that congeniality which 
 comes of having mutually suffered and taken one's suffering 
 to heart. I feel here, as if I were " playing ' ' with nice, 
 pretty, well-behaved children ! I almost envy them their 
 lighthearted capacity for being engrossed with trifles ! And 
 yet not that. . . .' 
 
 September 30 found her on the eve of departure from 
 Cheyne Row, whither she had not long returned, to stay at 
 Dover with Miss Davenport Bromley, the kindly lady whose 
 bright disposition had procured her, from the Carlyles, the 
 name of ' the flight of skylarks.' Here she felt herself 'less 
 ghastly sick,' found 'Miss B. kind and charming, and the 
 place delicious. . . .' 
 
 But it was too late to stave off the suffering of sick nerves 
 by these kind attentions, and October 20, 1862, found her 
 again under the worry of 'servants,' and more or less sad- 
 dened. Lord Ashburton was ill in Paris, under anxious cir- 
 cumstances. Lady Ashburton was alone to nurse him, and 
 with news of her own mother's death arriving during her hus- 
 band's illness. A sister of Lady A., who had hurried to her 
 help, had been recalled to London by the serious illness of 
 her husband. Mrs. Carlyle, always prompt to help, wrote, 
 offering to go over immediately. But the offer was declined 
 in touching words, 'It would do her no good,' wrote 
 Lady A., 'and would knock me up . . . She was past all 
 human help, and past all sympathy,' she said. 'The poor, 
 dear soul,' writes Mrs. Carlyle, ' had drawn her pen through 
 
272 
 
 LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 the last words ! — so like her — that she might not seem 
 unkind. . . ,' 
 
 It was on Christmas Day that she wrote to her old nurse, 
 Mrs. Braid, as * Dearest Betty,' and says, * ... I don't wish 
 you a "mirth" and a "happiness " which I know to have 
 passed out of Christmas and New Year for such as us for 
 evermore; passed out of them, along with so much else; our 
 gay spirits, our bright hopes, living hearts that loved us, and 
 the fresh, trusting life of our own hearts. It is a thing too 
 sad for tears. . . .' 
 
 On March 2, 1863, she writes to Grace Welsh of having 
 spent a day and night at Ealing, with Mrs. Oliphant, which 
 ' greatly revived her.* But the east winds did their deadly work 
 on her weakened frame; her letters tell of much suffering. 
 
 In May 1863 she wrote again to her old nurse, Mrs. Braid, 
 with great tenderness. A tiny green plant that she had 
 brought from her father's grave, had, * after twelve months 
 in the garden at Chelsea, declared itself a gooseberry bush, 
 and had borne three veritable gooseberries, which, however, 
 dwined and drooped and fell,' whether through mere delicacy 
 ' in the poor, wild thing,' she could not tell. 
 
 A week at St. Leonards in June, in the most favourable 
 circumstances, with 'a carriage to drive out in thrice a day; 
 a clever physician for host, who dieted me on champagne and 
 the most nourishing delicacies; and for hostess a gentle, 
 graceful, loving woman,' did good while it lasted, but the old 
 symptoms returned, and August found the Carlyles at the 
 Grange, where Lord Ashburton's continued delicacy of health 
 forbade a large house-party, admitting only the Carlyles and 
 the late Mr. Venables. Mr. Froude says: * The visit was a 
 happy one, a gleam of pure sunshine before the terrible 
 calamity which was now impending.' 
 
 Mrs. Carlyle, in speaking of this visit to Mrs. Russell of 
 Holm Hill, on September 16, says: 
 
 In spite of the fine air and beauty of the Grange, and Lady 
 Ashburton's super-human kindness, I had no enjoyment of any- 
 
THE ACCIDENT 
 
 ^IZ 
 
 thing during the three weeks we stayed; being inconstant pain, 
 day and night. ... 1 think I told you I had pain, more or less, in 
 my left arm for two months before I left London ... it became 
 worse and worse, and I was driven at last to consult Dr. Quain, 
 when he came down to see Lord A. He told me . . . that it wasn't 
 rheumatism I had got, but neuralgia ! — If any good Christian 
 would explain to me the difference between these two things, 
 I should feel edified and grateful. 
 
 The pain, whichever it was, proved intractable to treat- 
 ment and was the forerunner of fatal trouble. 
 
 Soon after the return from the Grange, Mrs. Carlyle had 
 ventured on a drive as far as St. Martin's Lane, to call on a 
 cousin of hers, Mrs. Godby. She was later in returning than 
 Carlyle expected. The fact was that on leaving Mrs. Godby, 
 a maidservant accompanied the guest to catch the omni- 
 bus which was to take her home. Some excavation in the 
 road prevented the omnibus from coming close to the pave- 
 ment. Mrs. Carlyle set off quickly to step into it, and was 
 thrown by a passing cab on the kerbstone. Her lamed right 
 arm was powerless to break her fall, and she was helped into 
 a cab and taken home in helpless pain, the sinews of one 
 thigh sprained and lacerated, and the whole system shocked and 
 shaken. Carlyle's own words in the ' Reminiscences 'are: 
 
 The visit to Mrs. Godby had been pleasant, and gone all well; 
 but now, dusk falling, it had to end. Again by omnibus, as ill- 
 luck would have it. Mrs. G. sent one of her maids as escort. At 
 the corner ofCheapside the omnibus was hailed for (some ex- 
 cavations going on near by, as for many years passed they seldom 
 ceased to do); Chelsea omnibus came; my darling was in the act 
 of stepping in (maid stupid and of no assistance), when a cab 
 came rapidly from behind, and, forced by the near excavation, 
 seemed as if it would 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 kerbstone; 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 
 
2 74 
 
 LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 nor nobody assisting), and had to fall on the neuralgic arm — ruined 
 otherwise far worse, for, as afterwards appeared, 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 torment 
 was excessive, while in the right arm there was no neuralgia 
 perceptible during that time, nor any very manifest new injury 
 afterwards either. 
 
 The calamity had happened, however, and in that condition, 
 my poor darling, ' put into a cab ' by the humane people, as her 
 one request to them, 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. There- 
 upon my rushing down, finding her in the hands of Larkin and 
 them, in the greatest agony of pain and helplessness I had ever 
 seen her in. The noble little soul, she had determined I was not 
 to be shocked by it. Larkin then lived next door, assiduous to 
 serve us in all things (did maps, indexes, even joinerings, etc., etc.); 
 him she had resolved to charge with it. Alas, alas ! as if you 
 could have saved me, noble heroine and martyr .^ Poor Larkin 
 was standing helpless; he and I carried her upstairs in an arm- 
 chair to the side of her bed, into which she crept by aid of her 
 hands. In a few minutes, Barnes (her wise old doctor) was here, 
 assured me there were no bones broken, no joint out, applied his 
 bandagings and remedies, and seemed to think the matter was 
 slighter than it proved to be — the spasmodic tearing of sinews 
 being still a secret to him. For fifty hours the pain was excru- 
 ciating; after that it rapidly abated and soon altogether ceased, 
 except when the wounded limb was meddled with never so little. 
 The poor patient was heroic, and had throughout been. Within 
 a week, she had begun contriving rope machineries, leverages, and 
 could not only pull her bell, but lift and shift herself about, by 
 means of her arms, into any coveted posture, and was, as it were, 
 mistress of the mischance. She had her poor little room arranged 
 under her eye, to a perfection of beauty and convenience. 
 
 It is interesting, also, to add Mr. Froude's account of this 
 disaster. 
 
\ 
 
 ALARMING CONSEQUENCES 2/5 
 
 One evening (he says), after their return, Mrs. Carlyle had 
 gone to call on a cousin at the post-office in St. Martin's Lane. 
 She had come away, and was trying to reach an omnibus, when 
 she was thrown by a cab on the kerbstone. Her right arm being 
 disabled by neuralgia, she was unable to break her fall. The 
 sinews of one thigh were sprained and lacerated, and she was 
 brought home in a fly in dreadful pain. She knew that Carlyle 
 would be expecting her. Her chief anxiety, she told me, was to 
 get into the house without his knowledge, to spare him agita- 
 tion. For herself, she could not move. She stopped at the door 
 of Mr. Larkin, who lived in the adjoining house in Cheyne Row, 
 and asked him to help her. The sound of the wheels and the 
 noise of voices reached Carlyle in the drawing-room. He rushed 
 down, and he and Mr. Larkin together bore her up the stairs, 
 and laid her on her bed. There she remained, in an agony 
 which, experienced in pain as she was, exceeded the worst that 
 she had known. 
 
 Carlyle was not allowed to know how seriously she had been 
 injured. The doctor and she both agreed to conceal it from 
 him, and during those first days a small incident happened, which 
 she herself described to me, showing the distracting want of per- 
 ception, which sometimes characterized him — a want of percep- 
 tion, not a want of feeling, for no one could have felt more ten- 
 derly. The nerves and muscles were completely disabled on the 
 side on which she had fallen, and one effect was that the under 
 jaw had dropped, and that she could not close it. Carlyle al- 
 ways disliked an open mouth ; he thought it a sign of foolishness. 
 One morning, when the pain was at its worst, he came into her 
 room, and stood looking at her, leaning on the mantel-piece. 
 ' Jane,' he said presently, ' ye had better shut your mouth.' She 
 tried to tell him that she could not. ' Jane,' he began again, 
 ' ye'll find yourself in a more compact and pious frame of mind 
 if ye shut your mouth.' In old-fashioned and, in him, perfectly 
 sincere phraseology, he told her that she ought to be thankful 
 that the accident was no worse. Mrs. Carlyle hated cant as heart- 
 ily as he, and to her, in her sore state of mind and body, such 
 words had a flavor of cant in them. True herself as steel, she 
 would not bear it. ' Thankful ! ' she said to him; ' thankful for 
 what? for having been thrown down in the street when I had 
 gone on an errand of charity? for being disabled, crushed, made 
 
276 LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 to suffer in this way ? I am not thankful, and I will not say that I 
 am.' He left her, saying he was sorry to see her so rebellious. 
 
 We can hardly wonder after this that he had to report sadly 
 to his brother: ' She speaks little to me, and does not accept me 
 as a sick nurse, which, truly, I had never any talent to be.' Of 
 course, he did not know at first her real condition. She had 
 such indomitable courage that she persuaded him that she was 
 actually better off since she had become helpless than ' when she 
 had been struggling to get out daily and returned done up, with 
 her joints like to fall in pieces.' 
 
 For a month she could not move — at the end of it she was 
 able to struggle to her feet and crawl occasionally into the ad- 
 joining room. Carlyle was blind. Seven weeks after the acci- 
 dent he could write: ' She actually sleeps better, eats better, and 
 is cheerfuller than formerly. For perhaps three weeks past she 
 has been hitching about with a stick. She can walk too, but 
 slowly without a stick. In short, she is doing well enough — as 
 indeed am I, and have need to be.'* 
 
 We now give Mr. Henry Larkin's account of Mrs. Carlyle's 
 accident.f 
 
 Carlyle has told us of the serious accident which happened to 
 his wife on her returning home one evening in 1863. I recollect 
 that evening, perfectly, and also the scene of helpless misery 
 which in a few words he so distinctly photographs. But the eye 
 only sees what it brings the means of seeing; and he little 
 thought it was his own presence which had suddenly produced 
 the collapse which struck him so painfully. To make the picture 
 which thus fixed itself on his memory intelligible, it will be neces- 
 sary to explain, or, perhaps, as he would say, 'to reiterate,' that 
 few men have been constitutionally less able to cope with unex- 
 pected difficulties than he was. In any case of confusion or em- 
 barrassment, it was sheer misery to have him even standing by 
 and looking on; his own irritable impatience was at once so con- 
 tagious and so depressing. It was a constant struggle on Mrs. 
 Carlyle's part either to keep him out of the way, or to take the 
 
 *From Vol. II. of Froude's ' Life in London,' p. 271-3. 
 f From 'A Ten Years' Reminiscence,' ' British Quarterly.' 
 
 I 
 
'A FRIEND IN NEED ' 277 
 
 oppurtunity of his being away from home, to effect any changes 
 which might have become necessary; and this as much for his 
 own sake as for hers. 
 
 On the evening in question, I was sitting quietly at home, 
 when I heard a gentle rap at the door; and was informed that 
 Mrs. Carlyle's seivant wished to speak to me. She told me that 
 Mrs. Carlyle had just been brought home in a cab, seriously hurt 
 by a fall, and begged I would come in at once. I went instantly, 
 and found her on a chair in the back room of the ground floor, 
 evidently in great pain. As soon as she saw me, she said, ' Oh, 
 Mr. Larkin, do get me up into my own room before Mr. Carlyle 
 knows, anything about it. He'll drive me mad if he comes in 
 now ! ' We at once consulted as to how we could best carry her 
 up; when, just as we were about to do it, he entered, as he tells 
 us, looking terribly shocked and even angry. I saw he was 
 annoyed at my being there, instead of him; so I said as little as 
 possible, helped him to carry her upstairs, and then left. 
 
 On the following morning, I called to inquire how she was, 
 and found she had given word that I was to be asked to go 
 up and see her. She was full of thanks, and told me it would be 
 a great comfort to her if I would come up every morning for five 
 minutes, as she knew she should often be wanting some little 
 thing done; and pleasantly added, 'It will effect many little 
 arrangements for her comfort, which she had thought over 
 during the previous day.' 
 
 * For fifty hours,' Carlyle writes in the * Reminiscences,' 
 'the pain was excruciating ! . . . The poor patient was heroic. 
 ... In fact her sick-room looked pleasanter than many a 
 drawing-room, all the weakness and suffering of it nobly 
 veiled away. . . . the bright side of the cloud always turned 
 out for me, in my dreary labours.' Very touching is the 
 passage following, on the next page of the ' Reminiscences.' 
 ' Blind and deaf that we are ! Oh, think if thou yet love 
 anybody living, wait not till death sweeps 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 ! ' 
 
278 LIFE IN L OND ON 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 A. D. 1863-1864 
 
 Consequences — The first re-appearance of the invalid — Mr. and Mrs. 
 Froude spend a bright evening with the Carlyles — Mr. Sim- 
 monds — Ominous signs — Death of Grace Welsh — Decreasing 
 strength of Mrs. Carlyle — Passage from the ' Reminiscences ' — 
 Unaidable pain — Maggie Welsh — The strange nurse — Invitation 
 to St. Leonards. 
 
 Not even yet had the dauntless spirit of Jane Welsh Carlyle 
 given in to despair. Carlyle tells how, in a few days after 
 the accident, * she seemed to be almost happy ! ' and of her 
 radiant apparition, risen from her bed of sickness after weeks 
 of torture, and come to visit him, as he sate lonely at his work. 
 * That bright evening,' as Carlyle calls it, was shortly followed 
 by one again bright and memorable, when Mr. and Mrs. 
 Froude had spent the evening at Cheyne Row. Carlyle 
 speaks of them as 
 
 the pleasantest; indeed, almost the only pleasant company we 
 now used to have — intelligent, cheerful, kindly, courteous, sincere 
 (they had come to live near us, and we hoped for a larger share 
 of such evenings, of which this probably was the first. Alas ! 
 to me, too surely, it was in effect the last ! ). Cheerful enough 
 this evening was; my darling sat on the sofa talking with Mrs. F. 
 (Froude). They gone, she silently at once withdrew to her bed 
 — saying nothing to me of the state she was in, which I found 
 next morning to have been alarmingly miserable, the prophecy of 
 one of the worst of nights, wholly without sleep and full of 
 strange and horrible pain. And the nights and days that followed 
 continued steadily to 'iiiorsen,d.2Ly after day, and month after month 
 . — no end visible. It was some ten months now before I saw her sit 
 
SOLEMN ENGA GEMEN TS 2 79 
 
 with me again in this drawing room — in body, weak as a child, 
 but again composed into quiet. . . . 
 
 Still, Mrs. Carlyle was writing cheerfully to her friends 
 not long after this terrible accident. The letters to Mrs. 
 Simmonds (late Miss Barnes) upon the christening of her 
 baby, are too amusing and characteristic to pass over, 
 written as they were from a thick cloud of pain and discour- 
 agement. 
 
 To Mrs. Simmonds* 
 
 My darling, — I am so thankful that you are all right. And 
 to think of your writing on the third day after your confinement 
 the most legible, indeed, the only legible note I ever had from 
 you in my life ! 
 
 Now, about this compliment offered me, which you are pleased 
 to call a ' favour ' (to you). I don't know what to say. I wish 
 I could go and talk it over; but, even if I could go in a cab one 
 of these next dry days, I couldn't drive up your stairs in a cab ! 
 I should be greatly pleased that your baby bore a name of mine. 
 But the Godmotherhood ? There seems to me one objection to 
 that, which is a fatal one. I don't belong to the English Church ; 
 and the Scotch Church, which I do belong to, recognises no God- 
 fathers and Godmothers. The father takes all the obligations 
 on himself (serves him right !). I was present at a Church of 
 England christening for the first time when the Blunts took me 
 to see their baby christened, and it looked to me a very solemn 
 piece of work; and that Mr. Maurice and Julia Blunt (the God- 
 father and Godmother) had to take upon themselves, before God 
 and man, very solemn engagements, which it was to be hoped 
 they meant to fulfil ! I should not have liked to vow and mur- 
 mur, and undertake all they did, without meaning to fulfil it 
 according to my best ability. 
 
 Now, my darling, how could I dream of binding myself to 
 look after the spiritual welfare of any earthly baby ? I, who 
 have no confidence in my own spiritual welfare ! I am not 
 wanted to, it may, perhaps, be answered — you mean to look after 
 that yourself without interference. What are these spoken en- 
 gagements, then? A mere form; that is, a piece of humbug. 
 
 * ' Letters and Memorials,' Letter 277. 
 
28o LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 How could I, in cold blood, go through with a ceremony in a 
 church, to which neither the others nor myself attach a grain of 
 veracity? If you can say anything to the purpose, I am very 
 willing to be proved mistaken; and in that case very willing to 
 stand Godmother to a baby that, on the third day, is not at all 
 red! 
 
 Yours affectionately, 
 
 Jane Carlyle. 
 
 Letter to Mrs. Szmmonds.* 
 
 Dear Pet, — I am not the least well and should just about as 
 soon walk overhead into the Thames as into a roomful of people. 
 At the same time, I wish to pay my respects to the baby on this 
 her next grand performance after getting herself born, and to 
 place in her small hands a talisman worthy of the occasion and 
 suitable to a baby born on ' All Saints' Day ' (whatever sort of day 
 that may be). As I shouldn't at all recommend running a long 
 pin into the creature, I advise you to wear the brooch in its pre- 
 sent form till the baby is sufficiently hardened from its present 
 pulpy condition, to bear something tied round its throat, without 
 fear of strangulation ; and then you may remove the pin, and 
 attach the talisman to a string in form of a locket. 
 
 But what is it? What does it do ? (as a servant of mine once 
 asked me in respect of a ' lord '). What it is, my dear, is an 
 emblematic mosaic made from bits of some tomb of the early 
 Christians, and representing an early Christian device: the Greek 
 cross, the palm leaves, and all the rest of it. Worn by the like 
 of me, I daresay it would have no virtue to speak of; but worn 
 by a baby born on All Saints' Day ! it must be a potent charm 
 against the devil and all his works, one would think, for it is a 
 perfectly authentic memorial of the early Christians. I hope you 
 didn't go and drop the ' Jane ' after all. Bless you and it. 
 Affectionately yours, 
 
 Jane Baillie Welsh Carlyle. 
 
 In the lucid interval, when all was over, Carlyle saw, in 
 looking back, what a terribly sad time this had been for his wife. 
 * ' Letters and Memorials,' Letter 278. 
 
S TRICK EN D O WN 2 8 1 
 
 Silent though she may have been to him, to Mrs. Russell she 
 opened her heart a little; wrote of her constant pain — of the 
 news of the death of her cousin Grace Welsh, one of her 
 Uncle Robert's daughters. The letter, she says, * quite 
 crushed down the heart' in her for some days. She was 
 easily crushed now ! Her sufferings deepened. 
 
 Carlyle was still fighting with his * Frederick ' — the final 
 ending of which was his main object in life. He dimly per- 
 ceived that this book had been a trial to her; began to feel 
 at times that she would die, and he would be truly alone. 
 But the impression was always succeeded by the invincible 
 hope that all might yet be well with her. Carlyle's * eyes 
 were holden ' — he could not see. 
 
 Mr. Froude gives some painful details which need not be 
 repeated here. He tells how ' with splendid heroism she had 
 prematurely forced herself to her feet again.' He tells of 
 that memorable evening of which we have spoken, when he 
 and Mrs. Froude once more spent an evening with the 
 Carlyles, and how, that same night, the torturing neuralgic 
 pain had set in — not explainable by doctors, 
 
 Carlyle, strangely hopeful, believed all would yet go well 
 with his wife's health. Others saw things differently. Mr. 
 Larkin, who saw her daily, says: 'She was decreasing in 
 strength from day to day and from week to week — sinking 
 into the saddest despondency and gloom of horror. I sup- 
 pose no one who really watched her, ever expected to see her 
 leave that bed alive. She herself had long given up all real 
 hope!' ' Even then,' Carlyle says, 'she had always some- 
 thing cheerful to tell me. . . . All that was gloomy she was 
 silent upon, and had strictly hidden away.' In the two or 
 three years before the accident he had often talked all his 
 ' half-hours ' on subjects connected with his book. As was 
 natural, she showed interest, but answered little; her princi- 
 pal thought being, * Alas ! I shall never see this come to 
 print. I am hastening towards death instead.' And that 
 was before the disastrous fall she had now suffered from. 
 
262 LIFE IN L OND ON 
 
 We give a passage from the ' Reminiscences,' referring to 
 this time. 
 
 We thought all was now come, or fast coming, right again, 
 and that, in spite of that fearful mischance, we 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; hers, too, I could not doubt, though hint never 
 came from her to that effect; no hint or look, much less the 
 smallest word at any time, by any accident. But I felt well 
 enough how it was crushing down her existence, as it was crush- 
 ing 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 practical conclusion always was, ' Get 
 done with it, get done with it, for the saving of us both that is 
 the outlook.' And sure enough I did stand by that dismal task 
 with 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, per- 
 haps, some merit in this: but also, I fear, a demerit. 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 her and started 
 all chance of sleep away from her. Weak little darling, thy 
 sleep is now unbroken; still and serene in the eternities (as the 
 Most High God has ordered for us), and nobody more in this 
 world will wake for my wakefulness. 
 
 My poor woman was what we called ' getting well ' for several 
 weeks still. She could walk very little; indeed, she never more 
 walked much in this world; but it seems she was outdriving and 
 again out, hopefully for some time. Towards the end of Novem- 
 ber (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 begun to get worse, soon rapidly 
 worse, and developed itself into that frightful universal 'neural- 
 gia ' 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 channels of sensation), such was the name the doctors 
 gave it, and for the rest could do nothing farther with it, 
 well had they only attempted nothing. I used to compute 
 
DE PROFUNDIS 283 
 
 that they, poor souls, had at least reinforced the disease to trace 
 its natural amount, such the pernicious effect of all their 'reme- 
 dies ' and appliances, opiates, etc., etc., which every one of them 
 (and there came many) applied anew, and always with the like 
 result. 
 
 Oh, what a sea of agony my darling was immersed in, month 
 after month — sleep had fled. A hideous pain, of which she used 
 to say that ' common, honest pain, were it cutting off one's flesh 
 or sawing of one's bones, would be a luxury in comparison,' 
 seemed to have begirdled her at all moments and on every side. 
 Her intellect was clear as starlight, and continued so; the clear- 
 est 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 that you will 
 not put me in a mad house, however this go. Do you promise 
 me now ? ' I solemnly did. ' Not if I do not quite lose my wits ? ' 
 'Never, my darling. Oh, compose thy poor, terrified heart.' 
 Another time, she punctually directed me about her burial; how 
 her poor bits of possessions were to be distributed, this to one 
 friend, that to another, in help of their necessities (for it was the 
 poor sort she had chosen — old, indigent, Haddington ^figures). 
 What employment in the solitary night watches, on her bed of 
 pain! Ah me! ah me! 
 
 Many months of this hideous pain supervened on the acci- 
 dent. ' Such a deluge of intolerable pain, indescribable, un- 
 aidable pain as I had never seen or dreamt of, and which 
 drowned six or eight months of my poor darling's life as in 
 the blackness of very death. . . . Here, for the first time, I 
 saw her vanquished, driven hopeless, as it were, looking into 
 a wild, chaotic universe of boundless woe, — only death or 
 worse.' 
 
 The physicians, generous and skilful, could do little for 
 this tormented, worn-out human body ! Tonics failed to 
 strengthen— narcotics failed to soothe. Maggie Welsh, the 
 kind cousin from Liverpool, came in December, and stayed 
 till April. Her well-known face and tones probably gave 
 more comfort to the agonised patient than did the ' varying 
 miscellany' of sick nurses. One in particular caused the 
 
284 LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 invalid much agitation. It was an elderly French nursing 
 sister, whose repeating of her regular devotions annoyed Mrs. 
 Carlyle beyond endurance, knowing Latin as she did, and 
 entirely disagreeing with the said devotions; and the end of 
 it was a rousing up of the household at 3 a. m., when the 
 invalid insisted on the nurse being removed from her room, 
 then and there. It appeared that some spiritual admonitions 
 had been offered to Mrs. Carlyle by this well-meaning nun, 
 so distasteful to the poor racked brain of the invalid as to 
 rouse her to instant action. Silence, apologies, and departure 
 were the result of this adventure. 
 
 The kind friends Dr. and Mrs. Blakiston of St. Leonards 
 greatly urged Mrs. Carlyle to visit them at this time, and see 
 what the fine air and their loving attention would do for her. 
 It seemed almost a last resource, so weak had she become, 
 but the idea was not to be hastily abandoned, Hope might 
 come with the change ! 
 
CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 A. D. 1864 
 
 Mrs. Carlyle's resolution — Mr. Larkin — The terrible journey — 
 Maggie Welsh — Carlyle at Chelsea — Regrets — Despair — The fur- 
 nished house — Maggie Welsh recalled to Liverpool — Mary Craik 
 — Sad bulletins — Carlyle's visits — Calls of friends — The sufferer 
 too weak to see them — Mrs. Carlyle writes to her aunts — In- 
 somnia — Heavy Days — Futile plans of change — Mrs. Carlyle's 
 horror of returning to Chelsea — Miss Bromley's kindness — Mrs. 
 Carlyle starts for Scotland with Dr. John Carlyle — Spending a 
 night in London on her way — Mrs. Austin — Removal of Mrs. 
 Carlyle to Holm Hill — Her dread of travelling home — The return 
 — The worst over. 
 
 Mrs. Carlyle, for her own part, was resolved to make this 
 last effort, even if she died upon the road. All was arranged, 
 and, relying on Mr. Larkin's never-failing kindness, she 
 decided that he was to carry her downstairs and lay her upon 
 a couch from which the attendants would lift her into the 
 invalid carriage, which was to convey her from door to door. 
 * I don't think you'll find me very heavy,' she said patheti- 
 cally to Mr. Larkin, who was, indeed, appalled at her loss of 
 weight. ' I carried her down as easily as if she had been a 
 child of twelve years old ! ' he says. Yet Mrs. Carlyle's 
 height was five foot four inches, and she must have become 
 a mere shadow. 
 
 'It was early in March,' says Carlyle in the 'Reminis- 
 cences' (perhaps March 2, 1864) — 'a cold-blowing, damp, 
 and occasionally raining day, that the flitting thither took 
 effect. . . . Well do I recollect her look as they bore her 
 downstairs: full of nameless sorrow, yet of clearness, practi- 
 cal management, steady resolution. . . , The invalid car- 
 riage was hideous to look upon; black, low, base-looking, 
 
 285 
 
286 LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 and you entered it by a window, as if it were a hearse. I 
 knew well what she was thinking.' Mr. Larkin describes this 
 carriage as one 
 
 into which the hving corpse was to be slid, feet foremost, 
 through a small door behind. I saw at a glance (he says) the 
 whole horror of the thing as it would strike her . . . she was 
 already being carried from the house. I shall never forget the 
 agony of the stifled shriek which she could not suppress, as they 
 lifted and pushed her in. ... I bade her goodbye, deeply feel- 
 ing that it was the last poor service I should ever render her. 
 But the end was not yet. . . . 
 
 Carlyle, who had attended his wife on this journey, visit- 
 ing her at every stage, and leaving her meantime in the kind 
 care of Maggie Welsh, returned to London by the late train 
 that same night. He warmly extols the considerate and 
 generous care of Dr. and Mrs. Blakiston, as shown in their 
 reception of their invalid guest — ' fine, airy, quiet rooms in 
 the big house, with the loving and skilful hosts.' And he 
 went home cheered and more hopeful. Yet his own settled 
 mood was ' of deep misery frozen torpid.' He had just 
 ended Vol. V. of his ' Frederick ' and despaired on finding 
 there must be yet a sixth volume. 
 
 It was in June that Mr. Larkin had ' a letter from Mrs. 
 Carlyle, but not in her own handwriting, only dictated, and 
 feebly signed by her — evidently dictated in great depression 
 of heart, in which she said: * I think you must curse the day 
 you wrote that first letter to Carlyle, which brought you into 
 never-ending trouble with us ! . . . . Every emotion, even 
 one of gladness, brings on my torture. . . .' 
 
 Carlyle had visited his suffering wife twice or thrice at Dr. 
 Blakiston's house in Warrior Square, St. Leonards, but with 
 little hopeful omen to bring away with him. Maggie Welsh 
 wrote daily bulletins, always striving to be hopeful. There 
 was, indeed, little food for hope. ' Her mood of fixed sor- 
 row,' says Carlyle, ' with no hope in it but of enduring well, 
 was painfully visible.' 
 
I 
 
 PVOKDS FROM THE HEART 287 
 
 It was thought best that the Carlyles should now take a 
 small furnished house at St. Leonards, where Carlyle could 
 join his wife, and where Dr. John Carlyle could also take up 
 his quarters. This plan was carried out early in May, and 
 the anxious family group was assembled at 117 Marina, St. 
 Leonards. Maggie Welsh was called back to Liverpool, by 
 illness in her own family, and Miss Mary Craik, from Belfast, 
 took her place. But this change of abode was preceded by 
 most terrible sufferings on Mrs. Carlyle's part. ' In these 
 seven or eight months of martyrdom,' writes Carlyle (October 
 1863 — May 1864), 'there is naturally no record of the dear 
 martyr's own discoverable; nothing but these small, most 
 mournful notes, written with the left hand, as if from the core 
 of a broken heart.' We quote a few sentences. 
 
 To her Husband. 
 
 St. Leonards: Friday, April 8, 1864. 
 Oh! my own darling! God have pity on us. Ever since the 
 day after you left . . . the truth is I have been wretched, per- 
 fectly wretched, day and night. . . . 
 
 Your loving and sore-suffering 
 Jane W, Carlyle. 
 On April 19 she writes: 
 
 How be in good spirits or have any hope but to die ? When 
 I spoke of going home, it was to die there. . . . Oh, have pity 
 on me! . . . 
 
 And again, on April 25: 
 
 . . . Oh, I would like you beside me. I am terribly alone. 
 But I don't want to interrupt your work, I will wait till we are 
 in our own hired house, and then, if I am no better, you must 
 come for a day. 
 
 Your own wretched 
 J. W. C. 
 
 To the aunts at Edinburgh she wrote in great despair in a 
 letter about the end of April, ending with, ' Ah, my aunts, I 
 shall die: that is my belief ! ' 
 
 On an early day in May, Carlyle arrived at ' Marina,' was 
 
2 S 8 LIFE IN L OND ON 
 
 pleased to find one good bed-room looking over the sea ap- 
 propriated to his wife's use, and delighted to meet the reso- 
 lute, suffering woman dressed, waiting his arrival, though he 
 says: 'She could hardly sit out dinner, and never could 
 attempt it again. With intellect clear and even inventive, 
 her whole being was evidently plunged in continual woe — 
 pain as if unbearable, and no hope left. . . .' 
 
 Kind friends came now and then: ' Forster, Twisleton, 
 Woolner, and none of these could she see, not even Miss 
 Bromley, who came twice for a day or more, except the last 
 time — just one hurried glimpse. Nothing could so indicate 
 to what a depth of despair had sunk this once brightest and 
 openest of human souls.' 
 
 The Blakistons' unwearied kindness, and the daily drives 
 in the open air — for short times, but often repeated — could 
 no longer help Mrs. Carlyle. Sleep had departed, and the 
 cup of suffering was full to overflowing. The roaring of the 
 sea — at first a lullaby, now, in her weakened state, too loud 
 — kept her awake. The house at Marina had, unfortunately, 
 been taken on for an extra month, till the end of July; but 
 before the middle of July things became intolerable. At 
 first there had been sometimes ' an hour or two of sleep. . . , 
 But this didn't last. . . . And the days were always heavy,' 
 says Carlyle in the ' Reminiscences.' ' What a time, even in 
 my reflex of it ! Dante's Purgatory I could now liken it to 
 . . . not his Hell, for there was a sacred blessedness in it 
 withal. . . .' 
 
 A change of quarters was inevitable. Bexhill was looked 
 at with this view, then Battle, but always fears of ' noises ' 
 made the plans drop into silent abandonment. The home at 
 Chelsea seemed, in its quiet cleanliness, the most attractive 
 change, but Mrs. Carlyle had ' an absolute horror of her old 
 home, bedroom, and drawing-room, where she had endured 
 such torments latterly. ' We will new-paper them, re-arrange 
 them,' said Miss Bromley. And this was actually done in 
 August following. * That new-papering,' adds Carlyle, 'was 
 
 i 
 
J FIXED PURPOSE 2^9 
 
 somehow to me the saddest of speculations. Alas, darUng, 
 is that all we can do for thee ? . . .' 
 
 After nine nights, or more, totally without sleep, Mrs. 
 Carlyle absolutely determined to go to London, on the way 
 to Scotland, breaking her journey, not at her own house, but 
 at Mrs. Forster's (Palace Gate House, Kensington), and did 
 indeed start by the train from St. Leonards at noon on 
 June 30, escorted by Dr. John Carlyle. At Palace Gate 
 House she found ' much kindness and much state,' did sleep 
 * some human sleep in my luxurious bedroom, all crashing 
 with wheels.' 
 
 But she was absolutely fixed in her purpose to go on at 
 once to Scotland; summoned Dr. John Carlyle to make ready 
 for the evening train to Dumfries, and took a journey of 330 
 miles, her * horrible ailment keeping off as by enchantment.' 
 She had left Mary Craik at Chelsea to take care of Carlyle, 
 and was able to report herself from Mrs. Austin's — The Gill 
 — on July 15 in decidedly better case. * I am very shaky, 
 you will see,' she says, * but, oh, so thankful for my sleep and 
 ease — would it but last ! ' 
 
 A note of Mr. Froude's in the ' Letters and Memorials ' 
 gives a sad account of the failure of these hopes: — 
 
 The remainder of that summer has a sad record of perpetually 
 recurring suffering. The carriage broke down in her second 
 drive with her sister-in-law, and she was violently shaken. Mrs. 
 Austin gave her all the care that love had to bestow; but in a 
 farmhouse there was not the accommodation which her condi- 
 tion required, and her friend, Mrs. Russell, carried her off to Holm 
 Hill, where she would be under Dr. Russell's immediate charge. 
 
 Dr. John Carlyle had not been altogether sympathetic with 
 his delicate patient, it appears; and she felt it deeply, in her 
 present feebleness. 
 
 Her letters to Carlyle at this time are saddening. < The 
 most touching feature in them,' Mr. Froude writes, ' is the 
 affection with which she now clung to her husband. Carlyle's 
 anxiety, at last awake, had convinced her that his strange 
 
296 
 
 LIFE IN LONDOI^ 
 
 humours had not arisen from real indifference. . . .' Indif- 
 ference between married people leads, we think, to very dif- 
 ferent results and to much less suffering than is manifest in 
 the relations of these two. 
 
 From Holm Hill, Mrs. Carlyle writes on July 23: 'Oh, 
 my dear, I think how near my mother I am, how still I should 
 be, laid beside her. But I wish to live for you — if only I 
 could live out of torment.' 
 
 And she thought of her husband in all her pain. On July 
 25 she writes: ' Mary Craik will go to-day, and you will be 
 alone with town maids, and if I were there I could but add 
 to your troubles.' 
 
 Again, on July 27: ' ... I am terribly weak. ... I seem 
 already to belong to the passed-away as much as to the pres- 
 ent — nay, more.' 
 
 And on August 5 :' ... It is almost sinfully ungrateful, 
 when God has borne me through such prolonged agonies with 
 my senses intact, to have so little confidence in the future; 
 but courage and hope have been ground out of me. . . . Oh, 
 my dear, I am very weary — my agony has lasted long ! ' 
 
 On August 29: ' . . . The thought of how I am ever to 
 make that long journey back, which I made here in the strength 
 of desperation, troubles me night and day. . . . Oh, I am 
 frightened — frightened ! A perfect coward am I become — I, 
 who was surely once brave ! ' 
 
 August 30: * No sleep at all last night: had no chance of 
 sleep for the neuralgic pains piercing me. ... I am profound- 
 ly disheartened. . . .' 
 
 September 6: * . . . Oh, if God would only lift my trouble 
 off me so far that I could bear it all in silence, and not add 
 to^the trouble of others ! ' 
 
 September 7 : ' I cannot write. I have passed a terrible 
 night. . . . Am I going to have another winter like the 
 last? . . .' 
 
 September 9 : ' I am very stupid and low. God can raise 
 me up again; but will He?' 
 
DAHKNJiSS BEFORE THE DA IVM 29 1 
 
 September 26: '. . . I thank God I got some little sleep 
 last night, for I had been going from bad to worse. . . , Oh, 
 this relapse is a severe disappointment to me — and, God 
 knows, not altogether a selfish disappointment ! I had looked 
 forward to going back to you so much improved, as to be, if 
 not of any use and comfort to you, at least no trouble to you 
 and no burden on your spirits. And now, God knows how 
 it will be. . . Oh, dear, you cannot help me, though you 
 would. Nobody can help me, only God; and can I wonder 
 if God takes so little heed of me, when all my life I have 
 taken so little heed of Him ? . . .' 
 
 It was on a mild, clear day (October i, 1864), that Mrs. 
 Carlyle returned to her home at 5 Cheyne Row, escorted by 
 Dr. John Carlyle. Her worst struggles were now over — no 
 more ' flying from the tormentor, panting like the hunted 
 doe, with all the hounds of the pit in full chase ! ' All was 
 to be made easy for her now, her room had been beautified 
 and re-modelled with the kind help of Miss Bromley. 
 
 She had not been forgotten by her lonely husband during 
 her late absence in Scotland. He had written much to her. 
 On July 29 he had said in his letter to her: ' Oh, darling, 
 when will you come back and protect me ? . . . My thoughts 
 are a prayer for my poor little life-partner who has fallen 
 lame beside me, after travelling so many steep and thorny 
 ways!' And again on August 2: ', . . My poor little 
 friend of friends, she has fallen wounded to the ground, and 
 I am alone — alone ! ' To Mr. Froude, who was absent from 
 town, and wrote under the impression that Mrs. Carlyle was 
 recovering, he answered, that no such hope was warranted, at 
 present. 'Wish me well, and return, the sooner the better,' 
 he continues. 
 
 To Mrs. Carlyle, her husband's letters were frequent and 
 tender, and, now the separation was over, ' she re-appeared 
 in her old circle, weak, shattered, her body worn to a shadow, 
 but with her spirit as bright as ever — brighter, perhaps,' 
 says Mr. Froude. 'A faint, kind, timid smile was on her 
 
2g2 LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 face,' says Carlyle, speaking of her arrival, 'as if afraid to 
 believe fully; but the despair had vanished from her looks 
 altogether, and she was brought back to me, my own again, 
 as before.' 
 
 Her own account of her arrival, as given in a letter to 
 Mrs. Russell, is very spirited and touching at the same time. 
 Mr. Carlyle's rushing out in his dressing-gown, kissing her 
 and weeping over her just as she was in the act of getting 
 out of the cab, and the kisses and embraces of the maids, 
 made this home-coming quite a unique one to her. All were 
 astonished at the improvement in her appearance. She had 
 indeed been snatched back from Death, as it were, and had 
 ' a heavenly sleep ' on the first night after her return. * Oh ! 
 my darling,' she writes to Mrs. Russell, * if I might continue 
 just as well as I am now ! But that is not to be hoped. 
 Anyhow, I shall always feel as if I owed my life chiefly to 
 your husband and you, who procured me such rest as I could 
 have nowhere else in this world.' And on October 6 she 
 says to this dear friend: ' . . . I feel as if I needed God's 
 help to make me humanly capable of the sort of sacred 
 thankfulness I ought to feel for such a friend as yourself.' 
 The kind Rector's wife had made it easy for Mrs. Carlyle to 
 have the warm, new milk, which had done her good at Holm 
 Hill; she had also plenty of cream, quite good, and went a 
 daily drive in a nice brougham from i to 3 p. M. 
 
 On October 10, she assures Mrs. Russell that she was 
 * not the same woman who trembled from head to foot . . . 
 whenever a human face showed itself from without, or any- 
 thing worried from within.' It was true, the darkest hour 
 was passed, the deepest note of human suffering had been 
 sounded — dawn was at hand. To use Carlyle's own words: 
 
 Here ended the most tragic part of our tragedy. Act the 5th, 
 though there lay Death in it, was nothing like so unhappy. 
 The last epoch of my darling's life is to be defined as almost 
 happy in comparison ! It was still loaded with infirmities, bodily 
 weakness, sleeplessness, continual, or almost continual, pain, and 
 
 i 
 
' LATE-BORN COMFORT 293 
 
 weary misery, so far as the body was concerned; but her noble 
 spirit seemed as if it now had its wings free. . . . The battle was 
 over.and we were sore wounded ; but the battle was over.and well ! 
 
 These touching words were written after all was over, indeed, 
 not while Carlyle was more or less blind to the shadow of 
 death which lay on his wife's face, so visible to outsiders. 
 
 The emotion of his friend, George Cooke, on his visit to 
 Mrs. Carlyle at Chelsea, after her return from Holm Hill, 
 tells its own tale; for, seeing the wreck before him, he took 
 his friend in his arms and burst into tears. And Lord 
 Houghton, too, who called the same day, was much moved 
 at the change in her. 
 
 She speaks in a letter to Mrs. Russell of going to * Elise ' 
 about a bonnet, which was to be * stripped of its finery.' 
 ' White lace and red roses,' she says, * don't become a woman 
 who has been looking both Death and Insanity in the face 
 for a year.' 
 
 The kindness she received on all hands was almost over- 
 powering to her ! All must have seen that her time on earth 
 was not likely to be a long one. Writing to Mrs. Austin on 
 October 18 she says: ' Indeed, it is impossible to tell who is 
 kindest to me; my fear is always that I shall be stifled with 
 roses. They make so much of me, and I am so weak.' And 
 in the same letter she says: 
 
 I have always a terrible consciousness at the bottom of my 
 mind that, at any moment, if God will, I may be thrown back 
 into the old agonies. I can never feel confident of life, and of 
 care in life again; and it is best so ! 
 
 I cannot tell you how gentle and good Mr. Carlyle is. He is 
 busy as ever, but he studies my comfort and peace as he never 
 did before. . . . 
 
 How well we can understand Carlyle's words in the 
 ' Reminiscences: ' ' The poor bodily department, too, I hoped 
 was 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. . , .' 
 
294 
 
 LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 A. D. I 864-1 865 
 
 The brougham — Mrs. Carlyle's joy at her husband's gift — Illness again 
 — Visit of the Carlyles to Lady Ashburton at Seaton, Devon — 
 Soothing impressions — Discomfort again at Cheyne Row — The 
 ' hereditary housemaid ' — At Holm Hill once more — Suffering 
 health — Erskine of Linlathen — Home duties at Cheyne Row — 
 Depression — Letter to Miss Jewsbury. 
 
 Mrs. Carlyle's delicate health had long made it desirable 
 that the means of carriage exercise should be constantly at 
 her command; for years it had been talked of, the plan of 
 her having a brougham of her own, and now the thing was 
 actually done. She had always discouraged the idea; but 
 now Carlyle took the matter into his own hands, and pur- 
 chased a pretty carriage with a steady mare, ' Bellona,' all 
 her own. And a steady coachman was engaged, Silvester 
 by name; so that long-cherished wish was carried out, 
 not all too late, though delayed. It was hidden from all, 
 that she would breathe her last in that very carriage, bought 
 to preserve and lengthen her fading life. 
 
 Talking over this incident of the brougham lately with 
 Mr. Larkin, he told us he never saw Mrs. Carlyle so pleased 
 and radiant as she was at this gift from her husband. * What 
 gives me the most joy,' she said to Mr. Larkin, ' is, that he 
 did it entirely himself; I never suggested it, on the contrary, 
 I had always discouraged the idea.' She felt, no doubt, that 
 this voluntary concession to her increasing weakness, showed 
 a consciousness of her ill-health on her husband's part, and 
 that soothed her. She writes on October 31, 1864, to Mrs. 
 Russell: 'I have now set up a nice little Brougham, or 
 
LOVING REMEMBRANCE OF OLD 'BETTY' 295 
 
 Clarence (as you call it), all to myself, with a smart grey 
 horse and an elderly driver. . . .* 
 
 Carlyle, in an annotation to the letter in which these words 
 occur, says: 'God be for ever thanked that I did not loiter 
 longer. She had infinite satisfaction in this poor gift; was 
 boundlessly proud of it, as her husband's testimony to her. 
 , . .' He then had that after -knoivledge which opens so wide 
 a gate to our understandings. 
 
 All November and December she took her daily drives, 
 saw friends, when able, and was stronger and happier, though 
 the ' servant ' trouble still existed. 
 
 On January 5, 1865, Carlyle posted his 'last leaf of the 
 'Frederick' MS. 'On her face,' he says afterwards, 'there 
 was a silent, faint, and pathetic smile. . . .' The thirteen 
 years of ' Frederick ' were over indeed, but not without 
 results. 
 
 A letter written by Mrs. Carlyle on February 14 to her old 
 nurse, whose helpless, long-invalided son had died, is very 
 tender. 'Oh, Betty, darling,' she writes, 'I wish I were near 
 you ! If I had my arm about your neck and your hand in 
 mine, I think I might say things that would comfort you a 
 little, and make you feel that, so long as I am in life, you are 
 not without a child to love you. . . .' 
 
 But such meeting was now impossible. She had again had 
 some sharp suffering — ' terrible agony for a few days' — and 
 it was not till March 8 that she and her husband were able to 
 go on a month's visit to Lady Ashburton, at the Dowager 
 Lady Ashburton's pretty cottage — Seaforth Lodge, Seaton, 
 Devonshire. 
 
 From this quiet and kindly shelter Mrs. Carlyle writes to 
 Mrs. Russell, reporting but poorly of her own health; but she 
 was cheered by 'the new country, very beautiful. And the 
 sheep, bless them ! were not only as white as milk, but had 
 dear, wee lambs skipping beside them. And the river that 
 falls into the sea near here . . . clear as crystal and bright 
 bluQ , . , and such a lovely and lovable hostess. , , , The 
 
296 LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 insane horror I had conceived of the sea, all in one night, at 
 St. Leonards, has quite passed away.' 
 
 She greatly wished Mrs. Russell to visit her in London in 
 the early summer, when Mr. Carlyle would be away, and she 
 left lonely again; but ere that time came, Mrs. Carlyle's 
 health again gave ominous signs of failing. On May 4 she 
 writes to Mrs. Russell: 'I am not worse — indeed, as to the 
 sickness and the sleeplessness, I am rather better in both 
 respects; but I am weak and languid, have little appetite, 
 and am getting thinner. . . . My right arm has gone the way 
 that my left went two years ago, so that I cannot lie upon it, 
 or make any effort with it. . . .' 
 
 About May 22 Carlyle was at Dumfries, and thence went 
 to his sister at The Gill, and there was another small ' earth- 
 quaking' of workmen at 5 Cheyne Row, a-papering of the 
 dining-room, and fitting it with book-cases from the top of 
 the house — from the ' Frederick ' sanctum. The next fort- 
 night was a distressful one. Mrs. Carlyle came and went 
 between her own disturbed home and her kind friends the 
 Macmillans at Streatham Lane, but remained under much 
 pain. She had 'cried a very little at being left;' but turned 
 at once to practical occupation and what help remained to her. 
 
 The mention, in a letter dated Cheyne Row, May 24, 1865, 
 of* a servant whom she was then about to engage — Jessie 
 Hiddlestone, daughter of an old servant of Mrs. Welsh's — 
 must be noted, as this servant was eventually engaged, and 
 is alluded to in the letter kindly placed in our hands by Mr. 
 John Stores Smith. We give the letter later on. There is 
 also, in the same letter, the name of Mrs. Warren, who was 
 housekeeper to Mrs. Carlyle during the last few months of 
 her life. These two names, in fact, with the casual mention 
 of a remarkable two days of terrible weather — in which the 
 omnibuses could not run, and Mrs. Carlyle was deprived of 
 her regular carriage exercise — fix the date of that highly 
 interesting letter, otherwise undated^ as within three months 
 of Mrs. Carlyle's death. 
 
CRUEL SUFFERINGS 2<^J 
 
 But to go back to June 1865. After severe and continuous 
 pain in the arm, so bad that, to use her own words, it was 
 ' as if a dog were gnawing and tearing at it,' with growing 
 sleeplessness to weaken her still further, Mrs. Carlyle almost 
 gave up hope, and on June 17 was at the Railway Hotel, 
 Carlisle, on her way to Mrs. Russell at Holm Hill. Dr. 
 Quain had advised her to go as soon as possible to Scotland. 
 The right arm was now hopelessly disabled, and she was 
 learning to write with the left one. The charm of Holm Hill 
 was now more or less powerless to revive Mrs. Carlyle. Her 
 vitality was too far spent. By the end of July she was to 
 return home. Carlyle waited at Dumfries for the train that 
 was to take her to London, and travelled as far as Annan 
 with her. Her new servant, Jessie Hiddlestone, was in the 
 same train. 
 
 On July 27, she again addressed her husband from Cheyne 
 Row. Her sleep became better, her pain less; but she had 
 made her last railway journey, save and except the one to 
 Folkestone, where she was once again the guest of kind Miss 
 Bromley in August, at Langhome Gardens, Folkestone, and 
 all the good care of her considerate friend did her some good, 
 but the time for restoration was now over and gone. Writing 
 to her husband from Folkestone on August 19, she says: 
 < But I don't feel the stronger for all this sleep, nor more able 
 to eat or to walk.' To Mrs. Russell she writes, of Miss 
 Bromley: ' She is adorably kind to me, . . . and in such an 
 unconscious way.' 
 
 It was distur'olng that Mr. Carlyle wished to return to 
 London at this very time, curtailing his wife's reposeful stay 
 at Folkestone. 'But,' she says, 'a demon of impatience 
 seems to have taken possession of Mr. C, and he has been 
 rushing through his promised visits as if the furies were 
 chasing him.' We think it very likely his impatience was to 
 see his sick wife, but that could not be known. In any case, 
 he returned. 
 
 There is a beautiful letter, dated August 18, from Mr, 
 
298 LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 Erskine of Linlathen to Mrs. Carlyle, whom he had hoped to 
 have seen this summer with her husband. We quote a few 
 words: — 
 
 ' Beloved Mrs. Carlyle, — I suppose you could not have 
 come here, and yet it is with some sorrow that I accept this 
 arrangement, as I scarcely expect to have another sight of 
 your dear face on earth. . . .' 
 
 Writing to Mrs. Austin in October, Mrs. Carlyle reports 
 her neuralgia better, ' in abeyance,' at least, and Mr. Froude 
 speaks of having met her with her husband about this time 
 at the Dean of Westminster's. The Carlyles also dined with 
 Mr. Froude to meet Mr, Speddingof Mirehouse, Ruskin, and 
 Dean Milman. It was a brilliant occasion in every way. 
 
 December 1865 found her again much depressed, ' Bellona,' 
 the mare, had fallen temporarily lame from an injury, and she 
 (Mrs. C.) had unwisely consented to take the air in an omni- 
 bus — the nervousness of seeing her husband run after them 
 to stop them, while she waited, was too much for her, so low 
 had her strength fallen ! ' I was like to cry with nervous- 
 ness,' she says, ' to find myself left alone in an open street — 
 and couldn't run after him as he kept calling to me to do — 
 couldn't run at all. . . .' 
 
 This was an unfortunate moment for the introduction of 
 nine large hens and one very large cock, who appeared next 
 morning in the garden of the house adjoining. But the in- 
 domitable woman took means which banished the nuisance, 
 and 'Mr. C.,' she tells her friend, ' clasped me in his arms 
 and called me his " guardian angel"!' It is right to add 
 that Mrs. Carlyle promised, as some recompense for the shut- 
 ting up of the * magnificent cock ' from 3 p. m. till 10 a. m. to 
 give reading lessons to the small boy of the owner of that 
 bird! 
 
 The household went on quietly enough. Mrs, Warren and 
 Jessie did not like each other. This latter, whom Mrs. 
 Carlyle called * her hereditary housemaid,' was 'more atten- 
 tive,' says her mistress, 'since I showed myself quite indif- 
 
LETTER TO GERALDINE JEWSBURY 299 
 
 ferent to her attentions, and particular only as to the per- 
 formance of her work.' 
 
 In January 1866, she writes feelingly on the ill-health of 
 young Robert Welsh, who eventually died of consumption — 
 the letter is to Miss Grace Welsh, Edinburgh. * It is hard, 
 hard,' she says, ' to tell by what death, slow or swift, one would 
 prefer to lose one's dearest ones, when lose them one must.' 
 
 The going down of the steamship ' London ' depressed 
 Mrs. Carlyle, among more personal losses. ' I have felt,' she 
 says, * in a maze of sadness — have had no affinity for any but 
 sorrowful things. . . . But I continue to take my three 
 hours' drive daily. Since I returned from Folkestone in 
 September, I have only missed two days, the days of the 
 snow-storm a fortnight ago, when it was so dangerous for 
 horses to travel that the very omnibuses struck work, . . .' * 
 This circumstance makes the snow-storm to be dated about 
 January 8 or 9, 1866, and we here give the hitherto unpub- 
 lished letter to Miss Jewsbury, containing the allusion to it, 
 and placed in our hands by Mr. John Stores Smith. 
 
 5 Cheyne Row, Friday night. 
 
 Oh my dear young woman ! — For goodness gracious' sake 
 don't be outstaying your time by ever so long. You are ' wanted ' 
 — not by the police, but by fiie / I want you every day and all, 
 for I have no resource in myself at present, am indeed an unmit- 
 igated nuisance to myself, and for any comfort that lies in ' oth- 
 ers ' — such others as are get-at-able. Ach ! 
 
 Since we parted I cannot boast of one moment of wellness, 
 day or night ! There is nothing serious the matter with me, so 
 far as I know. It is just that ' the weather is cold, 'and ' I'm grow- 
 ing old,' and ' my (moral) doublet is not very new. Well-a-day.' 
 
 All the same, I am terribly in need of having my feet stroked, 
 and being read to, and being told stories to, and being cheered up 
 generally. I come down every morning with a headache, and as 
 
 * The letter quoted from here is dated January 23, 1866, and is ad- 
 dressed to Miss Grace Welsh. In this letter the ' snow-storm ' alluded 
 to as having happened within a fortnight of the day of writing must 
 have occurred on January 8 or 9. 
 
^OO LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 sick as a dog. The drive out has not the usual enlivening effect 
 in this weather. Indeed, the two last days Silvester declared 
 the attempt ' too dangerous — the many omnibuses having ceased 
 to run; ' so I have moped at home, hearing nothing but Mr. C.'s 
 Jeremiads over the ' utter ruin ' brought on him by ' that din- 
 ner at Forster's and the other at Dr. Quain's.' The "old' and 
 ' cold ' are at the bottom of /u's miseries too, I believe ; but it 
 would need a bolder woman than me to suggest that to him ! 
 
 When Jessie was mending the fire yesterday, she suddenly 
 addressed me: ' D'ye ken, mem, I m/ss Aliss Jewsbury?' ' Im- 
 possible ! ' I answered, for I /lad thought she had said, ' D'ye 
 ken, mem, I me/ Miss Jewsbury ! ' She stared and said, ' But 
 it is the truth.' ' Perfectly impossible,' I repeated. ' Miss Jews- 
 bury is not in London, she is in Manchester ! ' 'I ken that 
 fu' weel,' said she snappishly, 'and that's just the reason I 
 miss her.' Then I saw my mistake. It was the only good 
 sentiment I had heard out of the young woman's head for some 
 time. 
 
 I am so disappointed in that ' hereditary housemaid ! ' Being 
 human, of course she would have faults, and I should find them 
 out in time. But when found out they prove her in all the most 
 important things the very opposite of what I took her for; and 
 that is humiliating for me, as well as vexatious. She lies like 
 an Irishwoman, is secretive and deceitful as a Welsh woman, 
 is heartless and ungrateful as well as extremely bad-tempered — 
 and all the while such a sweet, open countenance; and, when 
 she \i\ies,fascinati7ig manners. Mrs. Frank (my kind regards 
 to her) may console herself under her household troubles, with 
 the same consolation which alone makes it possible for one to 
 bear up against old age and death ! — that it is the tmiversal 
 doom. 
 
 Mrs. Warren has had a sort of influenza which kept her in a 
 cloud of blue devils for a fortnight. But now she is all right 
 again. 
 
 Pray write and fix the time of your return — and keep it I I 
 have hundreds of things to tell you. 
 
 Affectionately yours, 
 
 Jane Carlyle, 
 
 1 
 
CHAPTER XXX 
 
 A. D. 1865-1866 
 
 Carlyle offered the Lord Rectorship of Edinburgh University — His 
 wife's wish that he should accept it — His election — His journey 
 northwards with Professor Tyndall — The last parting — Professor 
 Huxley — Mr. Erskine of Linlathen and Carlyle's brothers gather- 
 ed in Edinburgh — The great day — Immense success — The tele- 
 gram — The dinner at Forster's — Interview with Professor Tyndall 
 — Excitement — The projected tea-party — The afternoon drive — 
 Sudden death of Mrs. Carlyle — Carlyle receives the news at 
 Dumfries — The unopened letter — Funeral at the Abbey Kirk of 
 Haddington — Epitaph — Reflections, 
 
 And now the 'great outward event of Carlyle's own life, 
 Scotland's public recognition of him, was at hand. This his 
 wife was to live to witness as her final happiness in this world,' 
 so writes Mr. Froude. It was in October of 1865 that the 
 Rectorship of Edinburgh University was formally offered to 
 Carlyle. To this Mrs. Carlyle 'gently urged him.' Early 
 in November he was duly elected. And when March 1866 
 came, there was much talk of journey and arrangements. It 
 was an exciting and interesting time to Mrs. Carlyle, who 
 was reluctantly compelled to relinquish any idea of accom- 
 panying her husband. She would remain quietly at home, 
 and have all the reflected joy and triumph of it. She had 
 her fears of the * extempore ' speech Carlyle would have to 
 make, of its possibly causing him physical discomfort. On 
 Thursday, March 29, all was ready, and Carlyle started on 
 his journey, accompanied by Professor Tyndall; two days 
 were to be spent first at Fryston Hall (Lord Houghton's), 
 
 and then they were to proceed to Edinburgh. 
 
 301 
 
^02 LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 The anxious thought of Mrs. Carlyle suggested a last 
 measure to ensure her husband's comfort, which fnight, if 
 given in her own case, have prolonged her waning life. 
 She had given him a little flask of fine brandy, to take with 
 him in case of sudden illness. Some of this he actually mixed 
 with water and took * in that wild scene of the address.' 
 
 She had parted from him looking very pale and ill. * The 
 last I saw of her,' he says in the 'Reminiscences,' '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.' But the 
 husband and wife met no more on earth. 
 
 Professor Tyndall wrote daily cheering reports to Mrs. 
 Carlyle, and Professor Huxley had joined the party at 
 Fryston. Mr. Erskine of Linlathen had come to Edinburgh 
 to make one of the brilliant assemblage, and Carlyle's two 
 brothers, full of honest pridC; were also in Edinburgh to wel- 
 come him. 
 
 Monday, April 2, was the day of the installation of the 
 new Lord Rector. The record of the magnificent oration 
 given by Carlyle to the students, and of the brilliant success 
 of the whole ceremony, need not be dwelt upon here. 
 
 Meantime she, to whom it was the nearest and most 
 urgent thought, was suffering and sleepless at Chelsea, count- 
 ing the hours in an agony of nervous suspense, till she could 
 hear the result and know that the exertion had not been too 
 much for her husband's strength. She was to dine at Forster's 
 that evening to meet Dickens and Wilkie Collins, and was 
 dressing for the occasion (a birthday dinner) when Professor 
 Tyndall's telegram arrived, which she tore open and read. 
 It ran thus: ' A perfect triumph!' 'Oh,' she says, in her 
 letter to Carlyle of April 3, ' God bless John Tyndall in this 
 world and the next ! ' 
 
 Perhaps this was the most intense moment of joy and 
 
Almost worn out 303 
 
 pride that suffering, half-broken heart had known for many a 
 year. For the thread of life was worn very thin, and though, 
 after a restorative, Mrs. Carlyle did dine with John Forster, 
 whose drawing-room she entered * exultant,' as Professor 
 Tyndall says, 'waving the telegram in the air,' we cannot 
 but think that this flood of excitement helped to hasten the 
 end. For had she not herself recently deplored the fact that 
 joyful and painful emotion were alike hurtful to her? 'She 
 went out,' Carlyle tells us, * for two days to Mrs. Oliphant, 
 recovered her sleep to the old poor average, or nearly so . . . 
 and was not for many years, if ever, seen in such fine spirits 
 and so hopeful and joyfully serene and victorious frame of 
 mind, till the last moment.' It was the tender glow of sunset. 
 ' Noble little heart,' continues Carlyle. ' Her painful, much- 
 enduring, much-endeavouring little history now at last 
 crowned with plain victory, in sight of her own people and of 
 all the world. . . .' It was, indeed, a sweet * Indian summer ' 
 for her, but all too short. 
 
 She had the joy of a personal interview with Professor 
 Tyndall in his room at the Royal Institution on April i6, and 
 heard the minutest details of the great event. She was, in 
 fact, full of joy. ' I have not been so fond of everybody since 
 I was a girl,' she wrote to her husband, who had gone on the 
 Pliday after the address, to spend a few peaceful days at 
 Scotsbrig, where a slight sprain detained him. 
 
 The ankle was slow in mending, and Carlyle was writing 
 to his wife in Chelsea on April 19, the day which was her last 
 on earth, for on that day her weary pilgrimage ended softly 
 in death. 
 
 On that day she had written to her husband and spoken 
 of a tea-party she intended having on the Saturday. It was 
 to include Mrs. Oliphant, Principal Tulloch, Mr. and Mrs. 
 Froude, and others; Miss Jewsbury was also to be one of the 
 party. The letter written on this last day of her life was 
 posted by her own hand. Some few hours later, Mr. Froude 
 received a message that something had happened to Mrs. 
 
304 LIFE m LONDOJ^ 
 
 Carlyle, and he was desired to go at once to St. George's 
 Hospital. Calling for Miss Jewsbury on his way, he went 
 to the hospital at once, and there, 
 
 on a bed in a small room lay Mrs. Carlyle — beautifully dressed — 
 dressed as she always was, in perfect taste. Nothing had been 
 touched. Her bonnet had not been taken off. It was as if she 
 had sate upon the bed after leaving the brougham, and had fallen 
 back upon it asleep. But there was an expression on her face 
 which was not sleep, and which, long as I had known her, re- 
 sembled nothing which I had ever seen there. The forehead, 
 which had been contracted in life by continual pain, had spread 
 out to its natural breadth, and I saw for the first time how mag- 
 nificent it was ! The brilliant mockery, the sad softness with 
 which the mockery alternated, both were alike gone. The fea- 
 tures lay composed in a stern, majestic calm. I have seen many 
 faces beautiful in death, but none so grand as hers. I can write 
 no more of it. 
 
 And this was what had happened: again we quote from 
 Mr. Froude: 
 
 ' Mrs. Carlyle had gone on that last afternoon for her customary 
 airing,' driving round Hyde Park, taking her little dog with her. 
 , . . Near Victoria Gate she had put the dog out to run, a pass- 
 ing carriage went over its foot, and, more frightened than hurt, 
 it lay on the road on its back, crying. She sprang out, caught 
 the dog in her arms, took it with her into the brougham, and 
 was never more seen alive. Coming a second time near to 
 the Achilles Statue, and surprised to receive no directions, he 
 turned round, saw indistinctly that something was wrong, and 
 asked a gentleman near to look into the carriage. The gentle- 
 man told him briefly to take the lady to St. George's Hospital, 
 which was not two hundred yards distant. She was sitting with 
 her hands folded on her lap — dead. 
 
 So it was all over — the long, long pain and exhaustion — 
 no more steps for the tired feet to take, not a farewell, and, 
 we must trust, not a pang; only the stern, sweet peace of 
 
PEA CE AT LAST 305 
 
 the newly-dead, left to tell of the end of all pain for her. On 
 that first solemn night — ' the last of danger and distress,' — 
 Mrs. Warren lighted the two candles, about which such 
 earnest directions had been given by the departed. She slept 
 at last ! 
 
 A telegram was sent to John Carlyle at Edinburgh, Carlyle's 
 own whereabouts being a little uncertain. It was in his 
 sister's house at Dumfries that the fatal news reached him. 
 He was stunned. Sixteen hours after the arrival of the tele- 
 gram, arrived a letter from her, a cheery and merry one ! 
 His last to her, posted too late, lay unopened on his table at 
 Chelsea on his return, and was endorsed by him: 'Never 
 read ! Alas, alas ! ' Its tender words never reached her. 
 
 On the Monday his brother, Dr. John Carlyle, accompanied 
 him to London. 'Never,' says Carlyle, 'for 1,000 years 
 should I forget that arrival here of ours, my first unwelcomed 
 by her. She lay in her coffin, lovely in death.' 
 
 What thoughts must those have been which came to Carlyle 
 when he looked on the face of his wife, his ' dear life partner ? ' 
 We cannot dwell on this part of the tragedy. There is no 
 need. 
 
 Arrived again from London at Haddington, where his wife 
 had wished to be laid by her father, Carlyle was, on the whole, 
 less desperately unhappy. His brother John, with Forster 
 and other friends, accompanied him on the journey with his 
 ' sacred burden.' 
 
 I looked out (he says) upon the spring fields, the everlasting 
 skies, in silence. ... I went out to walk in the moonlit, silent 
 streets. ... I looked up at the windows of the old room, where 
 I had first seen her, on a summer evening after sunset, six-and- 
 forty years ago. ... I retired to my room, slept none all night, 
 . . . but lay silent in the great silence. 
 
 Thursday, April 26, wandered out into the churchyard. . . . 
 At I p. M. came the funeral . . . silent, small, only twelve old 
 friends and two volunteers besides us there. Very beautiful and 
 noble to me, and I laid her in the grave of her father, according 
 
306 LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 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 fur- 
 ther 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 ! 
 
 We give here the epitaph composed by Carlyle, and en- 
 graved on the tombstone of her father in the chancel of Had- 
 dington Church: * 
 
 Here likewise now rests 
 
 JANE WELSH CARLYLE 
 
 Spouse of Thomas Carlyle, Chelsea, London. 
 
 She was born at Haddington 14th July, 1801, only daughter 
 of the above John Welsh, and of Grace Welsh, Capelgill, 
 Dumfriesshire, his wife. 
 
 In her bright existence she had more sorrows than are com- 
 mon; but also a soft Invincibility, a clearness of discernment, 
 and a noble loyalty 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, 1866, suddenly snatched away 
 from him, and the light of his life as if gone out. 
 
 There is little to add to the telling record. The bright 
 promise of childhood was checked by early and keen sorrow 
 — the death of a father shadowed over that time of youth — 
 already touched by the pain inseparable from some phases 
 of a woman's experience. 
 
 It would be idle to discuss here the question whether 
 great intellect is a happy gift for a woman to possess. We 
 feel that is too wide a field to enter upon. 
 
 Jane Welsh Carlyle seems ' a creature whom only a 
 little change of earthly fortune; a little kinder smile of 
 Him who sent her hither, and one true heart to encourage 
 
 * ' The grave,' says Mr. D. G. Ritchie, ' is in the chancel.' 
 
LOOKING BACK '^Q'J 
 
 and direct her, might have made all that a woman could 
 be!' 
 
 Had she even shared to the full, the literary interests of the 
 man of genius whose overwhelming personality left her so 
 lonely, she would doubtless have entered the lists as a brilliant 
 and successful authoress. But her share seemed, for the most 
 part, limited to the listening to Carlyle's tremendous denun- 
 ciations of all people, things, and systems, since the creation 
 of the world. On her sofa she lay, night after night, exhausted, 
 with nerves 'all shattered to pieces,' and gave her word of 
 sympathy when she could. To the casual visitor these fierce 
 and powerful monologues of Carlyle's were fascinating — to 
 her, they must have been almost intolerable at times. 
 
 Had she been placed in a congenial companionship, with a 
 man many degrees less intellectual than Thomas Carlyle — a 
 man with whom the deeper sympathies of a woman's heart had 
 met full response — we cannot doubt that the world would have 
 known Jane Welsh Carlyle as a writer. But that career was 
 closed to her, and all connected with literature seemed inter- 
 woven with the loneliness and disappointment of her own lot. 
 
 When we think of the eager, bright-eyed, spirited child, 
 fenced round from the world's cold, by softest nurture and 
 love; of the young girl gay, arch, sparkling, confident — when 
 these images are brought face to face with the wasted, almost 
 despairing, stern woman who lived to lose every token of her 
 shining youth, but the 'bit smile,' we cannot but lament so 
 inadequate a result to the world, as this deeply touching record 
 of sharp and peculiar suffering. With the slackening of the 
 acute tension of her agony, however, came the ' loosening of 
 the golden cord.' 
 
 That, after all, she died, as it were, of joy and triumph, not 
 of lingering and repeated misery — is our most soothing 
 thought. The summons came so softly at last. Even the 
 thought of that lonely, unsheltered spot where she was laid, 
 ceases to give pain, when we remember that it was there her 
 heart clung so fondly, over her father's grave — it was there 
 
308 LIFE IN LONDON 
 
 she wished to rest. It has been said, ' Happy is the nation 
 that has no history.' More truly, possibly, may the remark 
 be applied to woman: 
 
 Where the light is brightest, the shadow is deepest. 
 
 And it is not in the intellectual life that woman can find 
 warmth. Surely the sphere sacredly and peculiarly her own 
 — the sanctuary of her home, filled and enfolded by loving 
 blessedness — must, to a large extent, bound the possibilities 
 of her perfect happiness. 
 
 We cannot guess what Jane Welsh Carlyle would have 
 been in the sunshine of motherhood ! had she also known its 
 keen anxieties and unremitting cares. It must remain a mys- 
 tery what would have resulted from that tender and natural 
 .tie — what blossoming of softer, sweeter manifestations might 
 have sprung forth at the touch of baby hands, and lips — 
 caressing and winding round the very hearts of mothers — 
 * Dream-children ' — Alas ! 
 
 And into the region of dreams, or of dreams made realities, 
 this noble-hearted, suffering woman has passed — she to whom 
 so much was given — from whom so much was withheld. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 I. THE WELSH ANCESTRY. 
 
 We are indebted for the following to an old and valued friend 
 of later branches of the family. 
 
 The family of Welsh seems to have been settled, at a remote 
 date, in the valley of the Nith, Dumfriesshire, and to have been 
 of considerable standing and repute. We find, in the year 1480, 
 a 'Nicolas Welsch,' Lord Abbot of Holy wood; a foundation of 
 the twelfth century, and better known under its Latinised name 
 of ' de Sacrobosco.' Collistoun, the principal landed possession of 
 the family, was, in all probability, a portion of the Abbey lands, 
 which the Welshes obtained firm hold of at the Reformation, as, 
 both before and after that great event, they are found holding 
 the important office of ' hereditary deputy baillies ' of the Abbey: 
 a position which placed great opportunities in their hands at 
 the dissolution and sequestration of the monastic lands and 
 revenues. 
 
 The family seem to have had distinctly ecclesiastical proclivi- 
 ties all through its history; as, beside the Abbot, we find the 
 following beneficed clergy: Schir Herbert Velsche, Chaplain, 
 Dumfries; John Velsche, Vicar of Dumfries; another ' John,' 
 Vicar of Dunscore; Dean Robert Velsche, of Tynron (1568), 
 with Schir Galbert Velsche, his brother, being probably, from 
 their designations, ecclesiastics under the old Faith, in their 
 early days. Of distinctly post-Reformation times, we have, first, 
 the still famous Rev. Maister John Welsch, Minister of Ayr, 
 surnamed ' The Incomparable,' a man of stirring life, who 
 married Elizabeth, third daughter of John Knox and Dame 
 Margaret Stewart, daughter of Lord Stewart of Ochilltree, of the 
 kindred of Queen Mary herself; secondly, the Rev. Josias Welsh, 
 
 309 
 
310 APPENDIX 
 
 a minister of note in the North of Ireland, where he took refuge 
 during the troublous times in Scotland; and thirdly, another 
 minister of the name of Welsh, the Rev. John Welsh of Iron- 
 gray, son of Josias, settled not far from the hereditary lands 
 of CoUistoun: a very determined Covenanter, originator of the 
 ' open air Conventicle,' which played so great a part in the civil 
 and religious history of Scotland. Craigenputtock, the patrimony 
 of Jane Welsh Carlyle, seems originally to have formed one of 
 the possessions of the family of Collistoun, and must, sometime 
 after the year 1685, have been detached by family arrangement, 
 by marriage or otherwise, from the more ancient ' holding,' and 
 become the property of one of the numerous cousins of the main 
 house.* 
 
 II. DR. JOHN WELSH. 
 
 John Welsh was born at Craigenputtock, in Dumfriesshire, 
 in 1772; studied medicine at Edinburgh, and obtained his 
 surgeon's diploma in 1796, when he was appointed surgeon to the 
 regiment of Perthshire Fencibles, which he held until 1798, when 
 he went to Haddington. He shortly thereafter joined Mr. 
 George Somner, a surgeon in that town, in partnership. The 
 practice was carried on very successfully under the title of Somner 
 and Welsh. Mr. Somner died in June 1815, Dr. Welsh having 
 previously assumed as a partner a former apprentice of the firm, 
 Mr. Thomas Howden, surgeon, and the practice was carried on 
 under their names until the death of Dr. John Welsh from typhus 
 fever, contracted whilst attending a patient for that disease in 
 September 1819. Mr. Howden assumed as a partner Mr. Welsh's 
 younger brother, Benjamin Welsh, M. D. These gentlemen 
 continued in connection till 1826, when Mr. Welsh died. Mr. 
 Howden then took a Mr. FyfTe as a partner, which partnership 
 lasted till 1833, when they separated, and Mr. Howden's son 
 joined him. and it became Howden and Son. With that son 
 (Dr. Howden) it now goes on with another partner. Dr. John 
 
 * A full and able detailed account of the Welsh ancestry is given by 
 Mr. J. C. Aitken, in a paper read before the Natural History and Anti- 
 quarian Society at Dumfries, and published in the Dumfries and Gal- 
 loway Courier a7id Herald on January 9, 1889. 
 
DJi. JOHN WELSH 3 I I 
 
 Welsh was a surgeon of great skill, always ready to relieve 
 suffering humanity, whether occurring amongst the rich or poor, 
 by all of whom, who had the opportunity of knowing him, or who 
 came under his treatment, he was greatly loved and esteemed and 
 greatly regretted after his decease. Dr. Welsh wrote a book on 
 fever, which was well received. 
 
 The house in which Dr. Welsh lived, and from which the wife 
 of Thomas Carlyle was married, is still standing. It is not of 
 large size, but, like the homes of many who have become either 
 great themselves, or have become connected with great names, it 
 is small but comfortable. Being a little ofl the street, it seems 
 like a narrow strip packed behind other high buildings. It is 
 one room in width from east to west, having its access up a close 
 or passage four feet wide. On the first floor there are dining 
 room, consulting-room, and surgery, a kitchen and offices; second 
 floor, drawing-room and two bedrooms, and an attic flat of 
 three low bedrooms. The property belongs to Mr. W. Howden, 
 son of Mr. Howden. 
 
 III. THE DEATH OF DR. JOHN WELSH. 
 
 'It was in the beginning of 1872,' says Lieutenant-Colonel 
 Davidson, ' that I found myself at the door of old Betty's " poor 
 cottage at Greenend. " Betty opened to my knock, and exclaimed, 
 " Eh, Maister Davidson ! " I was soon seated beside her in her 
 tidy little room, and deep in the memories of auld langsyne. 
 Among other subjects we came upon Dr. Welsh. She said, in 
 reference to his regard for religion: " Some folk didna think sae 
 muckle o' the doctor, but I thought a hantle o' him. Ye see, 
 when he got auld, he didna tak' the lang rides he used to tak', 
 but he got a kerridge; and just aboot that time I was takin' in a 
 Bible an' commentary in pairts — that's it on the table there — 
 and as the Doctor gaed his veesits, mony a read he had o't. I 
 mind as weel as yesterday his sayin', as he cam' thro' the kitchen 
 to his kerridge, ' Betty, could ye obleege me wi' a bit o' yer 
 Bible?' Says I, 'What pairt wad ye like, Doctor?' Says he 
 — for the Doctor was aye pelite — ' Weel, Betty, if it's quite 
 convenient for you, I wad like a bit o' the gospel o' John ! ' Ay, 
 he was fond o' the Bible." Then I was telling how I remembered 
 
3 1 1 APPENDIX 
 
 that solemn Sabbath morning when he died, which led her to go 
 into the circumstances of his illness and death. " Ye see," said 
 she, " the Doctor was a regular man in his habits. He used to 
 come hame at four o'clock, an' talc' a bath before his denner; but 
 yae Thursday he cam' hame, an' took naither his bath nor his 
 denner, but gaed straight to his naked bed. The next day he 
 was in a high fever, an' word was sent to Edinburgh for a grand 
 doctor (Hamilton, I think he was ca'ed), and he cam' wi' his 
 cocket hat, an' gold-headed stick, an' had a long consultation wi' 
 Dr. Howden. Whan it was ower, he cam' thro' the kitchen, for 
 that was the nearest way to the kerridge. Mrs. Welsh was wi' 
 him, wi' a bottle in her han', for she wanted to gie him a glass o' 
 wine, but we couldna find the screw; so she just took a knife an' 
 nicket aff the head o' the bottle. As he was takin' the wine, he 
 saw I was lookin' at him, an' he said, ' Ow he'll get roon; he'll 
 get roon ! ' But he didna get roon ava, for the next day he was 
 waur, an' on the Sabbath morning he was sae bad they put a 
 laddie on ahorse to ride to Edinburgh for the doctor, but before 
 the laddie was weel awa', the breath gaed clean oot o' him ! 
 There was deid silence in the hoose for aboot half an oor, and 
 the first that brak it was Miss Jean. She was sitting on the stair, 
 when up she got wi' a scream, an' cried, ' I maun see my father ? ' 
 an' rushed to the locked door o' his room; but, before she could 
 open it. Dr. Howden gat her in his airms, an' she fainted clean 
 awa'. He carried her thro' the drawing-room, ye ken, to the 
 little bedroom zS. it, an' laid heron the bed beside her puir mother 
 that was lying there in a deid swoon ; and there they were like 
 twa deid corpses ! Eh, but it was waefu' ! I thocht I wad look 
 in an' say a word, whan the mistress brak oot into sic a fit o' 
 greetin' I thocht she wad brak her heart. So I went to Dr. 
 Howden, an' telt him to come an' see her. for I thocht she wad 
 dee, but he said, ' Oh, Betty, I'm gled o't, for it's just the best 
 thing that could happen to her; ' an' he only wished Miss Jean 
 could get a gude greet too." Such was Betty's account of this 
 tragic event, which caused abloom over the whole town and 
 countryside.'* 
 
 *From Lieut. -Colonel Davidson's Memorials of a Long Life, Edin- 
 burgh: David Douglas. 
 
IV. MRS. CARLYLE AND DE QUINCE Y. 
 
 An incident connected with De Quincey finds place here. Mr. 
 James Hogg — co-editor, with his father, of a weekly periodical 
 called ' The Instructor,' which was succeeded by ' Titan,' to both 
 of which De Quincey contributed — has written an article in 
 ' Harper's New Monthly Magazine' for January 1890, entitled 
 ' Nights and Days with De Quincey.' In this article mention is 
 made of the Carlyles, and a touching incident is related of Mrs. 
 Carlyle's kindness, which we give in Mr. Hogg's own words. 
 
 ' Many, many times De Quincey referred, with the most 
 touching, almost tearful earnestness, to Mrs. Carlyle and her 
 kindly care of him during that sevei'e illness which he had some 
 time about the period when the " Confessions " appeared. Mrs. 
 Carlyle had nursed him, if I remember rightly, at their own 
 home, and he ever afterwards retained the most profound feel- 
 ing of gratitude for her motherly kindness, combined with the 
 highest possible opinion of her character and intellectual power. 
 More than once, while dwelling on her qualities of heart and 
 head, he exclaimed, " She was, indeed, the most angelic woman 
 I ever met upon this God's earth ! " 
 
 ' Afterwards, when I was about to transfer myself to London, 
 De Quincey said, " If ever you meet Carlyle, will you tell him 
 
 from me ; " and he charged me with a solemn and moving 
 
 message. I dare only say that it referred to Mrs. Carlyle.' 
 
 Mr. Hogg did not see Carlyle until 1876. One day, being in 
 Chelsea, the thought struck him that he ought to deliver De 
 Quincey's message, and that if he did not make haste, he might 
 never have the chance. He called and found Carlyle at home, 
 apparently very nervous and feeble. 
 
 ' At first I let the conversation drift hither and thither, but 
 gradually bent it to De Quincey, and their old working days. 
 By this time he had become animated, and seemed to gain nerv- 
 ous power. I then told him I had a message to him from an old 
 friend, now no more. I gave De Quincey's words as faithfully 
 as I could. As I spoke, Carlyle started and quivered, and the 
 tears sprang to his eyes. It was some little time before the 
 tremor ceased. Slowly, sadly, tenderly, he murmured little 
 
 313 
 
3 1 4 APPENDIX 
 
 ejaculatory recollections of those old days, and after the first 
 thrill of emotion it seemed to do him good.' 
 
 Mr. Hogg is in error in assigning the date of Mrs. Carlyle's 
 kind act to the period when the ' Confessions ' appeared. These 
 papers were first published in the ' London Magazine ' in 1821, 
 and in a volume the year after. It was while the Carlyles re- 
 sided at Comely Bank, Edinburgh, after their marriage and be- 
 fore their going to Craigenputtock, that the incident must have 
 occurred, namely, between 1826 and 1828. That, however, is a 
 slight matter, and in no way detracts from the deep interest 
 of Mr. Hogg's narration. 
 
 Dr, A. H. Japp, in a brief but truly able sketch of Mrs. Carlyle 
 in ' True and Noble Women ' (Isbister), says: ' The bright and 
 versatile woman must have liked the erratic, melodious-voiced 
 little man, for, to her honour, she assiduously nursed him 
 through an illness which he had in Edinburgh at that time, with 
 no one to look after him; for his own wife . , . was still left 
 behind in Westmoreland, with her little brood of chickens.' 
 
 V. CARLYLE'S ACCOUNT OF THE BAKING OF 
 THE FIRST LOAF. 
 
 In connection with this account of the first loaf we cannot 
 but contrast the description given by Mrs. Carlyle — thirty years 
 after the event — with that given by Carlyle in the ' Reminis- 
 cences, ' nearly forty years after that memorable baking. Accord- 
 ing to their individual characters each deals with the subject. 
 Mrs. Carlyle speaks of her sobbing and despair — at three in the 
 morning. Carlyle says, ' I can remember very well her coming 
 in to me, late at night (eleven or so) with \v&x first loaf, looking 
 mere triumph and quizzical gaiety: " See ! " The loaf was ex- 
 cellent, 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 this case, we must feel that each wrote what was, to each, 
 the truth; yet the impression given is not the same in the two 
 narratives. Carlyle adds: ' The saving charm of her life at 
 Craigenputtock, which to another young lady of her years might 
 
BAKING THE FIRST LOAF 3 I 5 
 
 have been so gloomy and vacant, was that of conquering the in- 
 numerable practical problems that had arisen for her there. . . . 
 Dairy, poultry-yard, piggery. That of milking with her own 
 little hand, I think, could never have been necessary, even by 
 accident-Cplenty of milkmaids within call), and I conclude must 
 have had a spice of frolic or adventure in it. for which she had 
 
 abundant spirit From the baking of a loaf . or the darning 
 
 of a stocking, up to comporting herself in the highest scenes or 
 the most intricate emergencies-all was insight, veracity, grace- 
 ful success.' 
 
 VI. 
 
 Here are the verses written by Mrs. Carlyle to Jeffrey about 
 1832 'There were rose-leaves along with them.' says Mr. Froude. 
 The sad tone of the lines is very apparent; their literary merit 
 not less apparent. 
 
 To a Swallow building under our Eaves. 
 
 Thou. too. hast travelled, little fluttering thing. 
 Hast seen the world, and now thy weary wing 
 
 Thou too must rest. 
 But much, my little bird, could'st'thou but tell, 
 I'd give to know why here thou lik'st so well 
 
 To build thy nest. 
 
 For thou hast passed fair places in thy flight; 
 A world lay all beneath thee where to light: 
 
 And strange thy taste, 
 Of all the varied scenes that met thine eye, 
 Of all the spots for building 'neath the sky. 
 
 To choose this waste! 
 
 Did fortune try thee? Was thy little purse 
 Perchance run low, and thou, afraid of worse. 
 
 Felt here secure ? 
 Ah. no! thou need'st not gold, thou happy one! 
 Thou know'st it not. Of all God's creatures, man 
 
 Alone is poor! 
 
3 1 6 APPENDIX 
 
 What was it, then ? Some mystic turn of thought, 
 Caught under German eaves, and hither brought. 
 
 Marring thine eye 
 For the world's loveUness, till thou art grown 
 A sober thing that doth but mope and moan, 
 
 Not knowing why ? 
 
 Nay, if thy mind be sound I need not ask, 
 Since here I see thee working at thy task 
 
 With wing and beak. 
 A well laid scheme doth that small head contain 
 At which thou work'st, brave bird, with might and main; 
 
 No more need'st seek. 
 
 In truth, I rather take it thou hast got 
 By instinct wise much sense about thy lot. 
 
 And hast small care 
 Whether an Eden or a desert be 
 Thy home, so thou remain 'st alive and free 
 
 To skim the air. 
 
 God speed thee, pretty bird ; may thy small nest 
 With little ones all in good time be blest; 
 
 I love thee much; 
 For well thou managest that life of thine, 
 While I! Oh ask not what I do with mine! 
 
 Would I were such ! 
 
 The Desert. 
 
 VII. CARLYLE LOCALITIES IN EDINBURGHy 
 
 March 15, 18S1. 
 Sir, — It may interest Edinburgh readers of the Carlyle ' Re- 
 miniscences ' to have a jotting of some of the localities referred to 
 there in connection with his sojourns in our city. When he came 
 to commence his college career in November 1809, being yet 
 nearly a month short of fourteen years of age, he lodged in Simon 
 Square. This was a dingy little court, entering off Nicolson 
 
 * Scotsman, March 15, 1881. 
 
CARL YLE LOCALITIES 3 I 7 
 
 Street, nearly opposite the United Presbyterian Church. By 
 recent improvements it has been made part of a street, connecting 
 old Davie Street with new Howden Street, running between 
 West Richmond Street and Crosscauseway. A much humbler 
 locality this than that of Alison Square close at hand, but 
 now similarly obliterated almost out of recognition, and named 
 Marshall Street, in which Thomas Campbell, ten winters before, 
 in a ' dusky lodging,' wrote the ' Pleasures of Hope.' Carlyle's 
 companion was 'one Tom Small, who had already been to College 
 last year.' ' Tom and I,' he says (vol. ii. p. 4), ' had entered 
 Edinburgh, after twenty miles of walking, between two and three 
 P.M., got a clean-looking most cheap lodging (Simon Square — the 
 poor locality), had got ourselves brushed, some morsel of dinner 
 perhaps, and Palinurus Tom sallied out into the street with me 
 to show the novice mind a little of Edinburgh before sundown.' 
 Then follows the wonderfully vivid description of the hall of the 
 Parliament House, and the impression which it made on the 
 ' novice mind.' When Carlyle returned to Edinburgh, after 
 school-mastering at Annan and Kirkcaldy between 18 14 and 
 1818, to support himself hereby taking pupils, it does not appear 
 where he lived. ' Irving,' he says, ' lived in Bristo Street, more 
 expensive rooms than mine, used to give breakfasts to intel- 
 lectualities he fell in with — I often a guest with them. They 
 were but stupid intellectualities,' &c. (vol. i. p. 141). Very 
 likely he had gone back to Simon Square, for he speaks (p. 152), 
 of being out in Nicolson Street for his walk 'one blessed Sunday 
 morning, perhaps 7 or 8 A. M., in the ' fierce Radical and anti- 
 Radical times,' when he met ' the Lothian Yeomanry, Mid or 
 East I know not, getting under way for Glasgow,' and no doubt 
 joined in the contemptuous shout which ' rose from the crowd by 
 way of farewell cheer,' saying, as plain as words, ' may the devil 
 go with you, ye peculiarly contemptible and dead to the distresses 
 of your fellow-creatures. ' It was at the door of ' Peddie's Meeting 
 House, a large, fine place behind Bristo Street,' that the strangely 
 and suddenly pathetic farewell took place (p. 109) between 
 Carlyle and his former landlady in Annan. Mrs. Glen, whose 
 look ' stuck in my heart like an arrow ... all that night and 
 for some three days more.' It was surely that kind of pity which 
 is akin to love that thus troubled the poor lad, caused him ' such 
 
3l8 APPENDIX 
 
 a bitterness of sorrow as I hardly recollect otherwise, ' and en- 
 gaged him with Irving in a mad sort of enterprise to intercept in a 
 yawl from Kirkcaldy Sands ' the outward bound big ship ' in 
 which Mrs. Glen and her husband were sailing forth on their 
 Astrachan missionary enterprise. In 1822, when he had become 
 tutor to Charles BuUer and his younger brother, Carlyle says, ' I 
 still lodged in my old rural rooms, 3 Moray Place, Pilrig Street,' 
 showing he had some time left Simon Square, or other like 
 lodging. He should have written Moray Street, not Place; it is 
 a small street opening off Pilrig Street, and runs parallel to Leith 
 Walk. Here his brother John lodged with him (pp. 199-200). 
 After his marriage in 1826, he took up his abode at Comely 
 Bank, in that ante-Dean Bridge era, a sufficiently retired suburb. 
 It was there that Jeffrey visited them first, and often; and there 
 as he records, his wife subdued Mr. William Tait, rudely enough, 
 certainly, seeing that Mr. Tait was only doing a good-natured 
 thing: — In Edinburgh, Bookseller Tait (a foolish, goosey, in- 
 nocent, but very vulgar kind of mortal), ' Oh, Mrs. Carlyle, 
 fine criticism in the Scotsman, you will find it at, I think 
 
 you will find it at .' 'But what good will it do me?' 
 
 answered Mrs. Carlyle, with great good humour, to the mira- 
 culous collapse of Tait, &c. (vol. ii. p. 201). After eighteen 
 months' residence, the Carlyles left Edinburgh for Craigen- 
 puttock; but returned to Edinburgh for some time in the 
 winter of 1833; and unfortunate experience there determined 
 their final departure and settlement in London. ' 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.' Still, for many years there were fre- 
 quent visits to Edinburgh; to the Jeffreys especially, at Moray 
 Place or Craigcrook — ' one of the prettiest places in the world.' 
 At his visit in 1866 to deliver his Rectorial Address he was the 
 guest of Mr. Erskine of Linlathen. But from the ' crowding and 
 shouting' of the students at the Music Hall he took nearer 
 refuge, ' having hurried joyfully over to my brother's lodging (73 
 George Street, near by)' (vol. ii. p. 296). An outsider, a friend 
 
CARL YLE LOCALITIES 
 
 19 
 
 of Dr. John Carlyle's, who happened to be present, describes the 
 scene as one of strange hilarity. The old gentlemen — three 
 brothers they were in all — laughing loudly all round, like school- 
 boys who had got unexpected holiday. Once again, three weeks 
 after, the same outsider saw Carlyle at the Waverley Station, 
 seated in the railway carriage for London, after the burial of his 
 wife at Haddington; his right cheek lent on his right hand in 
 the manner familiar by photograph; the rugged face full of 
 infinite sadness, yet also of silent, resolute submission. — I 
 am, &c., A. 
 
 VIII. A REMEMBRANCE OF SUNNY BANK.* 
 
 Our contributor, to whom we are mainly indebted for the fol- 
 lowing sketch, writes as follows: ' Jane Welsh Carlyle was the 
 most genial, charming, and affectionate woman I ever had the 
 happiness to meet. Retaining in her warm heart the most ten- 
 der recollections of her childhood's home, and always clinging 
 fondly to past memories and the friends of her youth, she was 
 even in her declining years a most deeply interesting and de- 
 lightful being. 
 
 ' It was in the summer of 1857 that I had the pleasure of see- 
 ing her for the first time. She was the only child of Dr. Welsh, 
 a medical man in Haddington, and was deeply attached to the 
 place of her birth, which was also that of her celebrated ances- 
 tor John Knox, the great Reformer; and delighted to look back 
 upon that joyous, girlish period of her existence. She had come 
 to that town to visit some kindly old ladies at Sunny Bank (as it 
 was then called); and knowing how she prized anything belong- 
 ing to her old home, which was now ours, I sent her a basket of 
 pears from the tree where, no doubt, she had often gathered them 
 in bygone days, and encircled them with the prettiest flowers I 
 could find. She was much pleased with the little offering, and 
 sent with the empty basket the following gracious note: — 
 
 ' " My dear Woman, — You don't know how the sight of that 
 fruit and those flowers gathered from the dear old garden affected 
 me. Thank you, thank you so much ! I love the ' Auld Hoose, 
 
 * From Chambers' Journal oi February 26, 1881. 
 
320 APPENDIX 
 
 so dearly, that I know you will pardon me if I do not come to 
 see it and you; the sight of the familiar rooms would be too 
 much for me. But come to Sunny Bank, dear, and see tne. 
 And believe me, ever yours affectionately, 
 
 " Jane Welsh Carlyle." ' 
 
 IX. LETTER TO MRS. CARL YLE FROM HER 
 HUSBAND.'^ 
 
 There is in the possession of Mr. Robert Thomson, Thorn- 
 hill, an unpublished letter of Thomas Carlyle, addressed by him 
 to his wife while she was staying with Dr. Russell in Thornhill, 
 and suffering from illness. It reveals the writer in an amiable 
 domestic light, and is interesting also because of the opinion 
 which he incidentally expresses regarding the relative value of 
 the advice of the practising and consulting physician. We ap- 
 pend the letter in extenso : — 
 
 Chelsea: (Tuesday) July 27, 1864. 
 
 ' Dearest, — It was well they kept their Pharisaic Sabbath, 
 and preventing yr. telling me, what wd. not have lightened the 
 gloom of mind. Oh dear ! Oh dear ! — and but little sleep yet, 
 in spite of all the chances and all the kindnesses! Nevertheless, 
 hold on to yr. milk, to yr. dietings, to yr. bathings, under Dr. R.'s 
 direction and the kind lady's nursing. What strange old days 
 (sunk like old ages) you look out upon from yr. windows there, 
 my poor little heavy-laden woman ! Yes; but it is for ever true 
 " The Eternal rules above us," and in us and round us; and this 
 is not Hell or Hades, but the "Place of Hope" — the Place 
 where what is right will h^ fulfilled ! And you know that too in 
 yr. way, my own little Jeannie — and you will not and must not 
 forget it; forgetting it one might go mad. 
 
 ' I think with you of Dr. Russell, that his advice is probably 
 worth more than that of all the doctors you have yet had. A 
 sound - headed, honest - hearted man, passing his life in silent 
 company with facts, earnestly studying Disease at a thousand 
 bedsides, with an eye only to knowing and helping it — what a 
 
 * From the Glasgow Herald, June 30, 1890. 
 
LETTER TO MRS. CARLYLE 32 I 
 
 difft. man from one, or from a thousand ones, who are always 
 " on the stage," and have no time to think of anything except of 
 claptrap, and how they shall get a reputation in a totally stupid 
 world ! I beg him very much to survey and investigate your 
 case, and to throw what light on it he can. Darkiiess he will not 
 throw on it; I suppose there is but little "light" except what 
 our own common sense might lead us to. " Time and the hour," 
 which wear out the roughest day, are what I have looked to from 
 the first. 
 
 ' This morng. at 8, Ann Craik stole out softly as a dream, I 
 heard her, having been awake and smoking, but said nothing. 
 She has been perfect, poor little soul; nevertheless I am glad to 
 be in perfect solitude; rather I intend to work with double 
 energy; no other resource for me to keep the demons chained in 
 their caves. I have this note from Craik since she went — hardly 
 read it. I had given her the Bank viatictcin last night, wh. she 
 protested was too, &c., &c. ; but all in a modest natural way. 
 The Poulterer, &c., were discovered to be right, and to-day I have 
 paid accordingly. Every Monday I am to count and reckon, and 
 will. The girls look fairly promising; and I do not fear mis- 
 chance on that side. My floor (bed-room) is stripped bare, bed 
 Id. off; extremely cool and clean [two words undecipherable] does 
 me no damage. Where cd. I be better — were my poor sick Dear 
 back to me, as by God's blessing she will be, perhaps a little 
 better were the heat gone somewhat. Don't mind writing me 
 above a word when you feel weary: one word (as you say) to 
 keep away worse. Heaven grant it be a good one to-morrow. 
 Adieu, my own dear Jeannie.* 
 
 'T. C 
 
 X. EXTRACT FROM A LETTER TO MR. CARLYLE 
 WRLTTEN SOME TIME AFTER HIS WIFE'S DEATH.* 
 
 (By Lieutenant-Colonel Davidson.) 
 
 My Dear Sir, — Often lately have I felt a strong impulse to 
 write to you a few lines on the subject that has moved our 
 hearts so deeply, but as often have I shrunk from it. ' The 
 
 * Mt:niorials of a Long Life. 
 
322 
 
 APPENDIX 
 
 heart knoweth its own bitterness, and a stranger doth not inter- 
 meddle with its joy.' And I doubt not most men at this time, 
 — even those you were in a sense familiar with, — have been 
 peculiarly strangers to you. You have felt how few there were, 
 if any, who could go down into the deep waters with you. I 
 know but One who could do so fully. Yet I cannot be altogether 
 silent. I have been looking over some of your dear lost one's 
 letters, which are more precious than ever, and I draw from one 
 of them an argument for writing. When inviting me to repeat 
 my call, I having missed her, she says, ' Don't you think it would 
 have been pleasing to our mothers, dear friends as they were, 
 that we should be meeting again in this great foreign London?' 
 and so now I think it would be pleasing to her who is gone that 
 we exchanged a word of sympathy, and so I write. If I may 
 not speak of your bitterness, may I not of my own ? I have lost 
 in her a true friend. She was one on whom my heart could rely 
 most perfectly. Perhaps our strongest bond was the early asso- 
 ciation we both cherished so deeply. Singularly enough, after 
 twenty years' absence from the scenes of our youth, we, on our 
 way to Haddington, were sitting face to face in the same railway 
 carriage — looking out from the same window on scenes that 
 awoke the same emotions, and yet time had so changed us, that 
 when our eyes met, they met as the eyes of strangers ! It was 
 some years afterwards that we sat together in the drawing-room 
 at Chelsea, and got into each other's hearts, drew out our little 
 treasured memories, showed them to each other, and wept over 
 them. She was perhaps the only one who had freely entered 
 this secret chamber of my heart; and, now that she is gone, I 
 feel as if its doors were for ever closed. Hers was the hand that 
 touched chords which now no living hand can cause to vibrate. 
 Dear friend, I feel as if I were one of those who have a right to 
 weep with you, though, as compared with yours, my grief must 
 take a secondary place. 
 
XI. CARLYLE AT THE GRA VE OF HIS WIFE* 
 
 The following little story of Carlyle, which we find in a 
 pamphlet by John Swinton descriptive of a recent brief visit to 
 Europe, will disclose to many readers of that rugged and vehe- 
 ment essayist an almost unsuspected trait of gentleness in his 
 character. It is a very touching picture of Carlyle in his lonely 
 old age which it presents. Mr. Swinton found the grave of Mrs. 
 Carlyle in the ruined church at Haddington, and on the stone is 
 cut Carlyle's tribute to her, in which, after referring to her long 
 years of helpful companionship, he says that by her death ' the 
 light of his life is gone out.' Mr. Swinton continues — ' And Mr. 
 Carlyle,' said the sexton, ' comes here from London now and then 
 to see this grave. He is a gaunt, shaggy, weird kind of old man, 
 looking very old the last time he was here.' ' He is eighty-six 
 now,' said I. ' Ay,' he repeated, 'eighty-six, and comes here to 
 this grave all the way from London.' And I told him that 
 Carlyle was a great man, the greatest man of the age in books, 
 and that his name was known all over the world; but the sexton 
 thought there were other great men lying near at hand, though I 
 told him their fame did not reach beyond the graveyard, and 
 brought him back to talk of Carlyle. 'Mr. Carlyle himself,' said 
 the gravedigger softly, ' is to be brought here to be buried with 
 his wife. Ay, he comes here lonesome and alone,' continued the 
 gravedigger, ' when he visits the wife's grave. His niece keeps 
 him company to the gate, but he leaves her there, and she stays 
 there for him. The last time he was here I got a sight of him, 
 and he was bowed down under his white hairs, and he took his 
 way up by that ruined wall of the old cathedral, and round there 
 and in here by the gateway, and he tottered up here to this spot.' 
 Softly spake the gravedigger, and paused. Softer still, in the 
 broad dialect of the Lothians, he proceeded — ' And he stood here 
 awhile in the grass, and then he kneeled down and stayed on his 
 knees at the grave; then he bent over and I saw him kiss the 
 
 * San Francisco Bulletin, 
 323 
 
324 
 
 APPENDIX 
 
 ground — ay, he kissed it again and again, and he kept kneeling, 
 and it was a long time before he rose and tottered out of the 
 cathedral, and wandered through the graveyard to the gate, 
 where his niece was waiting for him.* 
 
 * We regret that we have not the exact date of Mr. Swinton's visit to 
 Haddington Church, but it was presumably towards the close of Car- 
 lyle's life, though, born in 1795 and dying in 1881, he can hardly have 
 been 86 at the time of this, his last visit to his wife's grave. 
 
INDEX 
 
 'Agrippina,' name given in joke 
 to Mrs. Carlyle by Lady Ash- 
 burton, 214 
 
 Aitken, Mrs., see Jean Carlyle 
 
 Alfieri, 37 
 
 Ashburton, the first Lady (Lady 
 Harriet Baring, ne'e Montagu), 
 171, 182, 184, 189-191 (charac- 
 ter); 193, 194, 195, 196, 197, 
 198. 214, 223, 233, 235, 242, 
 243, 246, 247 (death) 
 
 Ashburton, the second Lady («/«? 
 Miss Stuart Mackenzie), 254, 
 270, 271, 295 
 
 Ashburton, Lord, 248, 271, 272 
 
 Badams, 122 
 
 Baillie, Miss, became maternal 
 grandmother of Jane Welsh, 4 
 
 Baillie, Matthew, Gipsy ancestor 
 of Jane Welsh, 88 
 
 Baring, Lady Harriet, see Ash- 
 burton, Lady 
 
 Barnes, Dr., 274 
 
 Barnes, Miss (Mrs. Simmonds), 
 269; letter of Mrs. Carlyle to, 
 279 
 
 Bell, Dr. (John or Charles ?), Dr. 
 Welsh assistant to, 3 
 
 Blakiston, Dr., 284, 286 
 
 Bolte, Miss, 178 
 
 Bradfute, John, 19, 24, 31, 37, 116 
 
 Braid, Mrs. (' Betty '), her ac- 
 count of Dr. Welsh's death, 311 
 
 Brewster, Sir David, 97 
 
 Bromley, Miss Davenport, 271, 
 288, 291, 297 
 
 BuUers, Carlyle tutor to the, 35, 
 43, 44; Charles BuUer, 127, 
 318; Mrs. Buller, 146; Regi- 
 nald Buller, 170, 171 
 
 Byron, 35, 41 
 
 Campbell, Thomas, 317 
 
 Carlyle, Alexander, 45, 48, 60, 
 66, 98, loi, 103, 107, 118 
 
 Carlyle, James, senr. , see Car- 
 lyle's father 
 
 Carlyle, James, 139, 140 
 
 Carlyle, Jean (Mrs. Aitken), 69, 
 97, 99, 123, 126, 139, 208 
 
 Carlyle, Dr. John Aitken, 40, 90, 
 91, 96, 98, 122, 147, 178, 197 
 (discussing Dante with Mazzi- 
 ni), 224, 227, 229, 287, 289, 291, 
 305. 318 
 
 Carlyle, Margaret, 115 
 
 Carlyle, Mary, 103, 244 
 
 Carlyle, Thomas, first meets Jane 
 Welsh, 25, 29; directs her read- 
 ing, 30, 34; described by J. W. , 
 32, 33; proposes marriage, 38; 
 relations to J. W., 41, 42, 47- 
 59 (for the rest see Analytical 
 Contents); his Cromwell, 164, 
 166, 181, 183, 187, 223; Fred- 
 erick the Great, 223, 227, 231, 
 249, 250, 254, 264, 267, 281, 
 282, 286, 295; French Revobi- 
 tion, 145, 148, 150, 153, 156, 
 163; ' Gerjfian Literature,^ lec- 
 tures on, 156; Latter Day Pam- 
 phlets, 215; Life of Schiller, 45; 
 Past and Present, 177; Sartor 
 Pesartus, 91, 119, 120 
 
 325 
 
326 
 
 INDEX 
 
 Carlyle's father, 66; death of , 128 
 Carlyle's mother, 37, 66, 6g, 97, 
 
 99, 123, 229, 230 
 Cavaignac, Godefroi, 149, 153 
 Cellini, Benvenuto, iii, 314 
 Cheyne Row, Chelsea, the Car- 
 
 lyles settle at, 144 
 Christison, Prof., 12 
 Cicero, 37 
 Clough, Arthur Hugh, 192, 207, 
 
 267 
 Cobbett's Cottage £cono?ny, iii 
 Collins, Wilkie, 302 
 Comely Bank, Edinburgh, 83, 95, 
 
 97 
 Craigenputtock, home of the 
 Welshes, 2, 310; 47, 49, 51,61, 
 
 100, loi, 103-106 (description 
 of it), III, 128, 129, 131, 141; 
 revisited by Mrs. Carlyle, 252 
 
 Craik, Mrs., see Miss Mulock 
 Cunningham, Allan, 44, 127, 145 
 Cunningham, George, 34 
 
 Dante, 197 
 
 Darwin, Erasmus, 163, 216 
 
 Davidson, Lieut.-Col. David, his 
 
 Memorials of a Long Life 
 
 quoted, 214, 311, 321 
 Delane, J. T. (of the Tifties), 212 
 De Quincey, Thomas, 97; nursed 
 
 by Mrs. Carlyle, 313 
 Dickens, Charles, 174, 183, 211, 
 
 302; his David Copperfield, 200 
 Don Quixote, 1 14 
 Donaldson, the Misses, 195, 201, 
 
 245, 248, 265, 319 
 
 Edinburgh, Jane Welsh at school 
 in, 19; Carlyle's various resi- 
 dences in, 316-319 (Appendix 
 vii.) 
 
 Edinburgh JReview, The, 137 
 
 Edinburgh University, Carlyle 
 elected Rector of, 301 
 
 Emerson, Ralph Waldo, visits 
 Carlyle at Craigenputtock, 
 137-139. 163 
 
 Erskine, Thomas, of Linlathen, 
 185, 222, 225, 232, 298, 302, 
 318 
 
 Folkestone, Mrs. Carlyle's visit 
 
 to, 297 
 Foreig7i Rezneiv, The, 137 
 Forster, John, 165, 183, 195, 197, 
 
 199, 211, 2X2, 288, 300, 302, 
 
 303. 305 
 
 Forster, W. E. , 194, 200, 202 
 
 Fox, Caroline, 232, 233 
 
 Eraser, James (proprietor of the 
 magazine), 127 
 
 Froude, J. A., first introduction 
 to Carlyle, 207; Carlyle's ref- 
 erence to, 278; his edition of 
 the Letters and Memorials, 2; 
 Mr. Froude quoted or referred 
 to. 35. 36, 42, 82, 85, loi, 105, 
 107, 116, 130, 138, 142, 151, 
 167, 195, 242, 247, 258, 272, 
 281, 289, 291, 298, 301, 304 
 
 Fyffe, Dr., of.HaddiHgton, 39, 310 
 
 Galt, John, 127 
 
 Garnier, 178 
 
 Gipsy ancestry of Mrs. Carlyle, 
 88, 147, 174, 202 
 
 Goethe, 35, 41, 106, 117; Wilhebn 
 Meister quoted, 158 
 
 Gordon, Margaret (Lady Banner- 
 man), 26 
 
 Gully, Dr., 220 
 
 Gully, Miss, letter of, quoted, 
 220, 221 
 
 Guthrie, Rev. Thomas, 246 
 
 Haddington, Jane Welsh born 
 at, 2; Dr. Welsh's house, 311; 
 the school, 8, 11; references to, 
 22, 23, 79, 83; revisited by Mrs. 
 Carlyle, 201, 245, 248; Mrs. 
 Carlyle's grave at, 305, 323 
 
 Hall, Miss, Jane Welsh at her 
 school, 19 
 
 Hamilton, Sir William, 97 
 
 Hoddam Hill, Carlyle living at, 
 60; Jane Welsh visits the Car- 
 lyles at, 65, 66 
 
 Hogg, James (the Ettrick Shep- 
 herd), 127 
 
 Hogg, James, writer of article on 
 De Quincey in Harper's Mag- 
 azine, quoted, 313, 314 
 
INDEX 
 
 \2y 
 
 Holmes, O. Wendell, quoted, 8i 
 Houghton, Lord (Monckton 
 
 Milnes), 171, 190, 212, 247, 
 
 293, 301 
 Howden, Thomas, partner 01 Ur. 
 
 Welsh, 3, 4, 310, 312 
 Howden, Dr. (Junior), 248, 310 
 Humbie (near Aberdour), the 
 
 Carlylesat, 255-257 
 Hunt, Leigh, 145, 146 
 Hunter, Miss, married John 
 
 Welsh, paternal grandfather of 
 
 Jane Welsh, 3, 8 
 Huxley. Prof., 302 
 
 Ireland, Mr. Alexander, his ac- 
 quaintance with Emerson, 137, 
 
 138 
 Irving, Edward, fellow-student of 
 Carlyle's, 317, 318; teacher of 
 Jane Welsh, 11, 12, 13; intro- 
 duces Carlyle to her, 25, 26; 
 relations between, and Jane 
 Welsh, 28, 29, 33, 34. 36. 42, 
 46, 47, 63, 106; letter to Carlyle 
 quoted, 35; goes to London, 35; 
 in London, 43, 44, 61-63; ad- 
 vises Carlyle to stand for pro- 
 fessorship in London, 104; his 
 ' blessing,' 115; Carlyle meets 
 again in London, 122, 125, 126; 
 makes his one call on the Car- 
 lyles at Cheyne Row, 146; re- 
 ferred to by Mrs. Carlyle, 164 
 
 JAPP, Dr., quoted, 88, 147, 314 
 Jeffrey, Francis (Lord Jeffrey), 
 14, 99, 103, 106, 112, 113, 114, 
 118, 119, 120, 123, 127, 129, 130, 
 132, 140, 164, 201, 315, 318 
 Jewsbury, Miss Geraldine, 133, 
 151, 172, 182, 189, 198, 199, 206, 
 212, 232, 234, 246, 265, 268, 299, 
 303. 304 
 
 Kant, read by Carlyle, to fortify 
 him against the wedding cere- 
 mony, 90 
 
 Kirkcaldy, Irving schoolmaster 
 in, 25; Carlyle schoolmaster 
 in. 35 
 
 Knox, John, ancestor of Jane 
 Welsh, 2, III, 202, 309, 319 
 
 Larkin, Henry, 250, 251-253, 
 265, 274, 275; quoted, 276, 277, 
 281, 285, 294 
 
 Leslie, Sir J., 12 
 
 Liverpool, Jane Welsh's ' Uncle 
 John' at, 5; her visit to, 22; 
 the Carlyles return from Lon- 
 don by coach to Liverpool, and 
 steamer thence to Annan, 128, 
 129; journey to London by 
 same route, 144; Mrs. Carlyle 
 hears at Liverpool of her 
 mother's death, 169; visits her 
 relations in, 181 
 
 Lockhart, John Gibson, 127 
 
 London, Carlyle's first visit to, 
 43, 45; second visit to, 120; 
 Mrs. Carlyle joins him, 125; 
 Carlyle's opinion of, 128; re- 
 solves to settle in, 141; arrival 
 at Cheyne Row, 144 
 
 Lothian, Marquis of, 270 
 
 Lowe, Robert, 212 
 
 Macaulay, 222 
 
 Mackenzie, Mr. A. K., 19 
 
 Macready, 183 
 
 Macready, Mrs., 222 
 
 Mainhill, Carlyle at, 37 
 
 Malvern, the Carlyles visit, 220 
 
 Martin, Miss, engaged to Edward 
 Irving, 25, 26, 27, 36 
 
 Martineau, Harriet, 156, 198 
 
 Masson, Prof., quoted, 106 
 
 Mathew, Father, Mrs. Carlyle's 
 meeting with, 175-177 
 
 Maurice, F. D., 149 
 
 Mazzini, 149, 183, 1S6, 187 (his 
 letter of counsel to Mrs. Car- 
 lyle), 197 (discussing Dante 
 with Dr. J. Carlyle), 222, 233 
 (his farewell words to Mrs. 
 Carlyle) 
 
 Mill, J. S., 128, 145, 148, 164 
 
 Milman, Dean, 298 
 
 Milnes, R. Monckton, see Lord 
 Houghton 
 
 Montagu, Basil, 153 
 
INDEX 
 
 Montagu, Mrs. Basil, ' the noble 
 lady,' 44, 61-64, 122, 126, 127, 
 129 
 
 Moore's melodies, 37 
 
 Mulock, Miss (Mrs. Craik), au- 
 thor oi John Halifax, 211 
 
 ' Nero,' Mrs. Carlyle's dog, 211, 
 212, 214, 250, 255, 259 
 
 Oliphant, Mrs., 272, 303; her 
 Life of Echuard Irving quoted, 
 II 
 
 Paulet, Mr., 182 
 
 Paulet, Mrs., 173, 174, 181, 186, 
 199 
 
 PenfiUan, 3, 4; ' Pen,' pet name 
 of Jane Welsh, 6 
 
 Pepoli, Count, 152, 163 
 
 Pepoli, Countess (Elizabeth Fer- 
 gus), 216, 269 
 
 Plattnauer, 182 
 
 Procter, B. W. (Barry Cornwall), 
 44. 99 
 
 QuAiN, Dr., 273, 297, 300 
 
 Ramsgate, Mrs. Carlyle's visit 
 
 to, 268 
 Renan quoted, 155 
 Rennie, George, 31, 32, 33, 34, 
 
 147, 150, 163, 260-262 (Mrs. 
 
 Carlyle's letter, telling how 
 
 she watched by his death-bed) 
 Ritchie, D. G., editor of Early 
 
 Letters of Jane Welsh Carlyle, 
 
 18, 19, 40, 306 
 Rousseau, 35. La Nouvelle 
 
 Ue'loise, 31, 32 
 Ruskin, J., 298 
 
 Russell, Dr., of Thornhill, i63 
 Ryde, Mrs Carlyle visits, 175 
 
 St. George's Hospital, 304 
 St. Leonards, 272, 284, 286, 287 
 Sandwich, Lady, 254, 269 
 Schiller, 35, 37; Carlyle's Z?y> ^/, 
 
 45 
 Scott, Thomas, Co>nmenta7-y on 
 the Bible, 99 
 
 WAL 
 
 Scott, Sir Walter, 90, 202 
 
 ' Shandy,' Jane Welsh's dog, 213, 
 214 
 
 Sherborne, 222 
 
 Scotsbrig, (near Ecclefechan), 
 Carlyle's parents settle at, 70, 
 72, 76, 77: Mrs. Carlyle nurs- 
 ing Carlyle's mother at, 229 
 
 Sinclair, Sir George, 264 
 
 Smith, John Stores, 173, 296, 299 
 
 Somner, George, partner of Dr. 
 Welsh, 3, 310 
 
 Spedding, James, 149, 207, 208 
 
 Spedding [elder brother of 
 James], 298 
 
 Spring Rice, Mr., 171 
 
 Stanley, Dean, 298 
 
 Stanleys, the, of Alderley, 259, 
 264 
 
 Sterling, Edward (of the Times), 
 
 175. 177. 195 
 Sterling, John, 148, 156, 157, 163, 
 
 166, 167, 168, 175, 201 
 Sterling, Mrs., 151, 152, 163 
 Stodart, Eliza, early friendship 
 
 with Jane Welsh, 19 
 
 Tait, William, bookseller in 
 
 Edinburgh, 318 
 Taylor, [Sir] Henry, 149, 233 
 Templand, home of Walter 
 Welsh, 4, 22, 65; Jane Welsh 
 and Carlyle married at, 87; be- 
 comes home of Mrs. Welsh, 
 83, 87; visits to, 103, 114, 115, 
 
 153- 165 
 Tennyson, 183, 219 
 Thackeray, 209, 210 
 Thirlwall, Bishop, 174 
 Tulloch, Principal, 303 
 Twisleton, Hon. Edward, 288 
 Tyndall, Prof., 301, 302, 303 
 
 Virgil, read by Jane Welsh as a 
 girl, 11; effect on her, 13 
 
 Wallace, William, Jane Welsh's 
 mother traced her pedigree to, 
 
 4 
 Walrond, Mrs., at school with 
 Jane Welsh, 19 
 
INDEX 
 
 329 
 
 WEL 
 
 Welsh family, see Appendix I., p. 
 
 309 
 Welsh, Ann, sister of Dr. Welsh, 
 
 202, 245 
 Welsh, Benjamin, brother of Dr. 
 
 Welsh, 4, 310 
 Welsh, Elizabeth, sister of Dr. 
 
 Welsh, 202 
 Welsh, Grace, wife of Dr. Welsh 
 
 and mother of Jane Welsh, 4; 
 
 her character, 5,15; references 
 
 to her, 67, 71, 74, 75, 76, 77, 
 
 83, 95, 114, 123, 134, 151, 152, 
 
 153. 155; death of, 168; her 
 
 grave, i6g, 270 
 Welsh, Grace, sister of Dr. 
 
 Welsh, 202 
 Welsh, Helen, daughter of John 
 
 Welsh of Liverpool, 163, 174, 
 
 193, 195, 206 
 Welsh, Jane (Aunt Jeannie), 
 
 youngest sister of Mrs. Welsh, 
 
 95. 226 
 Welsh, 'Jeannie,' daughter of 
 
 John Welsh of Liverpool, 170 
 
 Welsh, John, minister of Ayr, 
 married daughter of John 
 Knox, 2, III, 309 
 
 Welsh, John, name of lairds of 
 Craigenputtock, 2 
 
 Welsh, John, of PenfiUan, father 
 of Dr. Welsh, 3, 8 
 
 Welsh, Dr. John, father of Jane 
 Welsh, 3-5, 6; his death, 17, 
 311, 312; references to, 20, 8g, 
 225, 241; trees at Craigenput- 
 tock planted by, 136; Mrs. 
 Carlyle visits his grave, 203 
 
 Welsh, Robert, brother of Dr. 
 Welsh, 22, 37 
 
 Welsh, Walter, father of Mrs. 
 Welsh, 4, 6, 7, 65, 71, 77, 134 
 
 Welsh, Rev. Walter, cousin of 
 Mrs. Carlyle, minister of 
 Auchtertool, 188, 271 
 
 Woolner, Thomas (the sculptor), 
 28S 
 
 Wordsworth, 137 
 
%_ 
 
 -1 
 
 vii.l*