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Full text of "Life of Jane Welsh Carlyle"

- The Life of Jane Welsh Carlyle. 



By Mrs. Alexander Ireland. 




OPINIONS OF THE PBESS ON THE 



LIFE OF JANE WELSH CARLYLE. 




ER IRELAND. 



This life of Mrs. Cariyle is a sweet and sad story, told with all tenderness and 
sympathy. . . . The jrftiume contains some letters never before published, but, even 
without the^^oi-^jsi^evaluVble to every reader, if only for its subtle and withal 
sympathetic aijalylsis of character.' DAILY NEWS. 

a most welcome addition to the books which have to do with the life of 
Thomas Carlyle and of his wife Jane. . .^Ln this, the latest contribution to the 
elucidation of this melancholy 
added some most suggestive 
merits of Mrs. Ireland's boo! 
than in the intelligence 
already given in scat 
picture of the woman 
out the temper 




he annals of genius, Mrs. Ireland has 
stock previously available. . . . The 
the absolute freshness 
Eihe has brought t 
is JL cor_ _^ 

preservls through- 
ideal biographer. It has/apparently 



lible. . . . The 

of Jhe matten/X" 

tijlr the f aclfuV jT^J 

j\a life-lftfe/- ,/- 



never occurred to/her > play the partisan, or to don the robe of the advocate. 
She does not atteippj^to apportion blame between man and wife, but, speaking with 
the voice of sympathetic common sense, she tells the tale almost wholly in the words 
of those to whom it relates. Where she judges, she judges with wisdom, yet with 
charity.' STANDARD . 

' This work, it will be clear to all readers, has been a genuine labour of love ; 
yet Mrs. Ireland has resisted the temptation which must surely be present to 
everyone who takes pen in hand after studying Carlyle's own statements respecting 
his wife, and his laments for his past blindness as to her mental trials of indulging, 
even to a slight extent, in " gushing." Of this fault there is not a trace in the book, 
which is yet preserved from the opposite extreme by the vivacity of the writer, no 
less than by the nature of the subject.' YORKSHIRE POST. 

' Mrs. Ireland's book is no mere echo. It is a careful, earnest, and independent 
piece of literary work. . . . Mrs. Ireland has brought to her difficult and delicate 
task keen sympathy and womanly insight, combined with a strong desire to be 
impartial.' SCOTSMAN. 

' This is a sad book, yet intensely interesting ; perhaps the sadness rather adds 
to than detracts from the interest. . . . Mrs. Ireland has shown much power of 
selection in her treatment of the life. . . . Enough is given to light up the brilliant 
little figure, and no more. ... It is with a keen sympathy which seems to weigh on 
her own heart that Mrs. Ireland alludes to the long, weary years at lonely Craigen- 
puttock, that place so like a living grave to the sensitive, imaginative woman pining 
for larger life.' MANCHESTER EXAMINER. 

' It is an impartial book, in spite of Mrs. Ireland's profound sympathy with her 
heroine. . . . Mrs. Carlyle is drawn with all perfections, and with her many short- 
comings of temper, and intellectual breadth.' ECHO. 

'Mrs. Ireland's volume is the best balanced and most authoritative study of 
Mrs. Carlyle's life that has yet been published. . . . One cannot but be grateful to 
Mrs. Ireland for reducing the mountain' of Carlyle's ill-treatment of his wife to his 
neglect of " the small, sweet courtesies of life." . . . Mrs. Ireland writes brightly 
carefully, and sympathetically.' ACADEMY. 

' Mrs. Ireland's biography was worth writing, and is worth reading. It does no dis- 
credit to the honoured name she bears. ... It brings to the problem of the Carlyles 
the wise and gentle judgment of an experienced woman.' BRITISH WEEKLY. 

' A story full of intense human interest is told by Mrs. Alexander Ireland in her 
" Life of Jane Welsh Carlyle." Mrs. Ireland's straightforward narrative, unrelieved 
as it is by melodramatic and misleading verdicts, . . . ought to set the whole 
question of the characters of the ill-assorted pair at rest. . . . We are afforded a 
picture of Carlyle and his wife as they appear to a sympathetic but dispassionate 



OPINION OF THE PRESS continued. 



observer. Mrs. Ireland seems to put Carlyle's nature into a nutshell : " Eyes," she 
says, " which saw through the eternities, had strangely limited vision in the little 
spot of earth on which he moved ; 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." ' HOME NEWS. 

' Once again the pathetic story of Jane Welsh Carlyle's untiring devotion to her 
famous, but unsympathetic, husband has been brought before the world in the 
delightful volume by Mrs. Ireland, just published. We are offered certainly as inter- 
esting a psychological study as any that could be imagined.' WHITEHALL REVIEW. 

c In the " Life of Jane Welsh Carlyle," by Mrs. Ireland, there are numbers of pas- 
sages that throw a clear light upon the relationship of the sage and his spouse. . . . 
Mrs. Ireland gives, in a couple of sentences, a just discernment of the situation. 
. . . Many people will be grateful for this sensible presentation of the facts of the 
case, and for the skilful manner in which the salient incidents of a pathetic story are 
grouped in this gracefully written volume.' LEEDS MEKCUBY. 

' It is not often that the biographer puts before us a work like the present one. 
It is a study of character rather than a record of action, and offers matter for 
contemplation to the psychologist, and of sorrowful pondering over the problems of 
human life.' NEWCASTLE LEADEB. 

' The volume is deeply interesting ; Mrs. Ireland has done her work so well that 
the biography deserves to rank very highly in Carlyle literature.' MOBNING POST. 

'Like all good biographers, Mrs. Ireland makes the personages of her story 
speak for themselves whenever she can, and, unlike some, she never wearies her 
reader by dwelling too long on details. . . . We may confidently refer our readers to 
the book itself. It will kindle fresh interest in a brilliant and fascinating personality, 
and will earn the thanks of the multitude of readers whose sympathy had already 
been roused by the half- told tale of Mrs. Carlyle's life.' MANCHESTEB GUABDIAN. 

' The perusal of the " Life of Jane Welsh Carlyle," by Mrs. Alexander Ireland, 
does not leave a pleasanb impression of Carlyle on the mind of the reader. In this 
respect Mrs. Ireland may be said to have completed what Froude began, though, as 
far as her own share of the work is concerned, there is nothing but unstinted praise 
to be awarded : for its rigidly conscientious thoroughness, as well as for a charm of 
style which is due as much to the heart as to the head of the writer. For any 
curious student of humanity who wishes to know exactly what the domestic life of a 
modern philosopher is like, and how- he bears " the ills that flesh is heir to," no 
more interesting book than Mrs. Ireland's can be recommended.' LIVEBPOOL POST. 

' In her description of the unique courtship of Carlyle and Miss Welsh, Mrs. 
Ireland seems to us to do full justice to the beauty of Carlyle's character, and to 
soften greatly any judgment we might have as to Carlyle's later thoughtlessness in 
his companionship with his wife.' BBOOKLYN TIMES. 

' Mrs. Ireland has conferred a benefit on the reading world at large in writing 
and publishing the "Life of Jane Welsh Carlyle." Here we have the whole pathetic 
story of one of the most interesting women, if not the most interesting woman, of the 
nineteenth century. ... In this volume she stands a charming creation. . . . We 
gladly welcome this sympathetic history, told by a cultivated and gifted writer, of 
one of the most attractive personalities of her time.' THE NEWSMAN. 

' Mrs. Ireland has achieved a success of no ordinary distinction. In choosing to tell 
the story of Jane Welsh Carlyle, she took upon herself probably the most difficult task 
in all modern biography. . . . Mrs. Ireland's narration is a real achievement.' STAB. 

' This is a charming book. Mrs. Ireland writes with the grace and power of an 
accomplished litterateur, and with the enthusiasm of a hero-worshipper. Boswell 
himself could hardly have done better. . . . The book differs from most biographies in 
that it is thoroughly interesting, and well worth reading.' NEW OBLEAKS PICAYUNE. 

' The wedded life of this highly respectable, yet wofully mismated couple, has 
been the subject of so many books and essays, that Mrs. Alexander Ireland's volume, 
" Jane Welsh Carlyle," condensing most that is of value in other writings about the 
Carlyles, should be accepted with gratitude by those who are interested in the 
subject. It will specially interest women.' NEW YOBK HEBALD. 

Condon : CHATTO & WINDUS, 214 Piccadilly, W. 




JANE "WELSH CARLYLE 



LIFE OF 

JANE WELSH CARLYLE 

BY 

MRS ALEXANDER IRELAND 



1 All at once they leave you ; and you know them ' 

BROWNING'S Paracelsus 




WITH A PORTRAIT AND FACSIMILE LETTER 



SECOND EDITION 



CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY 
1891 




PRINTED BY 

SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE 
LONDON 



PR 




PREFACE 



1 HAVE 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 Tutoi 
of Jesus College, Oxford, for valuable aid. Through his cour- 
tesy 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 PREFACE 

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 
Eeview ' 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 l 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. IEELAND. 
May 1891. 



CONTENTS 

PART I 
GIRLHOOD 

CHAPTEE I 
A.D. 1801-1819 

PAGB 

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 Irving as private tutor Early signs of originality in the 
'only child' . 1 

CHAPTEK 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 Character- 
istics more plainly shown The loss of the father's influence 
Haddington felt to be dull Early lovers Power of language . 16 

CHAPTEE III 
A.D. 1821 

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 Kennie Miss 
Welsh's early impressions of Carlyle Literary ambitions and pro- 
jects Irving's engagement to Miss Isabella Martin Miss Welsh's 
hesitation in accepting Carlyle as a lover Miss Welsh's readings 
of Rousseau George Kennie's departure Visit of Carlyle to 
Haddington Possibilities 25 



Vlll 



CONTENTS 



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 mar- 
riage to Miss Martin Continuation of the Buller engagement 
Carlyle's wooing, and its results Stoical acceptance 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 



PAGE 



CHAPTER V 
A.D. 1825 

Carlyle in London Thoughts of marriage Difficulties Mrs. 
Montagu '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 independent 
spirit Exceptional position of affairs Miss Welsh's delicate 
health The proposal to farm Craigenputtock Final decision 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 attachment 



CHAPTER VI 
A.D. 1825 

Carlyle at Hoddam Hill Miss Welsh's transference of Craigenputtock 
to her mother Carlyle's personal appearance at this time Miss 
Welsh's beauty Letter from Mrs. Montagu to Miss Welsh Refer- 
ence 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 Imper- 
fect 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. Welsh 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 engagement 
with Carlyle Proposal to live at Scotsbrig The actual versus the 
ideal Miss Welsh's mind made up Carlyle's determination not to 
live in the house with Mrs. Welsh A daughter's devotion and 
appeal Kenunciation of the cherished wish The point yielded . 71 

CHAPTEE 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 impossibility 
of their son's bride living at Scotsbrig A new home to be cho.sen 
Impossible conditions Blindness of Carlyle to the actual situa- 
tion Trying uncertainty The idea of the home at Haddington as 
a residence for the newly-married pair Painful objections The 
idea abandoned Kecurring failure of plans And a dissimilarity 
in ideas The proposed cottage in Annandale 77 

CHAPTEE IX 
A.D. 1826 

The home at Haddington broken up Comely Bank furnished by Mrs. 
Welsh Immediate difficulty over Mrs. 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 mourn- 
ing for the occasion The 'three cigars' Good resolutions 
White gowns A post-chaise to Comely Bank 83 



PART II 
EARLY MAEEIED LIFE 

CHAPTEE 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 



x CONTENTS 

PAGE 

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 

CHAPTEB 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 103 

CHAPTEB 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 Perma- 
nently weakened health , . .110 

CHAPTEB XIII 

A.D. 1830-1831 

Alexander Carlyle leaves Craigenputtock Second visit of the Jeffreys 
to the Carlyles in their solitude Mrs. Carlyle confesses her un- 
happiness 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 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 pub- 
lishers Good appointment for Dr. John Carlyle Thoughts of 



CONTENTS xi 

PAGE 

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 determination to join her husband 
in London Encouragement .118 

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 return 
Solitary habits Kealisation of the actual by Mrs. Carlyle 
Jeffrey's anxiety about Mrs. Carlyle ...... 125 

CHAPTEE 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 deli- 
cate 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 London seriously contemplated 
Preparations 133 



PABT III 

LIFE IN LONDON 

CHAPTEE XVI 
A.D. 1834-1836 

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 Kennie and 
his sister Eliza Miles Burning of the MS. of Vol. I. of ' French 
Eevolution ' Wifely sympathy ' The Sterlings ' Sprinklings of 
foreigners Domestic difficulties Visit of Mrs. Welsh Maternal 
counsels from Scotsbrig Godefroi de Cavaignac .... 145 



Xll 



CONTENTS 



CHAPTEE XVII 
A.D. 1836-1840 

PAGE 

Retrospect on the Scotch journey Keturn 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 1 ' . .154 



CHAPTEE XVIII 
A.D. 1841-1846 

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 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 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 Liverpool and Seaforth (the Paulets) Visit 
to the Grange Painful thoughts ' Cromwell ' concluded . 



168 



CHAPTEE XIX 
A.D. 1846-1847 

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 dough's Poem Visit to W. B. Forster 
Again at Addiscombe Hopeless misunderstanding The healing 
of the wound rendered impossible 186 



CONTENTS xiii 

CHAPTER XX 
A.D. 1847-1849 

PAGB 

Return to Cheyne Row Renewed illness Bitter reflections Disap- 
pointmentConfidences 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 forgotten 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 ' Mathew Baillie ' 
Mrs. Carlyle 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 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 
resolutions 207 

CHAPTER XXII 
A.D. 1851-1853 

Carlyle's visit to the Marshalls Tennyson and his bride Disgust at 
the Exhibition of 1851 Visit to Mai vern Verdict thereon Miss 
Gulij's letter Mrs. Carlyle again at the Grange Repairs at 
Cheyrio 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 Discomforts 
Return to 5 Cheyne Row of Mrs. Carlyle Further ' earthquakings ' 
A second visit of Mrs. Carlyle to the Lady Ashburton Sleepless- 
ness Depression The old letter Carlyle's return Commence- 
ment 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 

PAQB 

Declining health of old Mrs. Carlyle of 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 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 portion of 
4 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. Larkin Cheyne Row once more Second marriage of Lord 
Ashburton 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. 1859-1860 

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, 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 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. Russell Bsti- 



CONTENTS xv 

PAGB 

mate 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 Ill- 
ness 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. Lajkin's account . 267 



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. Simmonds 
Ominous signs Death of Grace Welsh Decreasing strength 
of Mrs. Carlyle Passage from the ' Eeminiscences ' Unaidable 
pain Maggie Welsh The strange nurse Invitation to St. 
Leonards . . 278 



CHAPTER XXVIII 
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 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. Austin Removal of Mrs. Carlyle to Holm Hill 
Her dread of travelling home The return The worst over . 285 



CHAPTER XXIX 
A.D. 1864-1865 

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 Mis Jewsbury 294 



xvi CONTENTS 

CHAPTER XXX 

A.D. 1865-1866 

PAGB 

Carlyle offered the Lord Kectorship 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 Keflections 301 



APPENDIX 

I. THE WELSH ANCESTRY . . . . 
II. DR. JOHN WELSH 

III. THE DEATH OF DR. JOHN WELSH 

IV. MRS. CARLYLE AND DE QUINCEY 

V. CABLYLE'S ACCOUNT OF THE BAKING OF THE FIRST LOAF 

VI. VERSES BY MRS. CARLYLE 

VII. CARLYLE LOCALITIES IN EDINBURGH .... 

VIII. A REMEMBRANCE OF SUNNY BANK 

IX. LETTER TO MRS. CARLYLE FROM HER HUSBAND 

X. EXTRACT FROM A LETTER TO MR. CARLYLE ON HIS 

WIFE'S DEATH 321 

XI. CARLYLE AT THE GRAVE OF HIS WIFE . . . 323 



INDEX 325 




LIFE 

OF 

JANE WELSH CARLYLE 

PART I 
GIRLHOOD 

CHAPTER I 

A.D. 1801-1819 

Early days in Haddington The Welsh family Dr. John Welsh His mar- 
riage 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 adventure Edward Irving 
as private tutor Early signs of originality 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. Pos- 
sibly, however, it is of more frequent occurrence that those 
who are really remarkable, who are undoubtedly l 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 possibilities do not come, to blossoming, but, obeying 



2 GIRLHOOD 

an ironical 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 un- 
observant 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 
originality, 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 sympathisers, and narrowly 
escaped committing 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 CRAIGENPUTTOCK 3 

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 attending 
Tynron school. This girl-bride was the grandmother, in later 
days, of Jane Baillie Welsh, and her bridegroom was after- 
wards 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. 1 

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 
apprenticed 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 re- 
commended for a commission in the Perthshire Fencibles, 
a post which he held for two years. In 1798 he came 
to Haddington, and shortly thereafter joined Mr. George 
Somner, a surgeon in that town, in partnership. The practice 
was carried on very successfully, under the title of Sornner 
Welsh. Mr. Somner, however, died in June 1815, Dr. Welsh 
having previously assumed as a partner Mr. Thomas How den, 
a former apprentice of the firm. An annuity of 200L a year 
was paid by Dr. Welsh to his retired partner for some years, 

1 See Appendix, Note 1, on the Welsh Ancestry. 

P2 



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 
Craigenputtock before it should come to him by inheritance, 
paying off all encumbrances, with the intention of retiring to 
it himself, 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 
married 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, c 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, be- 
came 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 



THE DOCTOR AND HIS BRIDE 5 

hers and Walter's, another John Welsh, who went into busi- 
ness 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,OOOZ., 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 fighting 
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, 
perhaps, 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 character and 
his medical sagacity, which combined in the consistent and 
honourable man, faithful at all points, and universally esteemed. 
The home in Haddington was not only comfortable 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, in- 
flexible 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, 
1801, 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 
strikingly 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 extreme 
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 l watched with ceaseless care over this 
precious 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 
occasionally visited. Her ' little name ' of ' Pen ' meant 
' Penfillan Jeannie,' by which old Walter always called her. 
1 See Appendix, Note 2, on Dr. John Welsh. 



A PRECOCIOUS 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 
passionately refuse 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 pro- 
nouncing his c 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 ! ' (vary the scene). 
1 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 them- 
selves were invited or compelled to partake in the triumph.' 

Something of old Walter's nature was, undoubtedly, 
inherited 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, 
massive 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 certainly 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 became 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 
delinquent. 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 






EARLY 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 
difference of opinion on the subject at home. Mrs. Welsh 
opposed 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 Hadding- 
ton 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 draw- 
ing-room table. When opportunity offered, her small voice, 
from under the tablecover, broke silence with 'penna, a 
pen ; pennce, of a pen,' &c. And, amid the general amusement, 
she crept out, ran to her father, and repeated her simple 
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 
dispense 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 ball 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 c pas seul ; to 
it. She made signs of distress music ceased took counsel, and 
began again : again wrong, hopelessly, flatly impossible. Beau- 



10 



GIRLHOOD 



fciful little Jane, alone against the world, forsaken by the music, 
but not by her presence of mind, plucked up her little skirt, 
flung it over her head, and curtseying in that veiled manner, 
withdrew from the adventure, 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 
difficult evolutions to any harmony of existing accompani- 
ment, 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 over- 
powering, and she hated the thought of living in fear of him. 
On one occasion, 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 ledgo 
on the parapet, the crossing of which was an uncommonly 
dangerous feat, to which the boys now and then dared one 



MASTER AND PUPIL II 

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 disaster. 
Irving had been sent in 1810, by two learned professors, 
to teach school in Haddington. Fresh from collegiate 
honours, 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 recognised 
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 4 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 hand- 
some, 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 winning ; he 
was, indeed, singularly attractive. Born in August 1792, he 
had been sent when yet almost a child to the University of 



12 



GIRLHOOD 



Edinburgh, and had done well ; but it early became necessary 
that he should be placed in some position of usefulness, 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 honours. 

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 
traditions, 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 
teaching 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 
occasion, 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 pessima' a terrible blow to the small offender, 
no doubt, but more painful 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 
concentration. 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 ankles 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 13 

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 ' Yirgil ' 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- 
nary 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 * Yirgil ' 
should end. With her dresses, which were many and sumptuous, 
her four-posted bed, a faggot or two of cedar allumettes, a few 
sticks of cinnamon and a nutmeg, I, non ignara futuri, 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 morte futura, kindled 
the pile, and stabbed herself with a penknife, by way of Tyrian 
sword. Then, however, in the moment of seeing my poor dolJ 



I 4 GIRLHOOD 

blaze up for, being stuffed with bran, she 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 everybody 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, repented 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 cannot 
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 
certain 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, 
perhaps, of poor 4 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 
commonplace 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. 



FAMILY PEACE DIFFICULT 15 

Mrs. Welsh was capricious and arbitrary, beautiful, impul- 
sive, and not overwise perhaps. Her father-in-law, John of 
Penfillan, is reported to have observed her ( in fifteen different 
humours in one evening ; ' though this was, probably, to some 
extent, mere satirical exaggeration. Still, there was, pre- 
sumably, 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, un- 
reasonable in some respects, though always of good and 
exemplary conduct. 

When Jeannie was a girl, the two strong wills must 
certainly 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. 



16 



GIRLHOOD 



CHAPTER II 

A.D. 1819-1821 

Strong attachment between the father and daughter The last talk Sud- 
den 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 
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 fresh- 
ness 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 Had- 
dington, 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 was, 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. 1 

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, possibly 
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 
instinct, 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 life, 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 
September 1819, and the home at Haddington broken and 
changed. 2 

1 Reminiscences, ii. 94. 

2 Appendix, Note 3, on Dr. John Welsh's Illness and Death. 



i8 



GIRLHOOD 



Before sorrow had been tasted, the lively girl had spoken 
laughingly of her ' paganism ; J 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 realised 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 1 
mistake not, you will still remember the bitterness of the first, 
above all others ; you will still be able to recall the feeling 
of disappointment and despair which you experienced when 
calamity 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 care- 
ful phrases. A much more natural expression of grief is 
found in the first of that most valuable collection of ' Early 
Letters of Jane Welsh Oarlyle,' edited by David G. Eitchie, 
Fellow and Tutor of Jesus College, Oxford. These letters, the 
bulk of which are addressed to Mr. Bitchie'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 characteristic. 



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 Walsh. The friendship included Mr. 
Bradfute, who is often named i Bradie ' in these letters, and 
has sundry kisses sent him in Jane's letters to Eliza, or her 
' Dear Bess/ or t Dear Angel Bessy,' as she often calls her 
friend. 

It is only since the publication of the f Early Letters ' 
that Mr. D. G. Eitchie has received information which 
clears up a point that was doubtful in Jane Welsh's earlier 
history. A correspondent Mr. A. K. Mackenzie, of Ravel- 
rig, 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. c Miss Hall's,' writes 
Mr. Mackenzie, l 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. Evidently Mrs. Welsh had been anxious that her 
brilliant daughter should have what was then termed a 
'finishing' an opportunity, namely, of acquiring certain 
feminine accomplishments and elegances not easily attain- 
able 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 
Stodart : ' 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, maj 
have occasionally gone ' to 22 George Square on Saturdays, 

c 2 



20 



GIRLHOOD 



and taken 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 probably 1817-18. No doubt those were happy 
days. Eliza Stodart, the recipient of Jane Welsh's early 
letters, was evidently 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 Haddington 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. c 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-improve- 
ment, but energetically studied Italian and French, always 
with the sense that it was something done in memory of her 
1 adored father,' and l 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 
trained were now priceless, and helped her to begin life with- 
out that father, whose life had such a hold upon her own. 
The mother and daughter continued for some time at Had- 
dington, able to live in comfort, even with elegance. After 
settling a small annuity on his widow, Dr. Welsh left every- 



DEVELOPMENT OF CHARACTER 21 

thing belonging to him to his daughter. Thus she was, in 
a moderate sense, an heiress, and the object of numberless 
matrimonial 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 weapons 
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, nntempered 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 tem- 
perament too finely strung for undisturbed normal physical 
well-being. She was fiery, quick, and keen. Her untried 
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- 



22 



GIRLHOOD 



sphere was to be subjugated, made to bend low to 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 c one of the 

most frank, unaffected young men I have seen/ And a year 
or two later she speaks of 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 : i " 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 
absence of some months, Mrs. Welsh and her daughter 
returned to their lonely home in Haddington. The restless 
spirit of Jane Welsh was sorely tried by this return to 
familiar things. 



EARLY DISSATISFACTIONS 23 

Well, my beloved cousin (she writes to Miss Stodart), here 
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 
get 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 finery. 

We quote this to illustrate the character which, at twenty 
years old, could describe the scenes of her childhood as c 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 l with 
his arm under his hat,' and, desperately correcting himself, 
* with his head under his arm ; ' the lively girl's comment 
being, ' it was of very little consequence where his head was ! ' 
This ill-starred suitor found that even two waistcoatSj 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 the fortiter 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 choked ; 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. 1821 

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 Kennie Miss Welsh's early 
impressions of Carlyle Literary ambitions and projects Irving's en- 
gagement to Miss Isabella Martin Miss Welsh's hesitation in accepting 
Carlyle as a lover Miss Welsh's readings of Kousseau George Kennie's 
departure Visit of Carlyle to Haddington Possibilities. 

BUT to return to Jane Welsh. It was late in the month 
of May 1821 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 Rev. John Martin, minister of the Established Church in 
Kirkcaldy, where Irving had taken an appointment as school- 
master 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 appreciation. 

But let us consider the real position of these three people 



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 recognised 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 c 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 27 

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 affection 
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 
1821, and he knew he was only looking at the roses in 



28 GIRLHOOD 

another 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. 



FATE'S GOLDEN HOUR 29 

Truly they were three remarkable personalities who met 
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 
intellects, the three who knew each other so little, and them- 
selves so infinitely less, spent their first hours together. l 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 : c 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 happiness ? 

Later on, he was undeceived on one point at least he knew 
from her own pen that she had loved Irving { passionately,' 
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 bears a sacred tenderness in it, and has no real kinship 



30 GIRLHOOD 

with voluntary untruth or misleading. Jane Welsh, sternly 
honourable, 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, t Oh ! we were all in love with him ! ' It may 
have been so ; but from the documentary evidence in exist- 
ence we are forced to believe that in the case of Jane 
Welsh it was 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 not 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 compa- 
nionship 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 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 c bits 



INFLUENCE OF ROUSSEAU 31 

of writing to and from ; ' and when she visited the Brad- 
fute 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 
admit 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, friend- 
ship, 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 both), and to no man will 
she give her heart and pretty hand, who bears to these no resem- 
blance. George Rennie ! James Aitken ! Robert Macturk ! 
James Baird ! Robby Angus ! Lord ! O Lord ! Where is 
the St. Preux ? Where is the Wolmar ? 

We admire the na/iveie with which Jane Welsh tells her 
c Angel Bessy,' commenting on Rousseau's heroine, Julie 
Etange, that she, Jane Welsh, i does not wish to countenance 
such irregularities among her female acquaintances/ but 
qualifies this gentle condemnation by the admission that, 
4 were any individual of them to meet with such a man, 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 maids 



32 GIRLHOOD 

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 honour. But then ah ! these buts . . . 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 we 
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 : ' 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 sometimes 
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 



THE IDEAL AND THE REAL 33 

unwonted 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 Kennie seem rather 
intended to mislead than to 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. Bennie'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 Kemonstrances Irving goes to London He 
introduces Carlyle to the Bullers The tutorship More intimate corre- 
spondence between Carlyle and Miss Welsh Friendship the footing pre- 
scribed 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 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 Bennie was on the high seas, and Miss Welsh busy 
with her German studies, laughingly considering some lite- 
rary 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, l 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 mode- 
rate 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 : l 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 

i> 2 



gallantry. Friendship, the beautiful girl maintained, was the 
only footing possible between them. And Carlyle acquiesced, 
without a suspicion. It was, perhaps, not difficult 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 abiding. 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, fas- 
tidious 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 f 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 practising 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 GIRLHOOD 

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 c Hell, 9 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. f My heart,' 
he said, * is too old by almost half a score of years 9 (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 : 1 1 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 



RESTLESSNESS AND GERMAN STUDY 39 

to be forgiven ; 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 
proteges : 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 
4 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 stony 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 being 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 : c 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 01 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 genius, 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 qud non, 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 SYMPATHY SHARED 41 

' 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, Plato ! make a pudding. 5 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 December 
1824 he sent her a letter from Goethe to himself a copy in 
characters which she could read, as well as the original. This 
greatly pleased the ambitious young girl. 'As written to 
Carlyle himself, it is highly complimentary,' she writes to 
Miss Stodart, i 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 sym- 
pathetic 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 enthusiastic 
young girl ! What more perfect method could Carlyle's good 



42 GIRLHOOD 

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 Mr. Carlyle 

about the Peak of Teneriffe.' Benjamin B must have 

shown much patient perseverance, for it seems he subse- 
quently ' 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 
reasons which I have not room to explain. It is not Mr. 
Irving's fault this time ! ' Mr. Froude tells us how it had 
been intended 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. 



43 



CHAPTER V 

A.D. 1825 

Carlyle in London Thoughts of marriage Difficulties Mrs, Montagu 
' Barry Cornwall ' Allan Cunningham The breaking-off of the Buller 
engagement Irving's hospitality Serious reflections Consultations 
with Miss Welsh The idea of * living on a farm ' Miss Welsh's very 
different project Carlyle'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 Discussion 
Modest wants of Carlyle Miss Welsh demurs at the essential condi- 
tions, but still proffers friendship Carlyle's renewed professions of 
attachment. 

CARLYLE had sailed to London on June 5 of this same year, 
to continue his duties in the Buller family, and to see some- 
thing 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 l cares of bread ' without troubling him 
in any way, yet with strict attention to his simple but pro- 
nounced 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 c Reminiscences.' 

In a letter to Miss Welsh, dated a few days after his 
arrival, he sketches some of the people he has met ; notably, 



44 GIRLHOOD 

Mrs. Montagu, of whom his words are, possibly unintention- 
ally, disparaging. It was she whom Irving always called the 
6 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 himself 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 
visiting 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 ofbenest styled 
Irving, as having said on one occasion to his wife : i 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 c 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 not hard. 

An unexpected excursion to Paris followed this holiday ; 
after which 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 c pension ' 
or * 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 it ! ... 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 friendship 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 sympathised 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 any 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 him. 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 1 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. I feel, in general, that I have ordinary faculties in 
me, and an ordinary degree of diligence in using them, and that 



SERIOUS 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, I 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 degene- 
rate 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 I ... 

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 difficulties 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. 

E 



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 in love with you ; that is to say, my love for you is not 
a passion which overclouds my judgment, and absorbs all my 
regard for myself and others. It is a simple, honest, serene 
affection, made up of admiration and sympathy, and better, per- 
haps, to found domestic enjoyment on than any other. In short, 
it is a love which influences, 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 everyone 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 certain livelihood to 
maintain me in the manner I have been used to live in ? any fixed 
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 J 

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 
np Carlyle, or to give up the hope of being his wife. It 

E 2 



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 
4 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 powers 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. T 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 irretrievably 
connected with mine. Believe me, I am not hurt or angry. I 
merely wished to know. It was only in brief moments of en- 
thusiasm 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 him 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 nappy, 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 
circumstances. 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 on 



54 



GIRLHOOD 



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 affection, to mine, and let us try if, 
by neglecting what 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 generous spirit. But your pur- 
poses and feelings are not such. Perhaps it is happier for you 
that they are not. . . . 

I have thought of these things till my brain was like to crack. 
1 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, gathering to a climax in each of his 
wonderful 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 sought 






A BAFFLING NATURE 55 

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 willingness 
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 deso- 



56 GIRLHOOD 

lation 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 
chilling 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 mode- 
rate, 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 un- 
tried 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 delibe- 
rately 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 fulfiment 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 yourself ; 



DEBATEABLE GROUND 57 

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 had 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 affection for you increases. Not many months ago I 
would have said it was impossible 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 to- 
wards 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 at 



58 GIRLHOOD 

times. He acted with simple loyalty and directness, follow- 
ing as best he could all Miss Welsh's tortuous reasonings, and 
arguments pro and con, and marking her one determination, 
which was not to be set free, at any cost. 

' Were you to will it,' she writes to him, l 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 your 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 hearken 
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 persis- 
tently attracted to the man of genius, through whose medium 



THE MYSTERY 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 
much 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 ol action can be 
drawn forth. And these two were both noble natures. 



60 GIRLHOOD 



CHAPTER VI 
A.D. 1825 

Carlyle at Hoddam. Hill Miss Welsh's transference of Craigenputtock to 
her mother Carlyle's personal appearance at this time Miss Welsh's 
beauty Letter from Mrs. Montagu to Miss Welsh Eeference 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 Excit- 
ing correspondence Engagement of Miss Welsh and Thomas Carlyle 
Visits to Hoddam Hill and Mainhill Difficulties as to future residence 
Incompatibility between Carlyle and Mrs. Welsh Misgivings- 
Correspondence 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 61 

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 
lovej 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 machind, 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 WATERS STIRRED 63 

mentioned Edward Irving but with bitterness and mockery in 
speaking of him to Carlyle, might have made an ordinary 
man suspicions 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, a high-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 



6 4 



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. l 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 ? ' . . . 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, 

F 



66 



GIRLHOOD 



being afraid to proceed directly to Hoddam Hill, in case so sud- 
deii an apparition should throw the whole family into hysterics. 
Tf 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 
Thomas 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 farm work 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 CONSIDERATION 67 

and the peasant element and way of life we lead ; and was 
not afraid of it, but recognised, 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 sliared 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. 

F2 



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 1 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 
iourney hither agreeable, which was as devoid of 'Christian 
comfort ' as anything you can suppose. Never was poor damsel 
reduced to such c 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 Phcebe, 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. Yerily 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 recognised, the truth is less harmful than helpful 
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 f 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 engagement with 
Carlyle Proposal to live at Scotsbrig The actual versus the ideal- 
Miss Welsh's mind made up Carlyle's determination not to live in the 
house with Mrs. Welsh A daughter's devotion and appeal Renuncia- 
tion 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 



72 



GIRLHOOD 



to be yours. . . A change comes over the spirit of you 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 prospectu 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 
T 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, c 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 couleur 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 



DESPERATE FRANKNESS 73 

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 thonght of marrying this 
desperately plain-spoken lover : 

If (says he) my heart and my hand, with the barren and 
perplexed 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 feel- 
ing 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 circum- 
stances of this marriage. 

Carlyle, in the same letter, says: f These are hard 
sayings, my beloved child, but I cannot spare them.' They 
were indeed c 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 Welsh 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, c 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 honor his wishes. He 
forgot that, into whatever inhabited or uninhabited home he 
should enter, he would take with him, inevitably, that feverous, 
restless nature, that spirit ill-at-ease, storm-tossed, dissatisfied, 
wrestling ever with unseen foes, which would effectually 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 Edin- 
burgh, 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 daughter. 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 1 . . . 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 1 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 abund- 
ance at the bottom of her heart, would of necessity extend itself 
to him with whom I was become inseparably connected, 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 profess a 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. 



76 GIRLHOOD 

He 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 should bear 
rule in the house, and 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 im- 
perious 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. 



77 



CHAPTEB 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 impossibility of 
their son's bride living at Scotsbrig A new home to be chosen Im- 
possible conditions Blindness of Carlyle to the actual situation Try- 
ing 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 pro- 
posed 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 



78 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 our 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 tolerate each other, more probably to pity, and partially dislike 
each other. . . . The mere idea of such a visit argued too plainly 
that you knew nothing 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 79 

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. 
c To me/ he calmly wrote, i among the many weightier evils 
and blessings of existence, the evil of impertinent visitors 



8o 



GIRLHOOD 



and so forth seems but a small drop of tlie 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 reckoned 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 81 

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 chords 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 delightful 
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, c 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. 

a 



82 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 14:1. 
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 Providence 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 earnings 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 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. 

THE long-protracted afiair was at length arranged. The 
home at Haddington was broken up. Mrs. Welsh took a 
house in Edinburgh at Comely Bank and took her daughter 
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 daughter till 
near the date of the marriage, which was fixed for October. 
At that time Mrs. Welsh would remove to Templand, 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 
200L 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 situation, 
being within a few minutes' walk of the town, and at the same 

a 2 



8 4 



GIRLHOOD 



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 spreading 
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 laugh- 
ably 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 difficulties had been sur- 
mounted. He was to have his own c 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 appointed 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 3 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 ! c It came to him, ? he said, c 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 is poor (for that, it requires no great depth of sagacity to 
discover) ; and, in the next place, most likely indulge 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 to a 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 fall en 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 difficulties 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 c 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, c 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 c 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, c 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 i 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 afc 
that time in the history of betrothed pairs when, as a rule, 



EARNEST ASPIRATIONS 91 

every word is a caress ; and, to quote from < Sartor/ one might 
expect that the c world lay all harmonious before them, like 
some fair royal champaign the sovereign and owner of which 
were Love alone!' Here it was not all 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, aufewig, 

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. 9 

* Truly/ answered Carlyle, c 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. Carlyle 
started in a post-chaise for Comely Bank. Whether the three 
cigars were found necessary to render the situation tole- 
rable 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 



92 



GIRLHOOD 



looked for by either of them. Thomas Carlyle was possessed 
of a feverish soul that straggled perpetually with minor pro- 
blems 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 c 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 devotion. 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 un- 
derstood by Carlyle. And in all marriage the human element 
must ever be important, it cannot be overlooked. 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 them- 
selves. 

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 



A DOUBTFUL PROSPECT 93 

stern integrity' and uprightness of character, a degree of con- 
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. 






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, 
1 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 



96 



EARLY MARRIED LIFE 



had a home 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 him self- 
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 sleepless- 
ness, nervous, bilious, splenetic, and all the rest of it. 

The ' rest of it ' was, we fear, a very irritable disposition, 
which showed itself even in these 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 
c 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 sermon, 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 
beseems 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 light 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-for- 
gotten evenings of which we have heard from those few now 
surviving who were privileged to attend them. Brewster 
(afterwards Sir David Brewster), De Quincey, 1 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 hap- 
pier. Indeed I should be very stupid or very thankless if I 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 profitable 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, 

1 See Appendix IV. 



98 EARLY MARRIED LIFE 

though the gift was felt to be both kind and handsome. 
The 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 doctor 
(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 meditat- 
ing, 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 con- 
suming 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. 
1 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. 
1 Only, to some three or four chosen people we give notice 
that on Wednesday nights we shall always be at home, and 
glad if they will call and talk for two hours with no other 
entertainment 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 c a 



IMPROVED PROSPECTS 99 

letter of introduction to Jeffrey of the " Edinburgh Review." ' 
1 It was sent me/ he says, ' from Procter 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 Procter'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 c But then, 
you know, he is so clever ! ' 

A letter from Mrs. Carlyle 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/ 

H 2 



100 



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 f 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 : c 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, c 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 



IO2 



EARL Y MARRIED 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 might, have blossomed 
forth in the last years, had time been granted. The letter 
goes on : c 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 l 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. 



103 



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 Craigen- 
puttock 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 absorption 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 c 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 



104 



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 c 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 Oaigenputtock 
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. 



io6 



EARLY MARRIED LIFE 



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 hither 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 remote 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 c 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', liglit- 
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 107 

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 c 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, c 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 c 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, c 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 d 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 



ISOLATION 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 pass unnoticed by the outer world. In this case, how- 
ever, we are drawn inevitably to consider it. 



no EARLY MARRIED LIFE 



CHAPTER XII 

A.D. 1827-1829 

Cares of bread 'The first loaf Visit of the Jeffreys to Craigenputtock 
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 Temp- 
land Letter from the wife to the husband Visit of the Carlyles to 
Edinburgh 22 George Square Keturn to 'The Desert' Serious ill- 
ness of Mrs. Carlyle Visit of Mrs. Welsh Permanently weakened 
health. 

AMONG the sorest of Mrs. Carlyle's efforts at Craigenputtock 
was the difficulty 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 cha- 
racteristically, 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 one does it, that make one's doing 



HOME-MADE BREAD in 

noble or mean. I 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 of peat-bog, that 
had descended to me all the way down from John Welsh, the 
Covenanter who married a daughter of John Knox. That 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 very poor, and, further and worst, being an only 
child, and brought up to 'great prospects, 7 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 1 no capable servant choosing 
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 to 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 ! . . . .* 

1 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 im- 
munity from all household cares. Many a clergyman's wife, 
many a barrister's wife placidly darns the socks of her hus- 
band 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 
temperament. 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. 1 

An event much looked for was the promised visit of the 
Jeflreys to Craigenputtock, which took place in October of 
the same year, 1828. We can fancy the big carriage stand- 
ing 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 
made this flying journey, c 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 
1 See Appendix V. 



A TENDER SOLICITUDE 113 

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 
i 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 this 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 expose 
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 mission 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 requisites 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," 

I 



U4 EARLY MARRIED LIFE 

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 c 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 
needful because the servant, Grace Macdonald, had, in excite- 
ment 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 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 cot- 
tage to smoke his last pipe ; whether accompanied by Mrs. 
Carlyle or not is left unstated. He sometimes strolled in the 
plantations 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 



A WIFE'S YEARNINGS 115 

own people at Templand, but her heart was with her husband 
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 take 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. 



Ii6 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 c desert,' she was again con- 
tented. What best reconciles her to the return to the wilds, 
is that Carlyle always likes her best c 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 : c 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 
such silent martyrdom a glory, or could withhold her from 



WEARINESS 117 

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 t6 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 unvergleichliche 
schwarze Haa/r-locltej to quote Goethe's own words. He 
regretted that he could not send her a lock of his own in 
return. 



MARRIED LIFE 



CHAPTER XIII 

A.D. 1830-1831 

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 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 super- 
naturalCaution 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 determination 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 sha- 
dows 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 
garnished, 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 1831 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 



120 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: 
1 1 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 50Z. from 
Jeffrey to try the fate of ' Sartor ' in London. Mrs. Carlyle's 
verdict, f 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 11, 1831, 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, 




CARLYLE HOMESICK 12! 

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 
Dunscore 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 : c 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 you actually to faint all the way 
up ? Heaven forbid ! ' 




LEFT ALONE 123 

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 : C 0ne 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 : l 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 nagging 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. . . , 




125 



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 return Solitary habits 
Kealisation of the actual by Mrs. Carlyle Jeffrey's anxiety about Mrs. 
Carlyle. 

IT was on October 1, 1831, 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. 



126 EARLY 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 Jean Carlyle, she writes : 

I do not forget you in 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 know 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. 




AN INJUDICIOUS OFFER 127 

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 wilderness- 
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 c 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. Mon- 
tagu's unwise but kindly-meant interference in the Edward 
Irving affair. 

Evidently Mrs. Montagu, in her kindness of heart, find- 
ing 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 circumstances. 
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. Jane Welsh Carlyle a taker of 
money in this era of the " gigmen " nimmer und nimmer- 
melir ! ' 

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 
Fraser ; meetings with Allan Cunningham, Hogg (the Ettrick 
Shepherd), Gait, Lockhart, and others ; and by-and-by the 
Bullers came to town, and Charles Buller, Carlyle's former 



128 EARLY MARRIED LIFE 

pupil, a most brilliant and lovable young man, renewed inter- 
course with his gifted friend. It should have been a con- 
genial 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, 1831. 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 c 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 




RETURN TO THE DESERT 129 

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 Liverpool 
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 ' Keminiscences,' 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 

K 



130 



EARLY MARRIED LIFE 



same environment of stormy thought. What he did need, now 
and then, was a listener ; but as his style was the monologue, 
it hardly offered the attractions of what is called conversation, 
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 understanding 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 with- 
out 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 wicomfortable 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 
himself was vigorous working with a 'dock-spade' and 



THE BRIGHTER SIDE OF THE PICTURE 131 

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 manfully, 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 Oraigenputtock 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 
mortal could desire. Every fair morning we ride on horseback 



132 



EARLY MARRIED LIFE 



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, 
c 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 ! 



133 



CHAPTER XV 

A.D. 1832-1834 

Carlyle's letter to his mother Mrs. Carlyle's overstrained nenes and fail- 
ing 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 Meet- 
ing of Emerson and the Carlyles The relapse into solitude Living 
in London seriously contemplated 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 rue, constantly writing here, 
is but a dull one ; however, she seems to desire no other ; has 
in many things, pronounced the word entsagen, 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, i 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 
4 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 



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 devilry on this planet ? 
Alas, no ? She is sober enough now ; a long succession of bad 
days and sleepless nights have effectually tamed her. 0, 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 135 

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 
Edinburgh, and a small furnished house was found in Stock- 
bridge, 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 
maidservant 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, t 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. c 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 MARRIED LIFE 

viction that it is no longer good for me.' It was certainly no 
longer good for his wife it had never been good for her ; 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 : c One of the dullest, and poorest, and, on the whole, 
paltriest places for me.' Those last two words, c 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 : 
4 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 Craigenputtock, 
which Mrs. Carlyle terms c 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 pilgrimage 
was over and Mrs. Carlyle was again in her solitude, and 
found all well, save for the accidental burning of a planta- 
tion 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 Mrs. Carlyle's mind 
and health at this time. We can only give a brief extract ; 




VISIT OF RALPH WALDO EMERSON 137 

. . 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 f the solitariest, 
stranded, most helpless creature.' Distinctly, then, it was a 
solitude cu 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. 5 

Emerson's health had failed him in 1832, and conscientious 
scruples also led to his resigning his pastorate of the 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. c 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 



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 pri- 
vilege 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, c on 
a Sunday afternoon at the end of August, when a Dumfries 
carriage drove to the door, and there stepped out of it a young 
American, then unknown to fame, but whose influence 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 139 

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, c 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 ? ' she says. ' 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 l 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. Kemonstrating 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 c winter grimness and winter seclusion/ and says, 
4 nothing could exceed the violence of the December weather.' 

The year 1834 opened discouragingly. Jeffrey had 
written of late in a f 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 c 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- 



APATHY 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 demenage- 
ment. "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 : l 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 
4 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 143 

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 providing 
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 something for Mm 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 show such signs. Brought up in a family 
where demonstration and caresses were almost unknown, he 
was absolutely incapable of adding the vital ingredient 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 him to show these feelings, and thus his sensitive and 
highly-strung wife, who passionately longed for notice, with 



144 



EARLY MARRIED LIFE 



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. Carlyle as a measure favourable 
to her husband's literary prospects, and she believed in him 
with genuine wifely pride. It also promised some improve- 
ment 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 
Eow, 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 
luggage 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, multum jactatus, 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. 



PAI1T III 
LIFE IN LONDON 

CHAPTER XVI 

A.D. 1834-1836 

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 Kennie and his sister Eliza 
Miles Burning of the MS. of Vol. I. of French Eevolution '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 Kow, 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 Eevolution,' 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- 



I 4 6 



LIFE IN LONDON 



what to that deep, unquenchable love of Scotland and the 
old days, which lay so close to Mrs. Carlyle's heart. Mrs. 
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, 5 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 the 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, bright girl 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 mention 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, 
1 a brother and sister, the most intimate friends I ever had 



INHERITED TENDENCIES 147 

in East Lothian,' says Mrs. Carlyle. This must have been a 
redeeming circumstance ; for the brother was George Rennie, 
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 
atmosphere, causing clouds and convulsions, not to be done 
away with by the rapid opening up of social opportunities. 

Th0 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 K 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 
4 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 c Welsh ' in her 
character and disposition, and those who study the strange 
laws of heredity, may see more deeply into the matter than 

i 2 



148 



LIFE IN LONDON 



we ourselves can pretend to do. Certain it is that the 
did not smile propitiously on the pair at Cheyne Row. 

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 c 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 : i Oh ! 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 l with an old rejected lover,' 
whose attachment and thousands 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 more 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- 
tiqn of Mrs. Carlyle's correspondence, as addressed to John 
Sterling, is a singularly frank manifestation of one of her 



A WAKENING 149 

eminently womanly characteristics, betraying one of the in- 
tangible causes of her undoubted lack of happiness; we mean 
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 c a very self-subsisting, and, alas ! self-seeking me.' It 
was this craving which was more or less starved in her marriage, 
and which was at the root of much of the bitter railing, in 
which she undoubtedly indulged at times, against the seeming 
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, Bev. F. D. Maurice, James Spedding, and 
many others, with what Carlyle vaguely calls, c 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, described 
by Carlyle as ' A fine Bayard soul, with figure to correspond.' 
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 acquaintance 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 



LIFE IN LONDON 

Row occurs in a letter from Mrs. Carlyle to Miss Hunter of 
Edmonton. Here Mrs. Carlyle speaks of that ' valley of the 
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 Deum 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 



INCOMPATIBILITY OF TEMPER 151 

illness following immediately, ending in a short visit to her 
kind friends, the Sterlings (Mrs. Sterling's brother) : ' a 
perfect 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. 
According 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 instruc- 
tions 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 : c Quiet observation forces on me the 
conclusion 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 Ms 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 



I 5 2 



LIFE IN LONDON 



chafing at the inevitable. The servant-trouble constantly 
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 ourselves 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 tho 
pretty letter, half in her newly learned Italian, to her hus- 
band at Scotsbrig, beginning c 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, 
depending 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, reminding how soon the visit will be over, and he 
ends with : c 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 Journal 
on December 23 : c Be silent, be calm, at least not mad ; J 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 phrase to 



AN INTERESTING REPUBLICAN 153 

' wait on the Lord and be strong.' That was all very well, but 
the worldly prospect was pressingly discouraging, and as the 
true obstacle to literary success lay in Carlyle's own 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 which was offered him by his good friend 
Basil Montagu a situation which would have provided a sure 
and sufficient income, whilst allowing him ample time for his 
own literary labours was rejected as an injury. 

Thus the year 1836 found matters far from cheerful at 
5 Cheyne Eow. 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 
she 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 re- 
mained the victim of sleeplessness, cough, and headache, and 
after two months' trial, despairing of everything here below, 
she returned to Cheyne Bow 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 Bepublican 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 LIFE IN LONDON 



CHAPTER XVH 

A.D. 1836-1840 

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 1 ' 

THE journey to Scotland had been a mistake ; and no wonder. 
' Coelum 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 : c 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 obstructions.' 

Here the difficulty of Mrs. Carlyle's life is laid bare. It 
was not as two, but as one, 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 155 

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, c 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 J 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 insepar- 
able 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, c 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 recognised her trunk, c one of the most indubitable 
marks of genius,' she adds, f 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 really felt it when absence removed the inexorable 
difficulties of personal contact. 



156 LIFE IN LONDON 

In February 1837, writing to John Sterling, then in 
Bordeaux, Mrs. Carlyle strangely illustrates this. Apologis- 
ing for long silence, she says : f 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 
all Carlyle's supposed lady admirers from Harriet Martineau, 
who ' presents him with her ear-trumpet with a pretty 
blushing air of coquetry ' to other lesser lights and attrac- 
tions. 

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 c 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 CANARY'S PHILOSOPHY 157 

To the Rev. John Sterling, 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 philo- 
sophy 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 I 

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. 

Bird. 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, he that 



158 LIFE IN LONDON 

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 subsistence, 
not on my own faculties and exertions, but on the bounty of a fickle 
mistress, who starves me at one time and surfeits 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 ennui 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.' 1 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 ! 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 

1 Goethe's Wilhelm Meister. 




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 I 
But enough of this ; it shall never be told that I died the death 
of Jeiikin's hen. ' Chico, point defaiblesse I ' 

Watch. 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, c 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 



i6o 



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 absolute 
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, ' Levez-vous, 
monsieur ! Vous avez de grandes choses a faire ; ' ] 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 1 What would follow then ? 
Would the world stand still in consequence ? Would thy master 
1 St. Simon (he of 1825, n. b. !). 



A FAITHFUL COMPANION 161 

for such he is to all intents and purposes lie for ever in bed 
expecting thy ' Levez-vous ? ' 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 thinnest of thyself, thou couldst be done without. II riy a 
point de montre necessaire / 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 ! ' J. W. C, 

(Mrs. Carlyle had 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 ' sticking 
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 un- 

M 



1 62 



LIFE IN LONDON 



shaken 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 dot 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 Kennie 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 connected, 
for her, with that book. 

And now the good, gentle John Sterling was ordered oft 
to Italy for his health, and came to take his leave. We note 

M 2 



1 64 



LIFE IN 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 not 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 
tor 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 



WHY WOMEN MARRY 165 

hazarded the idea that she, too, was a genius as well as her 
husband. She had charmed noisy neighbours 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, inconsequence of these jury-summonses,' and 



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 nead as one who has been making a failed 
attempt at suicide. . . . 

The next special burden reported as dragging down Mrs. 
Carlyle's weakened 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 l reading voraciously in prepara- 
tion for his c 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 : e 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 c Lion's Wife, 5 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. 



168 LIFE IN LONDON 



CHAPTER XVHI 

A.D. 1841-1846 

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 
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 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 incomprise 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: l 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 February 26, 1842, that Mrs. Welsh breathed 
her last, c 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 Eow, 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 : 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 ? travelling 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, 



1 7 o 



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 
blessing 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 Carlyle was 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 Eectory, 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 171 

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. l 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 : c 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. 0.' 

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 expressing 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 c 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 



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 recognise the good 



THE TRIPLE ALLIANCE 173 

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 i 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 



174 



LIFE IN LONDON 



as much as her husband did from the smell of paint, ingeni- 
ously fitted up c 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. 5 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 must have ! ' and it was not always feasible. 
Writing to her Uncle John in Liverpool on July 18 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 sea-side lodging at Formby, near Sea- 
forth, where the Paulets lived ; but the plan came to nothing. 
So Mrs. Carlyle remained at Cheyne Kow, 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 Bow began to look 



FATHER MATHEW 175 

clean and pretty. < Thanks,' she writes to Carlyle, 'for 
your constant little letters ; when you come 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 Commercial 
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 un- 
imaginable 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 cockney land which had not plenty 
of scoffers hanging on its outskirts. The crowd was all in front 
of a narrow scaffolding, from which an American captain was 



1 76 



LIFE IN LONDON 



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 representations I ever saw, melted into one, could 
not have given me such 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. c 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 perhaps to come again in all his life ; and there 
would be a man lost ! ' 



INTERVIEW WITH FATHER MATHEW 177 

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 excep ted), 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 remem- 
brance 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 1 And all this in tears and in 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 wenb 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, this is agony ! " 

H 



171 

and she ends her letter by subscribing herself ' bug-bitten, 
bedevilled, and out of my latitude.' 

On August 13 she has safely returned to Cheyne Kow, 
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 Gamier, 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 179 

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 disenchanted 
in his new library, and informed heaven and earth in a peremp- 
tory 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 

N 2 



i8o 



LIFE IN LONDON 



rubbed for many days ! ' just when I was beginning to lead the 
dreaming, reading, dawdling 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 philosopher 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,' 



SUFFERINGS AND PAINFUL MEMORIES 181 

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 produc- 
tion of Ms ' 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 neighbour- 
hood. 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 c eyes were holden ! ' 
c 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 : i My progress 
in " Cromwell " is frightful. ... A thousand times have I 
regretted that this task was ever taken up. ... I am often- 
est 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. With a not unnatural womanly wilfulness, 
Mrs. Carlyle wished her husband to miss her presence at 
Cheyne Kow, 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 11 found her at Seaforth House, with the Paulets, 



182 



LIFE IN LONDON 



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, while 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 joy- 
less 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 com- 
monplace order of things around her, complains of 'the 
eternal smell of roast meat ' in that hospitable household, 
and comforts herself in her misery by the reflection that 
perhaps ' others are more to be pitied, that they are not mise- 
rable.' ' Somehow J, " as one solitary individual," would 
rather remain in hell the hell I make for myself with my 
restless digging 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 do ? ' Could Carlyle or any other have helped her ma- 
terially? We think not. Perhaps 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.' 



WOMANLY ANGER AND REPENTANCE 183 

Carlyle was now himself coming North his wife returi*- 
ing to London. She had written him an angry letter about 
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 him 
again,' as she writes in a letter to a friend, c 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 Forster, with other distinguished coadjutors, 
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 c put down ' at Christmas. ' The calmness of a great 
despair ' overcame the anxious wife at these unholy barks. 
1 Oh, destiny accursed ! ' she says, ' what use of scrubbing and 
sorting ? All this availeth nothing so long as the dog sit- 
teth at the washerman's gate.' A skilful note put down the 
nuisance, and peace reigned once more. ' Thank God,' she 



i&4 LIFE IN LONDON 

writes, ' you still have quietude to return to.' The dog, set 
at large, ' behaved just like any other rational being.' 

On October 7, Mrs. Carlyle writes to her husband c 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 



A TANGLED SKEIN 185 

patience with me that you had resolved to write to me no 
more at all ? Had you gone to Addiscombe, and found no 
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, trusted 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.' 



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 Seaforth Birthday gift 
and gentle words Kenewed counsels Kenewed bitterness Lord 
Houghton's estimate of Lady Harriet Baring Contrasts Sad thoughts 
Clough's Poem Visit to W. E. Forster 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, 
4 with a mind all churned to froth,' and, after most painful 
scenes, had fled to the Paulets at Seaforth and failed to report 
her safe arrival. Carlyle wrote in alarm : ' My dear,' he said, 
1 1 hope it is only displeasure, or embarrassed estrangement 
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 nothing ! 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. 
4 Awake, arise, dear friend ! ' he writes. ' Beset by pain we 
must go on, with a sad smile and a practical encouragement 



AN HONORABLE COUNSELLOR 187 

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 Pro- 
vidence. 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. c Accept my little gift,' he writes, ' and kiss it as I 
have done.' The letter, with its enclosure, had been overlooked, 
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 wonder 
what love-letter was ever received with such thankfulness ? ' 
... 'Yes,' she continues, C 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 honorable 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 soul annihilated ? Can you think that this vanishing 



1 88 



LIFE IN LONDON 



for a time has made you less responsible to them ? Can you, 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 dreary 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 ; everything, 
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 



<KIRKCALDY HELEN* 189 

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, ' Kirk- 
caldy Helen,' had left the Carlyles, and the presence of *a 
temporary servant ' seems to have driven the little household 
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 shortcomings 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 might. 



190 



LIFE IN LONDON 



in consequence of his 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 even- 
ings 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: I think I have made up for it since /' And if Mrs. 
Carlyle had been an idolised only child, as she had been, 
she f made up for it ' in another way, and, in her acutely 
sensitive state, felt pain where no pain was intended, and 
bitterly resented that c 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 191 

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 
journals of Mrs. Carlyle, written during the twelve years of 
this largely imaginary, or at least avoidable, grievance. That 
the c 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 
began to feel as if, after all, it were not she who reaped the 
golden harvest of his rapidly growing success, but this 
brilliant and fashionable lady, whom she could not feel to be 
her superior intellectually, and who knew none of the dark, 
terrible, 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, lone- 
liness 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 crav- 
ing those little marks of tenderness so dear to woman, so 
outstripping 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 



192 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 
different with this eager, passionate-hearted wife ! He could 
not know it ; and she could not teach him. At one time, 
dyspeptic and preoccupied, he took to dining alone, hoping 
to avert digestive difficulties, 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 
itself, 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 cursum Ventus. 

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 193 

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, 

bounding breeze, 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 : c 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. 
1 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 difference ; and if every one would endeavour, 
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 happi- 
ness 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 ! . . t . 

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 Mattock, where W. E. Forster visited the 
Carlyles and shewed much kindness. Kesponding to his 
pressing wish, they spent a fortnight with him at Rawdon 
Hall, whence Carlyle departed for Scotsbrig. 

Lord Hough ton 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 h&r, and the long 
years up to 1857, when Lady Ashburton died, were among 



SILENCE NOT ALWAYS GOLDEN 195 

tlie 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 
frefc 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 c 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 effort 
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: 
1 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 very 
worst way of curing an evil, easier at the moment, possibly, 
but entailing untold complications later on. September, 
therefore, found Mrs. Carlyle at Cheyne Eow 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, 

o 2 



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 
Eow on October 1, 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 
from a distance, 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 he 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 
that her frequent ailing was treated as ' hypochondria,' and 
this was certainly an erroneous supposition, and galling to 
a high spirit. Ib 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 ! ' 



197 



CHAPTER XX 

A.D. 1847-1849 

Return to Cheyne Eow Renewed illness Bitter reflections Disappoint- 
ment 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'stour 

- in Ireland The forgotten 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 Hadding- 
ton 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 ' Manchester 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 
4 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- 



198 



LIFE IN LONDON 



ness were various and so potent, as to draw from the writer the 
half-jesting determination of suiciding herself. Inability, from 
illness, to go Netting 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 unmarried 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 that 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, &c. 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 nse 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, 
of 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 complimentary. 
Animal magnetism she calls ' a damnable sort of tempting 
of Providence,' from which she holds herself entirely aloof. 

'In January 1848,' says Mr. Froude, c 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 in- 
vitations 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, Alverstoke, 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. . . . 
Besides, 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 c 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, if you had been strong I would have 
told you how very weak and wretched J 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 ' deli- 
cate embarrassment ' of not wishing Miss Jewsbury's forth- 
coming novel to be dedicated to herself and Mrs. Paulet, ' not 
wishing,' 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 : c 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 
being left one evening alone, unexpectedly, at Addiscombe, 
she describes it as c like a morphia dream ' the first mention 
of a drug to which, in after days, we know she was forced to 
resort, 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 c take no hold ' on her, 
and that, ' being an only child,' she ' never wished to sew ! ' 

A change had taken place at Addiscornbe. 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. 1 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, 2 to accompany Lady 
Harriet, now Lady Ashburton, to Addiscombe, driving thither 
in an open carriage, and arriving, ' shivering with cold, ex- 
cessively 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 
herself, 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 

1 Carlyle had sailed from London on June 30, 1849, for Dublin on his 
Irish tour. 

2 The town-house of the Ashburtons. 



SHADOWS ON THE PATHWAY 201 

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. 

adieu ! My heart and head are very weary ; in all dispirit- 
ment I turn (as by old want) to you ! . . . This birthday 

1 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, 1 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 l 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 

1 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 
E-awdon, 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 f 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 c 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.' c 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, she 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 towards 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 VISIT 203 

old church there,' and the keeper of the keys was immediately 
fetched me. In my part of Stranger in search of the Picturesque, 
I 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 booliii' 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 l 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, Dodds'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 ; 

1 Her father's. 



204 



LIFE IN LONDON 



the very puddles made by the last rain I felt to have stepped 
over before. But where were all 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 bttok ; 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 into 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 



A WELCOME OF TEARS 205 

living being, male or female, to be seen in it except when I rang 
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 c only asleep, and not dead ' 
1 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, 5 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. 



2C6 



LIFE IN LONDON 



The holiday had been unfavourable in many ways, and 
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 Greenheys, Manchester, before 
her actual return to Chelsea, and there would be much un- 
burdening of 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.' 



207 



CHAPTER XXI 

A.D. 1849-1851 

Introduction to James Anthony Froude Arthur Clough Spedding 
Fronde'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 
How Failing strength of Mrs. Carlyle Sad thoughts Fruitless regrets 
and good resolutions. 

THE month, of June 1849 had been marked by a very impor- 
tant 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 acquaintance 
which was so soon to c enter the region, and take the place, 
with the things that cannot die.' The first introduction 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 brilliant 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), i tall, upright, beard- 
less, the eyes, which became lighter with age, of a deep 
violet, with fire burning at the bottom of them, 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 



208 



LIFE IN LONDON 



thought I had never seen a more interesting-looking woman. 
Her hair was raven black, her eyes dark, soft, sad, with 
dangerous 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 : 
c 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 unmixed satisfaction; for along with my pleasure 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. Aitken, Dumfries. 

5 Cheyne Kow : 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 a harbour for 
them J 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 longer 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 



210 



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 difficult to write a circular to one ! 

. . . For me, I am really better ; though I may say, in pass- 
sing, 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. 1 

In this letter Mrs. Carlyle delineated herself truly when 
she said, c There is no change in me, so far as affection goes. 
. . . But there are oilier 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 f Shall I go on, or 
no?' so simply written, but the fruit of such complicated 
difficulties in hnman 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. 

1 See ' Letters and Memorial,' Vol. II. Letter 117. 



SILENT PROTEST 211 

Carlyle'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 
vill 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, it would 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 l 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 
' N&ro,' who was an attached pet of Mrs. Carlyle's, and who 
lies buried in the garden at Cheyne Eow, after ten years of 
companionship, such as dogs sometimes know how to give. 

p 2 



212 



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. Eussell, 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 into a 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, Kobert 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 Grange, Alresford, Hants. 

5 Cheyne Kow, Chelsea : Tuesday, Jan. 29, 1850 
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, 
1 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 Durnm. 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. Columbine said she 
saw them through the blind, and they seemed nice people. 

Wednesday. 

I left off, last night, dear master, to be washed. This morning 
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.' 



214 



LIFE IN LONDON 



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, 1 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. 
f 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 intelligence, sof- 
tened 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. Eussell, of Thornhill, c a slip of the 
Templand 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 ivhom 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 " got on," in society which is the aim of so much female 
aspiration and effort.' Here, again, she speaks of Nero, and 

1 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. Eussell, but it was f 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 
suppose, served as a panacea and antidote, as it has caused 
revilings such as are showered upon it by this suffering lady. 
1 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 c 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 I 3 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. 

1 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 i6 LIFE IN LONDON 

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 
possible 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 
apparent 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 How) in my absence. You may be better with- 
out me as far as my company goes. I make, myself, no illusion 
on that head. . . . God knows how gladly I would be sweet- 
tempered, 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 217 

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 
4 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 



218 



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 ! ' 



219 



CHAPTER XXII 

A.D. 1851-1853 

Carlyle's visit to the Marshalls 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 Rotter- 
dam A serious undertaking Mrs. Carlyle visits Lady Ashburton 
Carlyle'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 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, 1 1 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- limes suspected c Nadir ' 
of his fortunes was felt to be in full force. He felt ' lonely, 
shut up,' silently prayed for work, 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 



220 



LIFE IN LONDON 



Mrs. 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 
disquietude, but the apprehension was presumably out of 
proportion to the actual injury. 

Early in 1851, the visit of a highly sentimental young 
lady, whose guardians desired to place her with the Carlyles, 
disturbed 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 l solitary 
system 9 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 Uni- 
tarian 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^ 221 

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 splendid, bad-tempered man 
have all his impulsive sayings and doings criticised, while worth- 
less humorous fellows, whose only business is to attend to the 
1 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 



222 



LIFE IN LONDON 



depressed by a 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, who 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, c 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. l 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, l 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, vid 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 office 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 c Jomini 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. 0., 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 for Rotterdam on a 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, c 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 c 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 Bow, her weary feet finding no 
rest. In September, she was again in her own chaos at No. 5, 
and straightway took regularly ill, l 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 fact, in such matters. That there are people 
who love the sound of the ' hurdy-gurdy ' at night 3 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.' Fact3 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 Eow 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, c 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 



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 pro- 
perty had again been legally transferred. 

Q 



226 



LIFE IN LONDON 



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, ThornUll. 

5 Cheyne Kow: 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 f 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- 
gtairs, and then another bang which I perceived was at the front 



TRANSIENT PEACE 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 1 ' 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. 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 us of a definition of the term ' amphibious,' occurring, 
we think, in one of Dickens's works as applied to a crea- 
ture which l 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 Kow 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 

Q 2 



228 LIFE IN LONDON 

all, the want of * sweet accord ' between the married pair ! 
' Oh Jeannie/ he wrote to her, c 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 
Elisabeth. 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. 1 

1 From Froude's History of Carlyle's Life in London, vol. ii. p. 131. 



229 



CHAPTER XXIII 

A.D. 1853-1856 

Declining health of old Mrs. Carlyle of 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.' 

AT this time the good old mother at Scotsbrig shewed 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 hycena,' 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 13, 1853, that Mrs. Carlyle 
speaks of this anxiety. c 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 



230 



LIFE IN 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 urvived 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 8, 
1854, he writes : ' The stroke has fallen, my dear old mother 
is gone from me ! ' There was yet time for a brief farewell. 



TRUE SYMPATHY 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 
c purple and fine linen ' of those in more opulent circum- 
stances than was she herself. Muddy boots and a soaked 
macintosh 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 was 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 



232 



LIFE IN LONDON 



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 husband, 
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 magni- 
ficent an allowance for anyone to calculate on she would 
suggest 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 ! 



FAREWELL TO MAZZINI 233 

In June 1849 Miss Fox ' steamed to Chelsea, and paid 
Mrs. Carlyle 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 must 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 I 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. 
4 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, was, 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 



LIFE 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. c . . . 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. 1. c 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 I ' 

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, Lord ! 
for I am weak. ... Lord, heal me, for my bones are vexed. 
My soul also is sore vexed but Thou, Lord ! how long ? " 

If the Journal was not a ' Miserere,' it was truly a ' De 
Profundis.' 



A BRILLIANT WOMAN 23$ 

August 1855 had witnessed a painful experiment. The 
Ashburtons, knowing how Carlyle needed rest, had again 
offered Addiscombe to him and Mrs. Carlyle, and thither 
they repaired. But it proved a failure, and Mrs. Carlyle 
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 Carlyles again at the Grange 
but the visit was a very unhappy one for Mrs. Carlyle 
sick and sad, she struggled on ! It was in the autumn of 
1855 that the Journal was begun from which such sad 
extracts have been given ; the Journal from which, after her 
death, Carlyle 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. Carlyle received it 
with roars of laughter and promptly complied with the 
modest demands made on him. ' Excellent,' he says, f my 
dear, clever Goody; thriftiest, wittiest and cleverest of 
women.' He did not feel the hidden bitterness of the whole 
thing. We give the c Budget ' l in full. 

Budget of a Femme Incomprise. 

I don't choose to speak again on the money question ! 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 ' I 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 c staving me off ' with loud words ; but you cannot say that of 
me (whatever else) cannot think it of me. At least, I am sure 
that I never 'asked for more' from you or anyone, not even 

1 From Fronde's History of Carlyle' s Life in London, 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 dreadfully 
anxious and unhappy about it, and quite desperate of making it 
do, since you are "asking for more." Make me understand 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 will 
not. I would sooner hang myself, though ' pestering you about 
money ' 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 




The beginning of my embarrassments, it will not surprise the 
Noble Lord to learn, since it has also been f the beginning of ' 
almost every human ill to himself, was the repairing of the house. 
There was a destruction, an irregularity, an incessant recurrence 
of small incidental expenses, during all that period, or two periods, 
through which I found myself in September gone a year, ten 
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 unpinched housekeeping 
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 expenses are, 
and to what they amount per annum. (Hear, hear ! and cries of 
4 Be brief !') 

1. We have a servant of 'higher grade ' than we ever ven- 



DOMESTIC ANALYSIS 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 for their living out of ours. Her regular meat dinner 
at one o'clock, regular allowance of butter, &c., adds at least 
three pounds a year to the year's bills. But she plagues us with 
no fits of illness nor of drunkenness, no warnings nor complain- 
ings. She does perfectly what she is paid and fed to do. I see 
houses not so well kept with ' cook,' ' housemaid,' and ' manser- 
vant ' (Question !). Anne is the last item I should vote for retrench- 
ing 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 shilling to turncock, and water 
carried at fourpence a week, there is a yearly difference of 19 shil- 
lings and four pence ; and betwixt gas all the year round and a 
few sixpenny boxes of lights in the winter the difference may be 
computed at fifteen shillings. 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, 
1 Every little mak's a mickle.' 

3. We are higher taxed. Within the last eighteen months 
there has been added to the Lighting, Pavement, and Improve- 
ment Bate ten shillings yearly, to the Poor Bate one pound, to 
the sewer rate ten shillings ; and now the doubled Income Tax 
makes a difference of 51. 16s. Sd. yearly, which sums, added 
together, amount to a difference of 77. 16s. 8d. yearly, on taxes 
which already amounted to 171. 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 31. 18s. 
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 LONDON 



be 21. 5s. 6c?. Coals, which had been for some years at 21s. per 
ton, cost this year 26s., last year 29s., bought judiciously, too. 
If I had had to pay 50s. 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 riz : composites a shilling a 
pound, instead of 10c?.; dips 8 pence, instead of 5d. or Qd. 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 2d. a pound dearer ; 
soap ditto ; potatoes, at the cheapest, a penny a pound, instead 
of three pounds for 2d. 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 5s. 2d. 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 you 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 : 




1. Rise on servant . . . 

2. Rise on light and water 

3. On taxes 

4. On provisions . . . 
6. Cessation of butter . 



7 16 



12 



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 thochtered all this well in my head, 
and indignation 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 1 

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 pinching 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 recollect 
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 crittur. 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' 151. was what 
shall I say ? flung to me. Far from leaving anything 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 words 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 uiish 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 coming to my assistance meant : whether it meant 151. 
without 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 501. 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 
c 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 parsi- 



240 LIFE IN LONDON 

mony about little things, somewhat less might do), I engaging 
my word of a gentlewoman to give back at the year's end what- 
ever 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 
291. 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 now. 
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. Continue 
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 51. Oh I know the meaning of that 51. 
quite well. Give me nothing neither money nor money's 
worth. I would have it so anyhow, and continue the 51. for 
the house. 

3. Ever since we came to London you have paid some 2,1., 
I guess, for butter, now become uneatable. Continue that 21. 
for the house ; and we have already ten pounds which you can't 
miss, not having been used to them. 

4. My allowance of 251. is a very liberal one ; has enabled 
me to spend freely for myself ; and I don't deny there is a plea- 
sure in that when there is no household crisis ; but with an 
appalling deficit in the house exchequer, it is not only no plea- 
sure but an impossibility. I can keep up my dignity and my 
wardrobe on a less sum on 151. a year. A silk dress, 'a splen- 
did dressing-gown,' ' a milliner's bonnet ' the less ; what signifies 
that at my age? Nothing. Besides, I have had so many 
1 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 



HOUSEHOLD DIFFICULTIES 241 

deduct 101. from my personal allowance ; and continue that for 
the house. 

But why not transfer it privately from my own purse to the 
house one, and ask only for 19Z. ? 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 go : 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 251., when I was 
cleverly making 151. do, and investing 101. 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 101. 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 151. 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 101. of arrears. 
You assisted me with 151., and I have assisted myself with 10L, 
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 I tell you this in the uwdevout imagination of being repaid. 
By all that's sacred for me the memory 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 my 101. then against 
the original arrears, with 151. in assistance from 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 ! 

R 



242 LIFE IN LONDON 

and Turn her out !) I say only * should need. 1 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 anything, and dearly I would like 
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 gauntlet 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 (^RumeursJ* Sensation) 
I say for example ; who spend not merely the additamental 
pounds I must make such pother about, but four times my whole 
income in the ball of 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 31. 14s. Qd. on one dressing-gown, and I with just 
two loaves and eighteen pence 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 was so to all appearance. That fiery heart, in 
its unseen fetters, could not always be amiable but like 
1 poor Brutus with himself at war, forgot the shews of love 
to other men/ 



243 



CHAPTER XXIV 

A.D. 1856-1858 

Position between Mrs. Carlyle and Lady Ashburton The Scotch journey 
Carlyle at ' The Gill 'Mrs. Carlyle at Auchtertool ' Seeking and find- 
ing' Sunny Bank Tender remembrances 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 CheyneRow Discouragement The kindness of Mr. 
Henry Larkin Another visit to Germany Mrs. Carlyle at Lann 
Hall Holm Hill Letters to Mr. Larkin Cheyne Eow 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 l strained relations ' between Mrs. 
Carlyle and Lady Ashburton. Intention 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 people's places, mentally, and 
from the heart that gift upon which so much of the deepest 
harmony of life depends. We 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 

B2 



244 LIFE IN 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 may be 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 begin, 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 2*5 

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 an d 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 husband, who was still at his sister's house, The Gill. 
The parting from Haddington was again a wrench. Mrs. 
Carlyle returned to her aunt's at ' Craigenvilla.' Many 
tender recollections of the Haddington visit appear in the 
letters to Carlyle. ' The people at Haddington,' she writes, 
4 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 t born in our 
own house, the darlings ! ' she says ; a good substitute for 
the disreputable c Chico ! ' 

On August 26, a letter from Mr. Carlyle, arriving at the 
same time with one from Aunt Ann, 1 who was on a visit 
in Dumfriesshire just at the moment of breakfast, caused 
quite a nutter, sufficient to make these excellent ladies 
forget to c ask the blessing.' Mrs. Carlyle was amused, 
and regretted to old c Betty J 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 l 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 

1 One of the surviving daughters of John Welsh of Penfillan (Grace, 
Elisabeth and Ann aunts, therefore, of Mrs. Carlyle). 



2 4 6 



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 
husband was with the Ashburtons at Kinloch, Luichart, 
Dingwall. 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 Eow, and dated October 10, 
1856. Again Mrs. Carlyle unburdens some of her heart-sad- 
ness 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 
different 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. 
4 The canaries/ writes Mrs. Carlyle in her letter to Mrs. 
Austin 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 c humans,' as the Americans say. 

But a great cause of suffering was about to be removed, 
and very unexpectedly. We quote from Carlyle. 1 He says : 
f 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 I.' 
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 endur- 
ance 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 
1 Letters and Memorials 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 
c 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 
summer.' So of these two women the * one had been taken 
and the other left' the 'mill to grind' being quite over- 
poweringly 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. c 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 dreadfully 
wearied ! . . . If you could fancy me in some part of the 
house out of sight, my absence would make little difference 
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 young Dr. Howden who livecl there now, 



THE LANGUAGE OF HYPERBOLE 249 

with his wife that f 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 
hyperbolical. She speaks of having to l 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, c 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 applied 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, beyond words 
to describe. 

A short visit to Craigenvilla was marked by a most 
appreciative 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 



250 LIFE IN LONDON 

the journey. The remembrance of her unfortunate journey 
northwards in July haunted her yet. It had been very 
bad, owing to an overcrowded 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 c Nero ' 
in his wife's absence ; he wished to be kind and to make 
things easy for her. Her approval of the opening of 
4 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 September 
Mrs. Carlyle returned, l and there was joy in Nero, and in 
the canaries, and in creatures more important.' But the 
c 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 c 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 
don't 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 
mention is made of Mr. Henry Larkin, who for the last three 



HENRY LARKIN 251 

years had been rendering the most valuable and devoted help to 
Carlyle in his ( Frederick ' and in many other literary matters. 
Carlyle appreciated the love-given services of this able young 
man. In a note in the ' Letters and Memorials ' he calls him 
1 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 
4 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 Ash- 
burtons, and improved in health. c I am quite comfortable, 
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 LONDON 

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 
honour him for the expression of his feeling, and stand to the 
belief that these two did love 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. c 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 
always 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 do so, 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 not '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 



&&~~ /?l^ Af&k 




2^4^, *}, 




~ *#</** <g#&*n* ~&*n4S 



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. ! 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 impatienc 
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 mercies 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 Wed- 
nesday, he says, ' if not sooner ' and ' twenty-four hours 
more and then ' j ' 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 pincushion I have to go home to ! ! 

Your's affectionately, 

JANE CARLYLE. 

An amusing incident is given by Mr. Larkin as to this 
home-corning 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 LIFE IN LONDON 

sharp look-out no Mrs. Carlyle appeared! So, in some 
anxiety, he returned home, and called next day air 5 Cheyne 
Kow to find her innocently wondering why he had not met 
her I c 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 of 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 
daughter of her kind doctor, she (Mrs. Carlyle), says : l 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 
Ashburton ; 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 original 
letter of congratulation to Miss Barnes, on the announce- 
ment of her approaching marriage. The letter is given here. 

To Miss Barnes, King's Road, Chelsea. 

Auchtertool House, Kirkcaldy : Aug. 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-minded- 
ness ! so a discreet woman (like me) will beware always of putting 
her sentiment (when she has any) in evidence will rather leave 



256 LIFE IN LONDON 

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 life 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 
battle has begun has, ever since I could reflect, struck me as 
somewhat 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 oc- 
casion which it is customary to celebrate only with rejoicings, and 
congratulations, 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 
taking 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 1 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 
henbane 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 
staying, 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 posi- 
tion 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 husband 
and wife they went afterwards to Auchtertool, as we have 
said, and Carlyle subsequently into Annandale, to his own 
people. 



LIFE IN LONDON 



CHAPTER XXV 

A.D. 1859-1860 

Life in Cheyne Row Mrs. Carlyle's return George Ronnie's death- 
Letters of Mrs. Carlyle on the subject to Mrs. Dinning of Belford, North- 
umberland 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 unne- 
cessarily 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 gene- 
rally 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 inclination 
took him but never bitter, never malignant always genial, 
the nerciest denunciations ending in a burst of laughter at his 
own exaggerations. Though I knew things were not altogether 
well, and her drawn, suffering face haunted me afterwards like a 
sort of ghost, I felt, for myself, that in him there could be no- 
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, toCarlyieat 
The Gill : ' With the recollection of the agonies of tiredness 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 without 
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 
dismay 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 
residence 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 pain of 
change.' This, in her own case, we think Mrs. Carlyle never did. 

There was a short visit to the Grange in January 1860. 
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 February 1, 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 my life, for shall I not, as long as I live, remember 
that poor little dog ? Oh, don't think me absurd, you, for 



260 



LIFE IN LONDON 



caring so much about a dog. Nobody but myself can have 
any idea what that little creature has been in my life. My 
inseparable companion during eleven years ; ever doing hia 
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, Northumberland. 

(Postmark. March 24, 1860.) 

32 York Terrace, Regent's Park : Friday 23rd (March, 1860) 

My dear ' Grace Rennie ' of 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 if you 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 261 

George your 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 him 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 
that 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 ,; arid 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, 
Northumberland. 

(Dated on envelope. March 31, 1860.) 

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 you 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 who 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 from you, 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 niece, 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 



264 



LIFE IN LONDON 



face, and soul to soul ' (as one's poetry book had it long ago. 
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 OARLYLE 

Little record marks the months of a spring and summer 
evidently felt to be most depressing. In August of this year, 
1860, 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 : c 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.' 

To 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 
brea,k the long journey by the rest, and Lady Stanley's great 



THE THREAD OF LIFE WEARS THIN 265 

kindness. Miss Jewsbury and Mr. Larkin, kind and sym- 
pathising friends, ' saw her off' at Euston on August 23, 1860. 
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. Eussell 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 two 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 



266 



LIFE IN LONDON 



smaller and more ordinary nature will calmly succeed without 
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 1860) 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. 



267 



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. Russell Estimate of men Miss 
Barnes' marriage Deaths of dear friends Folkestone Mrs. Carlyle 
accomplishes her visit to Holm Hill and Craigen villa 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 account. 

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 two exist- 
ing l helps/ a young and cheerful girl. The two maid-servants, 
respectively 19 and 17, kept up, says Mrs. Carlyle, an in- 
cessant 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 Florence. 
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 Carlyle 
could not do it ; every moment was claimed by ' Frederick.' 

The year 1860 had closed in extreme cold. Gifts of seal 
furs and soft Indian shawls failed to keep up Mrs. Carlyle's 



268 LIFE IN LONDON 

vitality. There is another sort of chill even harder to minister 
to. c 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 
substituted, but it was not favourable to Mrs. Carlyle's health. 
The accounts of this c 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 morning, 
and never going to sleep again these cocks but for minutes, 
and there are three steeple clocks that strike in succession, and 
there are doors and gates that slam, dogs that bark occasionally, 
and a saw-mill, and a mews, and, in short, everything you could 
wish not 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 PHASES 269 

(Mr. C.) alone for a few days, when I was afraid of falling seri- 
ously 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. Eussell 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. 
1 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 



270 



LIFE IN LONDON 



age, was the hardest to bear ' the most charming companion, 
and the warmest, loyallest friend,' writes Mrs. Carlyle to Mrs. 
Eussell 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 4 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 every way, 
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), c 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. 
1 It will calm down my mind,' she says, ' for once generally 
my mind needs no calming, being sunk in apathy.' In 



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 Auchtertool 
Manse, with her cousins, the Kev. Walter Welsh and his wife, 
and she did so, though f 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 Kow, 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 
saddened. Lord Ashburton was ill in Paris, under anxious 
circumstances. Lady Ashburton was alone to nurse him, and 
with news of her own mother's death arriving during her 
husband'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., 
1 and would knock me up ... She was past all human help, 
and past all sympathy,' she said. ' The poor, dear soul,' writes 



272 



LIFE IN LONDON 



Mrs. Carlyle, ' had drawn her pen through 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 Baling, 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 l 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 cala- 
mity 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 273 

thing during the three weeks we stayed ; being in constant pain, 
day and night. ... I 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 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 arid 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 of Cheapside 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 



274 



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 ! ; s 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. Fronde's account of this 
disaster. 



ALARMING CONSEQUENCES 275 

One evening (he says), after their return, Mrs. Carlyle had 
gone to call on a cousin at the post-office in 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 agitation. 
For herself, she could not move. She stopped at the door of Mr. 
Larkin, who lived in the adjoining house in Cheyne How, 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, ex- 
perienced 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 tome, showing the distracting want of perception, 
which sometimes characterised him a want of perception, not a 
want of feeling, for 110 one could have felt more tenderly. 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 always 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 look- 
ing at her, leaning on the mantel-piece. ' Jane,' he said presently, 
1 ye had better shut your mouth.' She tried to tell him that she 
could not. ' Jane,' he began again, ' yell 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 heartily as he, and to her, in her sore 
state of mind and body, such words had a flavour 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 

T2 



2 7 6 



LIFE IN LONDON 



disabled, crushed, made 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 go 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 adjoin- 
ing room. Carlyle was blind. Seven weeks after the accident he 
could write : 'She actually sleeps better, eats better, and is 
cheerf uller 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.' l 

We now give Mr. Henry Larkin's account of Mrs. Carlyle's 
accident. 2 

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, nd 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 ad 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 

1 From Vol. II. of Froude's Life in London,' p. 271-3. 
8 From ' A Ten Years' Reminiscence,' ' British Quarterly.' 



<A FRIEND IN NEED' 277 

opportunity 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 servant 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 j ' 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 sven 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.' 

Tor 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. 5 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 ! ' 



2 7 8 



LIFE IN LONDON 



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. Simmonds 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. 
6 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 



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 worsen, day after day, and month after month 
no end visible. It was some ten months now before I saw her sit 



SOLEMN ENGAGEMENTS 279 

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 discou- 
ragement. 

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. 
1 ' Letters and Memorials,' Letter 277. 



280 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. Simmonds. 1 

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 Chris- 
tians, 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. 

1 ' Letters and Memorials,' Letter 278. 



STRICKEN DOWN 281 

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 5 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 
perceived 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 in- 
vincible 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 suppose 
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 something 
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 principal 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. 



282 



LIFE IN LONDON 



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 continu- 
ally that ; hers, too, I could not doubt, though hint never came 
from her to that effect ; no hint or look, much less the smallest 
word at any time, by any accident. But I felt well enough how 
it was crushing down her existence, as it was crushing down my 
own, and the 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, perhaps, 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 im- 
possible, 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 out driv- 
ing and again out, hopefully for some time. Towards the end of 
November (perhaps it was in December), she caught some whiff 
of cold, which, for a day or two, we hoped would pass, as many 
such had done ; but, on the contrary, it begun to get worse, soon 
rapidly worse, and developed itself into that frightful universal 
'neuralgia' 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 
* remedies' and appliances, opiates, etc., etc., which every one 
of them (and there came many) applied anew, and always with 
the like result. 

Oh, what a sea of agony my darling was immersed in, 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 clearest 
intellect among us all ; but she dreaded that this, too, must give 
way. * Dear,' said she to me on two occasions, with such a look 
and tone as I shall never forget, ' promise 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 1 ' ' 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 
accident. < Such a deluge of intolerable pain, indescribable, 
unaidable 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 of the latter, in particular, 



284 



LIFE IN LONDON 



caused tlie invalid much agitation. This was an elderly French 
nursing sister, whose repeating of her regular devotions an- 
noyed 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 ad- 
monitions 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 ! 



285 



CHAPTER XXVIII 

A.D. 1864 

Mrs. Carlyle's resolution Mr. Larkin The terrible journey Maggie 
Welsh Carlyle at Chelsea Kegrets 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 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. Austin 
Removal of Mrs. Carlyle to Holm Hill Her dread of travelling home 
The return The worst ovt r. 

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 feet four inches, and she must have become a 
mere shadow. 

4 It was early in March,' says Carlyle in the ' Reminiscences J 
(perhaps March 2, 1864) * a cold-blowing, damp, and occa- 
sionally 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, practical management, 
steady resolution. . . . The invalid carriage was hideous to 



286 



LIFE IN LONDON 



look upon ; black, low, base-looking, 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 living 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 good-bye, deeply feeling 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, visiting 
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. Y. 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 
sorrow,' says Carlyle, ' with -no hope in it but of enduring 
well, was painfully visible.' 



WORDS 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 (Oc- 
tober 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 1 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 



z88 

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 : i 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, unfortu- 
nately, been taken on for an extra month, till the end of 
July ; but before the middle of July things became intoler- 
able. 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 



A FIXED PURPOSE 289 

somehow to me the saddest of speculations. Alas, darling, 
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 c much kindness and much state/ did sleep 
1 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 condition 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. c 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 

u 



290 LIFE IN LONDON 

humours had not arisen from real indifference. . . / Indif- 
ference between married people leads, we think, to very 
different 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 : l 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 
present 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 be- 
come 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 
profoundly disheartened. . . / 

September 6 : l . . . 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 ? ' 



DARKNESS BEFORE THE DAWN 291 

September 26 : f . . . 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 take 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 1, 1864), that Mrs. 
Carlyle returned to her home at 5 Oheyne 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, 
bat with her spirit as bright as ever brighter, perhaps,' 
says Mr. Froude. ' A faint , kind, timid smile was on her 




292 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 :'...! 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 1 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 denned as almost 
happy in comparison ! It was still loaded with infirmities, bodily 
weakness, sleeplessness, continual, or almost continual, pain, and 



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 i stripped of its finery/ 
c 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 
1 Reminiscences : ' The poor bodily department, too, I hoped 
was recovering ; and that there would remain to us a a sweet 
farewell " of sunshine, after such a day of rains and storms, 
that would still last a blessed while. , 



LIFE IN LONDON 



CHAPTER XXIX 

A.D. 1864-1865 

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 Kow The 'hereditary 
housemaid ' At Holm Hill once more Suffering health Erskine of 
Linlathen Home duties at Cheyne Kow 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 t TTY ) 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-knowledge 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. Eussell, 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 blue . . . 
and such a lovely and lovable hostess. . . . The insane horror 



LIFE IN LONDON 

I had conceived of the sea, all in one night, at St. Leonai 
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 f 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 c 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 297 

But to go back to June 1865. After severe and con- 
tinuous 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. Eussell 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 Hiddle- 
stone, was in the same train. 

On July 27, she again addressed her husband from 
Cheyne Eow. 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, Folke- 
stone, 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 : ' JBut I don't feel the stronger for all this sleep, nor 
more able to eat or to walk.' To Mrs. Eussell she writes, 
of Miss Bromley : ' She is adorably kind to me, . . . and in 
such an unconscious way.' 

It was disturbing 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 re- 
turned. 

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. Spedding of 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 omnibus 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 nervousness/ she says, c 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 
indomitable 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 shutting 
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. . . .' l 
This circumstance makes the snow-storm to be dated about 
January 8 and 9, 1866, and we here give the hitherto un- 
published letter to Miss Jewsbury, containing the allusion to 
it, and placed in our hands by Mr. John Stores Smith. 

5 Cheyne Kow, 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 me ! I want you every day and all, for I 
have no resource in myself at present, am indeed an unmitigated 
nuisance to myself, and for any comfort that lies in ' others ' 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, 7 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 

1 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. 



300 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 dinner 
at Forster's and the other at Dr. Quain's.' The ' old ' and ' cold ' 
are at the bottom of his 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 miss Miss Jewsbury 1 ' 
' Impossible ! ' I answered, for I had thought she had said, 
1 D'ye ken, mem, I met Miss Jewsbury ! ' She stared and said, 
' But it is the truth.' ' Perfectly impossible,' I repeated. * Miss 
Jewsbury 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 likes, fascinating 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 universal 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 
have hundreds of things to tell you. 

Affectionately yours, 

JANE CARLYLE. 



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 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 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. 



302 LIFE IN LONDON 

The anxious thought of Mrs. Carlyle suggested a last 
measure to ensure her husband's comfort, which mighty 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/ c 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 pride, were also in Edinburgh to wel- 
come him. 

Monday, April 2, was the day of the installation of the 
new Lord Kector. 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 Koyal Institution on April 16, 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 
Friday 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 IN LONDON 

Carlyle, and he was desired to go at once to St. George' 
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. Tt 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 koown 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 : 

1 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. The coachman went twice round 
the drive, by Marble Arch down to Stanhope Gate, along the 
Serpentine and round again. 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 gentleman 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 



PEACE 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 Oarlyle 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 telegram, 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, accom- 
panied 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 1 P.M. came the funeral . . . silent, small, only twelve old 
friends and two volunteers besides us there. Very beautiful and 

x 



306 



LIFE IN LONDON 



noble to me, and I laid her in the grave of her father, according 
to covenant of forty years back and all was ended. In the nave 
of the old Abbey Kirk, long a ruin, now being saved from 
further decay, with the skies looking down on her, there sleeps 
my little Jeannie, and the light of her face will never shine on 
me more ! 

We give here the epitaph composed by Carlyle, and en- 
graved on the tombstone of her father in the chancel of 
Haddington Church : 1 

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 common ; 
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 

1 The grave,' says Mr. D. G. Eitchie, ' is in the chancel.' 



LOOKING BACK 307 

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 
denunciations 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 fasci- 
nating 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 interwoven 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 jy 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, 

x 2 



308 



LIFE IN LONDON 



ceases to give pain, when we remember that it was there 
her heart hung so fondly, over her father's grave it was there 
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 
mystery what would have resulted from that tender and 
natural tie what blossoming of softer, sweeter manifesta- 
tions 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 Yelsche, Chaplain, 
Dumfries; John Velsche, Yicar of Dumfries; another 'John,' 
Vicar of Dunscore; Dean Robert Yelsche, of Tynron (1568), 
with Schir Galbert Yelsche, 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 



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 Collistoun : 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 
became the property of one of the numerous cousins of the main 
house. 1 



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. Fyffe 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 

1 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 Galloway 
Courier and Herald on January 9, 1889. 



DR. JOHN WELSH 311 

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 off 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- Colon el 
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 



3T2 



APPENDIX 



that solemn Sabbath morning when he died, which led her to 
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' tak' 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 a horse 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, c 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 aff it, an' laid her on 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 a gloom over the whole town and 
countryside.' l 



1 From Lieut. -Colonel Davidson's Memorials of a Long Life. 
burgh : David Douglas. 



Edin- 



IV. MRS. CARLYLE AND DE QUINCEY. 

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 severe 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 feeling 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 nob 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 nervous 
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 



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 
resided at Comely Bank, Edinburgh, after their marriage and 
before 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 ' Reminiscences,' 
nearly forty years after that memorable baking. According 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 her 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 315 

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 (plenty 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, 
graceful 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 j 
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, 

FeH here secure 1 

Ah, no ! thou need'st not gold, thou happy one! 
Thou know'st it not. Of all God's creatures, man 

Alone is poor 1 



APPENDIX 

What was it, then 1 Some mystic turn of thought, 
Caught under German eaves, and hither brought, 

Marring thine eye 

For the world's loveliness, 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 1 

The Desert 



VII. CARLYLE LOCALITIES IN EDINBURGH* 

March 15, 1881. 

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 

1 Scotsman, March 15, 1881, 



CARLYLE LOCALITIES 317 

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 Smail, 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 1814 and 
1818, to support himself here by 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). Yery 
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 



3i8 APPENDIX 

a bitterness of sorrow as I hardly recollect otherwise, 'and engaged 
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 Buller 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 



CARLYLE LOCALITIES 3*9 

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 follow- 
ing 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 tender recollec- 
tions 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 delightful being. 

* It was in the summer of 1857 that I had the pleasure of seeing 
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 ancestor 
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, 

1 From Chambers' Journal of 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 we. And 
believe me, ever yours affectionately, 

"JANE WELSH CARLYLE."' 



IX. LETTER TO MRS. CARLYLE FROM HER 
HUSBAND. 1 

THERE is in the possession of Mr. Robert Thomson, Thornhill, 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 
append the letter in extenso : 

Chelsea: (Tuesday) July 27, 1864. 

'Dearest, It was well they kept their Pharisaic Sabbath, 
and prevented 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 be 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 

1 From the Glasgow Herald, June 30, 1890. 



LETTER TO MRS. CARLYLE 321 

clifft. 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 throw what light on it he can. Darkness 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 viaticum 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. 3 

'T. C.' 



X. EXTRACT FROM A LETTER TO MR. CARLYLE 
WRITTEN SOME TIME AFTER HIS WIFE'S DEATHS 

(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 

1 Memorials 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 
peculiarly strangers to you. You have felt how few there 
if any, who could go down into the deep waters with you. 
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. 



323 



XI. GARLYLE AT THE GRAVE OF HIS WIFE. 1 

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, c 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, c 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 c 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 

1 San Francisco Bulletin. 



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. 1 

1 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 Carlyle'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 



AGR 

' AGKIPPINA,' name given in joke to 
Mrs. Carlyle by Lady Ashburton, 
214 

Aitken, Mrs., see Jean Carlyle 

Alfieri, 37 

Ashburton, the first Lady (Lady 
Harriet Baring, nee Montagu), 
171, 182, 184, 189-191 (character) ; 
193, 194, 195, 196, 197, 198, 214, 
223, 233, 235, 242, 243, 246, 247 
(death) 

Ashburton, the second Lady (nee 
Miss Stewart Mackenzie), 254, 
270, 271, 295 

Ashburton, Lord, 248, 271, 272 



B ADAMS, 122 

Baillie, Miss, became maternal 

grandmother of Jane Welsh, 4 
Baillie, Matthew, Gipsy ancestor of 

Jane Welsh, 88 
Baring, Lady Harriet, see Ashburton, 

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 account 

of Dr. Welsh's death, 311 
Brewster, Sir David, 97 
Bromley, Miss Davenport, 271, 288, 

291, 297 



CAB 

Bullers, Carlyle tutor to the, 35, 43, 
44; Charles Buller, 127, 318 ; Mrs. 
Buller, 146 ; Reginald Buller, 170, 
171 

Byron, 35, 41 



CAMPBELL, Thomas, 317 

Carlyle, Alexander, 45, 48, 60, 66, 

98, 101, 103, 107, 118 

Carlyle, James, senr., see Carlyle'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 Mazzini), 
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 Con- 
tents'); his Cromwell, 164, 166, 
181, 183, 187, 223 ; Frederick the 
Great, 223, 227, 231, 249, 250, 
254, 264, 267, 281, 282, 286, 295 ; 
French Revolution, 145, 148, 150, 
153, 156, 163 ; German Litera- 
ture, 1 lectures on, 156; Latter 
Day Pamphlets, 215; Life of 
Schiller, 45 ; Past and Present, 
177 5 Sartor Resartus, 91, 119, 12Q 



326 



INDEX 



CAB 



HOT! 



Carlyle's father, 66 ; death of, 128 
Carlyle's mother, 37, 66, 69, 97, 99, 

123, 229, 230 

Cavaignac, Godefroi, 149, 153 
Cellini, Benvenuto, 111, 314 
Cheyne Kow, Chelsea, the Carlyles 

settle at, 144 
Christison, Prof., 12 
Cicero, 37 

Clough, Arthur Hugh, 192, 207, 267 
Cobbett's Cottage Economy, 111 
Collins, Wilkie, 302 
Comely Bank, Edinburgh, 83, 95, 97 
Craigenputtock, home of the 
Welshes, 2, 310; 47, 49, 51, 61, 
100, 101, 103-106 (description of 
it), 111, 128, 129, 131, 141 ; re- 
visited by Mrs. Carlyle, 252 
Craik, Mrs., see Miss Muloch 
Cunningham, Allan, 44, 127, 145 
Cunningham, George, 34 



DANTE, 197 

Darwin, Erasmus, 163, 216 

Davidson, Lieat.-Col. David, his 

Memorials of a Long Life quoted, 

214, 311, 321 

Delane, J. T. (of the Times}, 212 
De Quincey, Thomas, 97 ; nursed by 

Mrs. Carlyle, 313 
Dickens, Charles, 174, 183, 211, 

302 ; his David Copperfield, 200 
Don Quixote, 114 
Donaldson, the Misses, 195, 201, 

245, 248, 265, 319 



EDINBUEGH, Jane Welsh at school 
in, 19 ; Carlyle's various residences 
in, 316-319 (Appendix vii.) 

Edinburgh Review, The, 137 

Edinburgh University, Carlyle 
elected Rector of, 301 

Emerson, Ralph Waldo, visits Car- 
lyle at Craigenputtock, 137-139, 
163 

Erskine, Thomas, of Linlathen, 185, 
222, 225, 232, 298, 302, 318 



FOLKESTONE, Mrs. Carlyle's visit 
to, 297 



Foreign Review, The, 137 

Forster, John, 165, 183, 195, 197, 
199, 211, 212, 288, 300, 302, 303, 
305 

Forster, W. E., 194, 200, 202 

Fox, Caroline, 232, 233 

Fraser, James (proprietor of the 
magazine), 127 

Froude, J. A., first introduction to 
Carlyle, 207; Carlyle's reference 
to, 278 ; his edition of the Letters 
and Memorials, 2 ; Mr. Froude 
quoted or referred to, 35, 36, 42, 
82, 85, 101, 105, 107, 116, 130, 
138, 142, 151, 167, 195, 242, 247, 
258, 272, 281, 289, 291, 298, 301, 
304. 

Fyffe, Dr., of Haddington, 39, 310 



GALT, John, 127 

Gamier, 178 

Gipsy ancestry of Mrs. Carlyle, 88, 
147, 174, 202 

Goethe, 35, 41,106, 117; Wilhelm 
Meister quoted, 158 

Gordon, Margaret (Lady Banner- 
man), 26 

Gully, Dr., 220 

(iully,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 Carlyles at, 
65, 66 

Hogg, James (the Ettrick Shep- 
herd), 127 

Hogg, James, writer of article on 
De Quincey in Harper's Magazine, 
quoted, 313, 314 

Holmes, 0. Wendell, quoted, 81 

Houghton, Lord (Monckton Milnes), 
171, 190, 212,247, 293, 301 






INDEX 



327 



HOW 

Howden, Thomas, partner of Dr. 

Welsh, 3, 4, 310, 312 
Howden, Dr. (Junior), 248, 310 
Humble (near Aberdour), the Car- 

lyles at, 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; introduces 
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; advises Carlyle to stand 
for professorship in London, 104 ; 
his ' blessing,' 115 ; Carlyle meets 
again in London, 122, 125, 126 ; 
makes his one call on the Carlyles 
at Cheyne Row, 146 ; referred 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 ceremony, 90 

Kirkcaldy, Irving schoolmaster in, 
25 ; Carlyle schoolmaster in, 35 

Knox, John, ancestor of Jane Welsh, 
2, 111, 202, 309, 319 



LARKIN, Henry, 250, 251-253, 265, 
274, 275; quoted, 276, 277, 281, 
285, 294 



NER 

Leslie, Sir J., 12 

Liverpool, Jane Welsh's ' Uncle 
John ' at, 5 ; her visit to, 22 ; the 
Carlyles return from London by 
coach to Liverpool, and steamer 
thence to Annan, 128, 129 ; 
journey to London by same route, 
144 ; Mrs. Carlyle hears at Liver- 
pool 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 ; resolves to settle in, 141 ; 
arrival at Cheyne How, 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, 186, 187 (his 

letter of counsel to Mrs. Carlyle), 

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 
Montagu, Mrs. Basil, ' the noble 

lady,' 44, 61-64, 122, 126, 127, 

129 

Moore's melodies, 37 
Mulock, Miss (Mrs. Craik), author 

of Jolin Halifax, 211 



' NERO,' Mrs. Carlyle's dog, 211, 
212, 214, 250, 255, 259 



328 



INDEX 



OLI 

OLIPHANT, Mrs., 272, 303 ; her Life 
of Edward Irving quoted, 11 



PAULET, Mr., 182 

Paulet, Mrs., 173, 174, 181, 186, 199 

Penfillan, 3, 4 ; Pen,' pet name of 

Jane Welsh, 6 
Pepoli, Count, 152, 163 
Pepoli, Count ess (Elizabeth Fergus), 

216, 269 
Plattnauer, 182 
Procter, B. W. (Barry Cornwall), 

44,99 



QUAIN, Dr., 273, 297, 300 



EAMSGATE, Mrs. Carlyle's visit to, 

268 

Eenan quoted, 155 
Rennie, George, 31, 32, 33, 34. 147, 

150, 163, 260-262 (Mrs. Cai yl^'s 

letter, telling how she wa:ch;d 

by his death-bed) 
Ritchie, D. G., editor of Early 

letters of Jane Welsh Carlyle, 18, 

19, 40, 306 
Rousseau, 35 ; La Nouvelle Heloise, 

31, 32 

Ruskin, J., 298 
Russell, Dr., of Thornhill, 168 
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 Life of, 45 
Scotsbrig (near Ecclefechan), Car- 
lyle's parents settle at, 70, 72, 76, 
77 : Mrs. Carlyle nursing Carlyle's 
mother at, 229 
Scott, Thomas, Commentary on the 

Bible, 99 

Scott, Sir Walter, 90, 202 
' Shandy,' Jane Welsh's dog, 213, 214 
Sherborne, 222 
Sinclair, Sir George, 264 
Smith, John Stores, 173, 296, 2M 
Somner, George, partner of Dr. 
Welsh, 3, 310 



WEL 

Spedding, James, 149, 207, 208 
Spedding [elder brother of James], 

298 

Spring Rice, Mr., 171 
Stanley, Dean, 298 
Stanleys, the, of Alderley, 259, 2(54 
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 Edin- 
burgh, 318 

Taylor, [Sir] Henry, 149, 233 
Templand, home of Walter Welsh, 
4, 22, 65; Jane Welsh and 
Carlyle married at, 87 ; becomes 
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 
Welsh family, see Appendix I., p. 

309 
Welsh, Ann, sister of Dr. Welsh, 

202, 245 
Welsh, Benjamin, brother of Dr. 

Welsh, 4, 310 
Welsh, Eliazbeth, 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, 169, 270 



INDEX 



329 



WEL 

Welsh, Grace, sister of Dr. Welsh, 

202 
Welsh, Helen, daughter of John 

Welsh of Liverpool, 163, 174, 193, 

195, 206 

Welsh, Jane (Aunt Jeannie), young- 
est 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, 111, 309 
Welsh, John, name of lairds of 

Craigenputtock, 2 
Welsh, John, of Penfillan, father of 

Dr. Welsh, 3, 8 



WOK 

Welsh, Dr. John, father of Jane 
Welsh, 3-5, 6 ; his death, 17, 311, 
312 ; references to, 20, 89, 225, 
241 ; trees at Craigenputtock 
planted by, 136; Mrs. Carlyle 
visits his grave, 203 

Welsh, Kobert, brother of Dr. 
Welsh, 22, 37 

Welsh, Walter, father of Mrs. 
Welsh, 4, 6, 7, 65, 71, 77, 134 

Welsh, Kev. Walter, cousin of Mrs. 
Carlyle, minister of Auchtertool, 
188, 271 

Woolner, Thomas (the sculptor), 
288 

Wordsworth, 137 



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THE MAYFAIR LIBRARY. 



A Journey Round My Boom. By XAVIER 

DE MAISTRE. 

Quips and Quiddities. By W. D. ADAMS. 
The Agony Column of " The Times." 
Melancholy Anatomised : Abridgment of 

" Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy." 
The Speeches of Charles Dickens. 
Literary Frivolities, Fancies, Follies, 

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Holmes's Autocrat of Breakfast-Table. 
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"THE GOLDEN LIBRARY. 

Bayard Taylor's Diversions of the Echo 

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Jeux d'Esprit. Edited by HENRY S. LEIGH. 
Witch Stories. By E. LYNN LINTON. 
Ourselves. By E. LYNN LINTON. 
Pastimes & Players. By R. MACGREGOR. 
New Paul and Virginia. W.H.MALLOCK. 
New Republic. By W. H. MALLOCK. 
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Muses of Mayfair. Ed. H. C. PENNELL. 
Thoreau : His Life & Aims. By H. A. PAGE. 
Puniana. By Hon. HUGH ROWLEY. 
More Puniana. By Hon. HUGH ROWLEY. 
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Post Svo, cloth limp, 2s. per Volume. 
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Wanderings in Patagonia. By JULIUS | 

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Savage Life. By FREDERICK BOYLE. 
Merrie England in the Olden Time. By 

G. DANIKL. Illustrated by CRUIKSHANK. \ 
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Lives of the Conjurers. THOMAS FROST. 
The Old Showmen and the Old London 

Fairs. By THOMAS FROST. 
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Tavern Anecdotes and Sayings. 
The Genial Showman. By E.P. KINGSTON 
Story of London Parks. JACOB LARWOOD. 
London Characters. By HENRY MAYHEW. 
Seven Generations of Executioners. 
Summer Cruising in the South Seas. 

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Harry Fludyer at Cambridge. 
Jeff Briggs's Love Story. BRET HARTE. 
Twins of Table Mountain. BRET HARTE. 
A Day's Tour. By PERCY FITZGERALD. 
Esther's Glove. By R. E. FRANCILLON, 
Sentenced ! By SOMERVILLE GIBNEY. 
The Professor's Wife. By L. GRAHAM. 
Mrs. Gainsborough's Diamonds. By 

TULIAN HAWTHORNE. 
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Our Sensation Novel. J. H. MCCARTHY. 
Doom! By JUSTIN H. MCCARTHY, M.P. 
Dolly. By JUSTIN H. MCCARTHY, M.P. 
Lily Lass. JUSTIN H. MCCARTHY, M.P. 



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That Girl in Black. Mrs. MOLESWORTH. 
Notes from the " News." By JAS. PAYN. 
Beyond the Gates. By E. S. PHELPS. 
Old Maid's Paradise. By E. S. PHELPS. 
Burglars in Paradise. By E. S. PHELPS. 
Jack the Fisherman. By E. S. PHELPS, 
Trooping with Crows. By C. L. PIRKIS. 
Bible Characters. By CHARLES READE. 
Rogues. By R. H. SHERARD. 
The Dagonet Reciter. By G. R. SIMS. 
How the Poor Live. By G. R. SIMS. 
Case of George Candlemas. G. R. SIMS. 
Sandycroft Mystery. T. W. SPEIGHT. 
Hoodwinked. By T. W. SPEIGHT. 
Father Damien. By R. L. STEVENSON. 
A Double Bond. By LINDA VILLARI. 
My Life with Stanley's Rear Guard. By 
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27 



MY LIBRARY. 

Choice Works, printed on laid paper, bound half-Roxburgbe, 2s. 6d. each. 

Christie Johnstone. By CHARLES READE. 

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Four Frenchwomen. By AUSTIN DOBSON 
Citation and Examination of William 



Shakspeare. By W. S. LANDOR. 



THE POCKET LIBRARY. Postsvo 

The Essays of Elia. By CHARLES LAMB. 
Robinson Crusoe. Edited by JOHN MAJOR. 

With 37 Illusts. by GEORGE CRUIKSH >NK. 
Whims and Oddities. By THOMAS HOOD. 

With 85 Illustrations. 
The Barber's Chair, and The Hedgehog 

Letters. By DOUGLAS JERROLD. 
Gastronomy as a Fine Art. By BRIL^ AT- 

SAVARIN. Trans. R. E. ANDERSON, M.A. 



printed on laid paper and hf.-bd., <Js. each. 
The Epicurean, &c. By THOMAS MOORE. 
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Philistia. I For Maimie's Sake. 

Babylon | The Devil's Die. 

In all Shades. This Mortal Coil. 

The Tents of Shem. | The Great Taboo. 

By A1.AN ST. AUBYN. 
A Fellow of Trinity. 

By Rev. S. BARING GOUI.D. 
Red Spider. | Eve. 

By W. BESANT & J. RICE. 
By Celia's Arbour. 



Monks of Thelenia. 
The Seamy Side. 
Ten Years' Tenant. 



My Little Girl. 
Case of Mr.Lucraft. 
This Son of Vulcan. 
Golden Butterfly. 
Ready-Money Mortiboy. 
With Harp and Crown. 
'Twas in Trafalgar's Bay. 
The Chaplain of the Fleet. 

By WAITER BESANT. 
All Sorts and Conditions of Men. 
The Captains' Room. 
All in a Garden Fair 
The World Went Very Well Then. 
For Faith and Freedom. 
Dorothy Forster. j To Call Her Mine. 
Uncle Jack. | The Holy Rose. 



Armadale. 
After Dark. 
No Name. 
Antonina. | Basil. 
Hide and Seek. 
The Dead Secret. 
Queen of Hearts. 
My Miscellanies. 
Woman in White. 
The Moonstone. 
Man and Wife. 
Poor Miss Finch. 
Miss or Mrs? 
New Magdalen. 



The Frozen Deep. 
The Two Destinies. 
Law and the Lady. 
Haunted Hotel. 
The Fallen Leaves. 
Jezebel's Daughter. 
The Black Robe. 
Heart and Science. 
"I Say No." 
Little Novels. 
The Evil Genius. 
The Legacy of Cain 
A Rogue's Life. 
Blind Love. 



Armorel of Lyon- 
esse. 



Children of Gibeon. 
Herr Paulus. 
Bell of St. Paul's. 

By ROBERT BUCHANAN. 

The Shadow of the Sword. 

A Child of Nature. 

The Martyrdom of Madeline. 



God and the Man. 
Love Me for Ever. 
Annan Water. 
Matt. 

By IS A 1,1 



The New Abelard. 
Foxglove Manor. 
Master of the Mine. 
Heir of Linne. 
CA1NE. 



By DUTTON COOK. 

Paul Foster's Daughter. 

By WII^ffAiTl Cl'PLES. 

Hearts of Gold. 

By ALPHONSE DAttJDET. 

The Evangelist; or, Port Salvation. 

By JA1Y1E3 DE ]?IILLE. 

A Castle in Spain. 

By J. LEIT1I DERIVE NT. 

Our Lady of Tears. | Circe's Lovers. 

By Mrs. ANNIE EDWARDES. 

Archie Lovell. 



By PERCY 

Fatal Zero. 



FITZGERALD. 



The Shadow of a Crime. 

A Son of Hagar. | The Deemster. 

IVIORT. & FRANCES COLLINS. 

Sweet Anne Page. | Transmigration. 
From Midnight to Midnight. 
Blacksmith and Scholar. 
Village Comedy. | You Play Me False 



By R. E. FRANCILLON. 

8ueen Cophetua. I A Real Queen, 
ne by One. | King or Knave? 

Prcf. by Sir BARTL.E FRERE. 
Pandurang Hari. 

By EDWARD GARRETT. 

The Capsl Girls. 



28 



BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 



THE PICCADILLY (3/6) NOVELS continued. 
By II A I5l,e:s GIBBON. 

Robin Gray. I The Golden Shaft. 

In Honour Bound. | Of High Degree. 
Loving a Dream. 
The Flower of the Forest. 

By JULIAN HAWTHORNE. 

Garth. Dust. 

Ellice Quentin. Fortune's Fool. 
Sebastian Strome. Beatrix Randolph. 
David Poindexter's Disappearance. 
The Spectre of the Camera. 

By Sir A. I IK 1, 2* Pi. 

Ivan de Biron. 

By ISA 11 HENDERSON. 

Agatha Page. 

By Mrs. ALFRED HUNT. 

The Leaden Casket. | Self-Condemned. 
That other Person. 

By JEAN INGELOW. 

Fated to be Frse. 

By R. ASHE KING. 
A Drawn Game. 
"The Wearing of the Green." 

By HENRY M.INGSLEY. 

Number Seventeen. 

By E. LYNN LINTON. 



lone. 

Paston Carev/. 

Sowing the Wind. 



Patricia Kemball. 

U nder which Lord? 

"My Love!" 

The Atonement of Learn Dundas. 

The World Well Lost. 

By HENRY W. LUCY. 
Gideon Fleyce. 

By JUSTIN MCCARTHY. 



A Fair Saxon. 
Linlev Rochford. 



Donna Quixote. 
Maid of Athens. 
Camiola. 



>y 

Miss Misanthrope. Camiola. 
The Waterdale Neighbours. , 
My Enemy's Daughter. 
Dear Lady Disdain. 
The Comet of a Season. 

By AGNES MACONELL. 

Quaker Cousins. 

By FLORENCE MARRYAT. 

Open! Sesame! 

By . CHRISTIE MURRAY. 

Life's Atonement. Coals of Fire. 

Joseph's Coat. Yal Strange. 

A Model Father. Hearts. 

A Bit of Human Nature. 

First Person Singular. 

Cynic Fortune. 

The Way of the World. 

By MURRAY & HERMAN. 

The Bishops' Bible. 

By GEORGES OIINET. 

A Weird Gift. 



THE PICCADILLY (3/6) NOVELS continue^ 

By Mrs. OLIPHANT. 

Whiteladies. 

By O I I IA. 

Held in Bondage. Two Little Wooden 
Strathmore. Shoes. 

Chandos. In a Winter City- 

Under Two Flags. Ariadne. 
Idalia. Friendship. 

CecilCastlemaine's Moths. I Ruffino. 

Gage. Pipistrello. 

Tricotrin. | Puck. ' A Village Commune 
Folle Farine. Bimbi. j Wanda. 

A Dog of Flanders. Frescoes. 
Pascarel. | Signa. In Maremma. 
Princess Naprax- Othmar. | Syrlin. 

ine. Guilderoy. 

By MARGARET A. PAUL. 
Gentle and Simple. 

By JAMES PAYN. 
Lost Sir Massingberd. 
Lsss Black than We're Painted. 
A Confidential Agent. 
A Grape from a Thorn. 
Some Private Views. 
In Peril and Privation. 
The Mystery of Mirbridge. 
The Canon's Ward. 



Talk of the Town, 
Holiday Tasks. 
The Burnt Million . 
The Word and the 

Will. 

Sunny Stories. 
PRICE. 
! The Foreigners. 



Walter's Word. 
By Proxy. 
High Spirits. 
Under One Roof. 
From Exile. 
Glow-worm Tales. 
By E. C 
Yalentina. 
Mrs. Lancaster's Rival. 

By CHARLES READE. 
It is Never Too Late to Mend. 
The Double Marriage. 
Love Me Little, Love Me Long. 
The Cloister and the Hearth. 
The Course of True Love. 
The Autobiography of a Thief. 
Put Yourself in his Place. 
A Terrible Temptation. 
Singleheart and Doubleface. 
Good Stories of Men and other Animals, 
Hard Cash. I Wandering Heir. 

Peg Woffington. | A Woman-Hater. 
ChristieJohnstone. A Simpleton. 
Griffith Gaunt. Readiana. 
Foul Play. The Jilt. 

By Mrs. J. II. RIDDELL.. 
Her Mother's Darling. 
Prince of Wales's Garden Party. 
Weird Stories. 

By F. W. ROBINSON. 
Women are Strange. 
The Hands of Justice. 

By W. CLARK RUSSELL. 
An Ocean Tragedy. 
My Shipmate Louise. 

By JOZ1N SAUNDERS. 
Guy Waterman. | Two Dreamers. 
Bound to the Wheel. 
The Lion in the Path. 



CHATTO & WINDUS, 214, PICCADILLY. 



THE PICCADILLY (3/6) NOVELS continued. 
By KATHARINE SAUNDERS. 

Margaret and Elizabeth. 

Heart Salvage. 



Gideon's Rock. 
The High Mills. 



Sebastian. 



By HAWLEY SMART. 

Without Love or Licence. 

By R. A. ST !: 1C \ !>.% I<E. 

The Afghan Knife. 

By BERTHA THOMAS. 

Proud Maisie. | Cressida. 
The Violin-player. 

By FRANCES E. TROLLOPE. 

Like Ships upon the Sea. 

Anne Furness. | Mabel's Progress. 



THE PICCADILLY (3/6) NOVELS continued. 
By ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 

Frau Frohmann. I Kept in the Dark. 
Marion Fay. [ Land-Leaguers. 

The Way We Live Now. 
Mr. Scarborough's Family. 

By IVAN TURGENIEFF, &C.. 

Stories from Foreign Novelists. 

By C. C. FRASER-TYTLER.. 

Mistress Judith. 

By SARAH TYTLER. 

The Bride's Pass. I Lady Bell. 
Noblesse Oblige. j Buried Diamonds., 
The Blackball Ghosts. 



CHEAP EDITIONS OF POPULAR NOVELS. 

Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 



By ARTEMUS WAR. 

Artemus Ward Complete. 

By EDMOND ABOUT. 
The Fellah. 

By HAMILTON AIDE. 

Carr of Carrlyon. | Confidences. 
By MARY ALBERT. 
Brooke Finchley's Daughter. 

By tli*. ALEXANDER. 
Maid, Wife, or Widow? | Valerie's Fate. 

By GRANT ALLEN. 
Strange Stories. The Devil's Die. 
Philistia. This Mortal Coil. 

Babylon. In all Shades. 

The Beckoning Hand. 
For Maimie's Sake. | Tents of Shem. 

By ALAN ST. AUBIfN. 
A Fellow of Trinity. 
By Rev. S. BARING GOULD. 
Red Spider. | Eve. 

By FRANK BARRETT. 
Fettered for Life. 
Between Life and Death. 
By SHELSLE Y BEAUCHAMP. 
Grantley Grange. 
By W. BESANT & J. RICE. 



This Son of Vulcan. 
My Little Girl. 
Case of Mr.Lucraft. 



By Celia's Arbour. 
Monks of Thelema. 
The Seamy Side. 
Ten Years' Tenant. 



Golden Butterfly. 
Ready-Money Mortiboy. 
With Harp and Crown. 
'Twas in Trafalgar's Bay. 
The Chaplain of the Fleet. 

By WALTER BES4NT. 
Dorothy Forster. I Uncle Jack. 
Children of Gibeon. | Herr Paulus. 
All Sorts and Conditions of Men. 
The Captains' Room. 
All in a Garden Fair. 
The World Went Very Well Then. 
For Faith and Freedom. 

By FREDERICK BOYLE. 
Camp Notes. ' Savage Life. 

Chronicles of No-man's Land. 



By BRET HARTE. 

Flip. I California!! Stories. 

Maruja. | Gabriel Conroy. 

An Heiress of Red Dog. 
The Luck of Roaring Camp. 
A Phyllis of the Sierras. 

By HAROLD BRYDGES. 

Uncle Sam at Home. 

By ROBERT BUCHANAN. 



The Shadow of the 

Sword. 
A Child of Nature. 



The Martyrdom of" 

Madeline. 
Annan Water. 



God and the Man. I The New AbelarcU 
Love Me for Ever, j Matt. 
Foxglove Manor. I The Heir of Linne* 
The Master of the Mine. 

By HALL CAINE. 

The Shadow of a Crime. 

A Son of Hagar. . The Deemster. 

By Commander CAMERON. 

The Cruise of the " Black Prince." 
By Mrs. LOVETT CAMERON. 

Deceivers Ever. | Juliet's Guardian. 

By AUSTIN CLARE. 
For the Love of a Lass. 

By Mrs. ARCHER C'LIVE. 

Paul Ferroll. 

Why Paul Ferroll Killed his Wife. 

By MACLAREN COBBAN. 

The Cure of Souls. 

By C. ALLSTON COLLINS. 

The Bar Sinister. 

MORT. & FRANCES COLLINS. 

Sweet Anne Page. | Transmigration. 

From Midnight to Midnight. 

A Fight with Fortune. 

Sweet and Twenty. I Village Comedy, 

Frances. | You Play me False- 

Blacksmith and Scholar. 



BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 



TWO-SHILLING NOVELS continued. 
By WILK1E COLI<I .\S. 

Armadale. i My Miscellanies. 

After Dark. Woman in White. 

No Name. 
Antonina. | Basil. 
Hide and Seek. 
The Dead Secret. 

Sueen of Hearts, 
issor Mrs? 
New Magdalen. 
The Frozen Deep. 
Law and the Lady. 
The Two Destinies. 
Haunted Hotel. 
A Rogue's Life. 



By ITI. J. COLQUHOUN. 

Every Inch a Soldier. 



Leo. 



By BUTTON COOK. 

| Paul Foster's Daughter. 



By . ROBERT Bfi A niHM'li. 

Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountains. 

By WILLLOI CYPLES. 
"Hearts of Gold. 

By ALPHONSE DAUDET. 

The Evangelist; or, Port Salvation. 

By j A .vi KS BE mi 1,1. s:. 
A Castle in Spain. 

By .8. I < KITH DKRWKNT. 
Our Lady of Tears. | Circe's Lovers. 

By CHARLES DICKENS. 
Sketches by Boz. Oliver Twist. 
Pickwick Papers. Nicholas Nickleby. 

By BOCK DONOVAN. 
The Man-Hunter. | Caught at Last! 
Tracked and Taken. 
Who Poisoned Hetty Duncan? 
The Man from Manchester. 
A Detective's Triumphs. 

By CONAN DOYLK, &c. 
Strange Secrets. 

By Mrs. ANNIE EDWARDES. 
A Point of Honour. | Archie Level I. 
By VI. BETHAIVI-ED WARDS. 
Felicia. I Kitty. 

By EDWARD EGGLESTON. 
Roxy. 

By PERCY FITZGERALD. 
Bella Donna. I Polly. 

Never Forgotten. I Fatal Zero. 
The Second Mrs. Tillotson. 
Seventy-five Brooke Street. 
The Lady of Brantome. 
ALBANY DE FONBLANQUE. 
Filthy Lucre. 

By R. E. FRANCILLON. 
Olympia. I Queen Cophetua. 

One by One. King or Knave? 

A Real Queen. | Romances of Law. 

By HAROLD FREDERICK. 

Seth's Brother's Wife. 

The Lawton Girl. 

Pref.foy Sir BARTLE FRERE. 

Pandurang Hari. 



The Moonstone. 
Man and Wife. 
Poor Miss Finch. 
The Fallen Leaves. 
Jezebel's Daughter 
The Black Robe. 
Heart and Science. 
"I Say No." 
The Evil Genius. 
Little Novels. 
Legacy of Cain. 
Blind Love. 



TWO-SHILLING NOVELS continued. 

By HAIN FRISWELL, 
One of Two. 

By EDWARD GARRETT. 

The Capel Girls. 

By CHARLES GIBBON. 

Robin Gray. In Honour Bound. 

Fancy Free. Flower of Forest. 

For Lack of Gold. Braes of Yarrow. 
What will the The Golden Shaft. 

Of High Degree. 

Mead and Stream. 

Loving a Dream. 

A Hard Knot. 

Heart's Delight. 

Blood-Money. 



World Say? 
In Love and War. 
For the King. 
In Pastures Green. 
Queen of Meadow. 
A Heart's Problem. 
The Dead Heart. 



By WILLIAM GILBERT. 

Dr. Austin's Guests. I James Duke. 
The Wizard of the Mountain. 

By HENRY GREVILLE. 
A Noble Woman. 

By JOHN HABBERTON. 
Brueton's Bayou. | Country Luck. 

By ANDREW HALLIDAY. 
Every-Day Papers. 

By Lady DUFF US HARDY. 
Paul Wynter's Sacrifice. 

By T 110 VI AS HARDY. 
Under the Greenwood Tree. 
By J. BERWICK HARWOOD. 
The Tenth Earl. 

By JULIAN HAWTHORNE. 
Garth. Sebastian Strome. 

Ellice Quentin. Dust. 
Fortune's Fool. Beatrix Randolph. 
Miss Cadogna. Love or a Name. 

David Poindexter's Disappearance. 
The Spectre of the Camera. 

By Sir ARTHUR HELPS. 
Ivan de Biron. 

By VI i*. CASHEL HOEY. 
The Lover's Creed. 
By Vim. GEORGE HOOPER. 
The House of Raby. 

By TIG II K HOPKINS. 
'Twixt Love and Duty. 

By IVIrs. ALFRED HUNT. 
Thornicroft's Model. I Self Condemned. 
That Other Person. | Leaden Casket. 

By JEAN INGELOW r . 

Fated to be Free. 

By HARRIETT JAY. 

The Dark Colleen. 

The Queen of Connaught. 

By HARK KERSHAW. 

Colonial Facts and Fictions. 

By R. AS UK KING. 

A Drawn Game. I Passion's Slave. 
" The Wearing of the Green." 



CHATTO & WINDUS, 214, PICCADILLY. 



TWO-SHILLING NOVELS continued. 

By HENRY KINGSLEY 
Oakshott Castle. 

By JOHN LEYS. 
The Lindsays. 

By MARY LINSKILL. 
In Exchange for a Soul. 

By E. LYNN LINTON. 



Patricia Kemball 
World Well Lost. 
Under which Lord? 



Paston Carew. 
"My Love!" 
lone. 



The Atonement of Learn Dundas. 
With a Silken Thread. 
The Rebel of the Family. 
Sowing the Wind. 

By HENRY W. LUCY. 
Gideon Fleyce. 

By JUSTIN MCCARTHY. 

A Fair Saxon. I Donna Quixote. 

Linley Rochford. Maid of Athens. 

Miss Misanthrope. | Camlola. 

Dear Lady Disdain. 

The Waterdale Neighbours. 

My Enemy's Daughter. 

The Comet of a Season. 

By AGNES MACI>ONJELL. 
Quaker Cousins. 

KATHARINE S. MACCfcUOIO. 
The Evil Eye. | Lost Rose. 

By "W. H. MALLOCK. 
The New Republic. 

By FLORENCE MARRYAT. 
Open ! Sesame 1 | Fighting the Air. 
A Harvest of Wild Oats. 
Written in Fire. 

By J. MASTERMAN- 
Half a-dozen Daughters. 

By BRANER MATTHEWS. 
A Secret of the Sea. 

By JEAN M1DLEMASS. 
Touch and Go. | Mr. Dorillion. 

By Mrs. MOLESWORTH. 
Hathercourt Rectory. 

By J. E. MUD1>OCK. 
Stories Weird and Wonderful. 
The Dead Man's Secret. 
By I>. CHRISTIE MURRAY 



TWO-SHILLING NOVELS continued. 

By GEOR<SES OHNET. 
Doctor Rameau. | A Last Love. 
By Mr*. OLIPHANT. 

Whiteladies. | The Primrose Path^ 

The Greatest Heiress in England. 

By tli>. ROBERT O'REILI.V . 

Phoebe's Fortunes. 

By OUIDA. 



Held in Bondage. 


Two Little Wooden 


Strathmore. 


Shoes. 


Chandos. 


Ariadne. 


Under Two Flags. 


Friendship. 


Idalia. 


Moths. 


CecilCastlemaine's 


Pipistrello. 


Gage. 


A Village Com 


Tricotrin. 


mune. 


Puck. 


Bimbi. 


Folle Farine. 


Wanda. 


A Dog of Flanders. 


Frescoes. 


Pascarel. 


In Maremma. 


Signa. 


Othmar. 


Princess Naprax- 
ine. 


Guilderoy. 
Ouida's Wisdom,. 


In a Winter City. 


Wit, and Pathos. 


MARGARET AGNES PAUL. 


Gentle and Simple. 


By JAMES PAYN. 


Bentinck's Tutor. 


200 Reward. 


Murphy's Master. 


Marine Residence. 


A County Family. 


Mirk Abbey. 


At Her Mercy. 
Cecil's Tryst. 


By Proxy. 
Under One Roof. 


Clyffards of Clyffe. 
Foster Brothers. 


High Spirits. 
Carlyon's Year. 


Found Dead. 


From Exile. 


Best of Husbands. 


For Cash Only. 


Walter's Word. 


Kit. 


Halves. 


The Canon's Ward 


Fallen Fortunes. 


Talk of the Town* 


Humorous Stories. 


Holiday Tasks. 



Old Blazer's Hero. 

Hearts. 

Way of the World. 

Cynic Fortune. 



A Model Father. 
Joseph's Coat. 
Coals of Fire. 
Val Strange. 
A Life's Atonement. 
By the Gate of the Sea. 
A Bit of Human Nature. 
First Person Singular. 

By MURRAY and HERMAN. 
One Traveller Returns. 
Paul Jones's Alias. 

By HENRY MURRAY. 
A Game of Bluff. 

By ALICE O'HANLON. 
The Unforeseen. | Chance? or Fate? 



Lost Sir Massingberd. 

A Perfect Treasure. 

A Woman's Vengeance. 

The Family Scapegrace. 

What He Cost Her. 

Gwendoline's Harvest. 

Like Father, Like Son. 

Married Beneath Him. 

Not Wooed, but Won. 

Less Black than We're Painted.. 

A Confidential Agent. 

Some Private Views. 

A Grape from a Thorn. 

Glow-worm Tales. 

The Mystery of Mirbridge. 

By C. I-.. PIRKIS~ 

Lady Lovelace. 

By EDGAR A. POE, 

The Mystery of Marie Roget. 
By E. C. PRICE. 

Valentina. I The Foreigners. 

Mrs. Lancaster's Rival. 

Gerald. 



CHATTO & WINDUS, 214, PICCADILLY. 



TWO-SHILLING NOVELS continued. 
By CHARLES It HA :. 

It is Never Too Late to Mend. 

Christie Johnstone. 

Put Yourself in His Place. 

The Double Marriage. 

Love Me Little, Love Me Long. 

The Cloister and the Hearth. 

The Course of True Love. 

Autobiography of a Thief. 

A Terrible Temptation. 

The Wandering Heir. 

Singleheart and Doubleface. 

Good Stories of Men and other Animals. 

Hard Cash. I A Simpleton. 

Peg Wofflngton. | Readiana. 

Griffith Gaunt. A Woman Hater. 

Foul Play. The Jilt. 

By Mrs. J. H. RIDDEL L. 

Weird Stories. | Fairy Water. 

Her Mother's Darling. 

Prince of Wales's Garden Party. 

The Uninhabited House. 

The Mystery in Palace Gardens. 

By F. W. ROBINSON. 

Women are Strange. 
The Hands of Justice. 

By JAMES RUNCIUIAN. 

Skippers and Shellbacks. 
Grace Balmaign's Sweetheart. 
Schools and Scholars. 

By W. CLARK ltl'**B-:LL. 

Bound the Galley Fire. 
On the Fo'k'sle Head. 
In the Middle Watch. 
A Voyage to the Cape. 
A Book for the Hammock. 
The Mystery of the " Ocean Star." 
The Romance of Jenny Harlowe. 
An Ocean Tragedy. 
<*i:oie<;i: AUGUSTUS SALA. 
Gaslight and Daylight. 

By JOHN SAUNDERS. 
Guy Waterman. | Two Dreamers. 
The Lion in the Path. 

By KATHARINE SAUNDERS. 

Joan Merryweather. Heart Salvage. 
The High Mills. Sebastian. 

Margaret and Elizabeth. 

By GEORGE R. SIMM. 
Rogues and Vagabonds. 
The Ring o' Bells. 
Mary Jane's Memoirs. 
Mary Jane Married. 
Tales of To-day. | Dramas of Life. 
Tinkletop's Crime. 

By ARTHUR SKETCHLEY. 

A Match in the Dark. 

By T. W. SPEIGHT. 

'The Mysteries of Heron Dyke. 

The Golden Hoop. | By Devious Ways. 

Hoodwinked, &c. 



TWO-SHILLING NOVELS continued. 
By R. A. STERNDA1.E. 

The Afghan Knife. 

By R. 1,01 BS STEVENSO.-V. 
New Arabian Nights. | Prince Otto. 
BY BERTHA TI1OVIA*. 

Cressida. 1 Proud Maisie. 

The Violin-player. 



By WALTER TIIORNBURY'. 

Tales for the Marines. 
Old Stories Re-told. 

T. ADOLPHUS TROLLOPE. 

Diamond Cut Diamond. 

By F. ELEANOR TROLLOP!-:. 

Like Ships upon the Sea. 

Anne Furness. | Mabel's Progress. 

By ANTHONY" TROLLOPE. 

Frau Frohmann. I Kept in the Dark. 

Marion Fay. John Caldigate. 

The Way We Live Now. 

The American Senator. 

Mr. Scarborough's Family. / 

The Land-Leaguers. \ 

The Golden Lion of Granpere. 

By .1. T. TROWBRIDGE. 

Farnell's Folly. 
By IVAN TURGENIEFF, &o. 

Stories from Foreign Novelists. 
By MARK TWAIN. 

Tom Sawyer. | A Tramp Abroad. 

The Stolen White Elephant. 

A Pleasure Trip on the Continent. 

Huckleberry Finn. 

Life on the Mississippi. 

The Prince and the Pauper. 

By C. C. FRASER-TYTLER. 
Mistress Judith. 

By SARAH TYTI^ER. 
The Bride's Pass. I Noblesse Oblige. 
Buried Diamonds. | Disappeared. 
Saint Mungo'sCity. I Huguenot Family. 
Lady Bell. | Blackball Ghosts. 

What She Came Through. 
Beauty and the Beast. 
Citoyenne Jaqueline. 

By J. S. WINTER. 

Cavalry Life. | Regimental Legends. 
By H. F. WOOD. 

The Passenger from Scotland Yard. 
The Englishman of the Rue Cain. 

By Lady WOOD. 
Sabina. 
-HLI A PARKER \vooi.i.ni . 

Rachel Armstrong ; or, Love & Theology 
By EDUIUND YATES. 

The Forlorn Hope. | Land at Last. 
Castaway. 



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