con

valuable to him, the shrine, as it were, of a true man of genius. He sent him cordial letters, and made up boxes of presents-books and medals, descending even to ask for a lock of Mrs. Carlyle's hair! Wonderful! The more we think over this singular episode, the more firm is the conviction, that here is the truest, most genuine compliment an English writer has ever received.

Here is the title page of this most significant little book:

THOMAS CARLYLE

LEBEN SCHILLERS aus dem Englischen eingeleitet

DURCH GOETHE

FRANKFURT AM MAIN, 1830. VERLAG VON HEINRICH

WILZANS.

The eager and earnest Goethe supplied a preface of his own, with an introduction of over twenty-five pages, in which were introduced the Carlyle letters, and where he also speaks of him as unser freund. He seemed to take a sort of pride in him, and a genuine enthusiasm. There could be no feeling of being flattered by the praises of a humble adviser: with him that was a drug in the market. His admiration even extended to his admirer's wife. This work is a rarity.

There is many a young enthusiast, at this moment, who, aflame with literary admiration, sits down and writes to his idol of the moment a sort of rapturous, admiring screed. In most cases he will receive an encouraging reply. Being enchanted by perusal of The French Revolution, I once wrote to its author an admiring, almost ecstatic tribute, together with what I fancied was a rare French pamphlet.

To my surprise came this kindly and truly amiable and indulgent reply:

"I am much obliged by your goodness to me. If the French pamphlet is of any value to you, as I suppose likely, please do not send it hitherto. I could get little or no good of it, except what is already got, what is implied in your kind offer of it. You mistake much if you consider me blind to the beautiful natural faculties and capabilities of the Irish character, or other than a loving friend to Ire land (from a very old date now), though I may have my own notions as to what would be real friendship to Ireland and what would be only sham friendship.

"Believe me, Yours,
"With many thanks and wishes,
"T. Carlyle."

I could always understand that Irish friend of Johnson's, and his rapturous devotion when I came to see Carlyle. Of all living men at that time you felt: "Here is a really great one," and this owing to his complete lack of affectation, and his ever saying, like his brother sage, what he thought. This Irish Doctor used to call out "Och! sure I'd like to give him half my sleep!" a truly original testimonial; or, "I'd go down on my bare knees every night and black his shoes!" Is there anyone now "worth while attending to at all" after such tributes as these? No; surely we are all mediocre together— an age of mediocrity.

All familiar with Carlyle's letters will recall his vehemently expressed detestation of those who suggested his sitting to them for his portrait. He would spurn the idea with his most contemptuous expressions. Not many weeks before his death I had begun to entertain myself by modelling-or striving to model-his noble head, partly from recollection, partly from a photograph. It occurred to me: "What if I ask him to let me bring with me my apparatus, clay, &c., and try to do my best with him in this direction?" To my literal amazement, his niece, Mary Carlyle Aitken-then in careful

charge of him-wrote to me saying that her uncle would be pleased to sit! How gracious this was of him and bow good natured! I was friend to "Fooster," Boz and the "set." I can call up the whole scene of that notable day: the quaint old house for background, the panelled walls, the cab laden with clay, my trusty man carrying up the sacred head in its moist wrappings; I following the whole, rather tremulous, as the procession entered the solemn chamber. Here was the grim sage, waiting-solemn and expectant-the excellent niece standing watchful. He greeted me in kindly fashion. Alas! that day must be at least thirty years ago, so it is much faded out; sad, too, to think that I was but indifferently skilled at the time to make profit of so precious an opportunity. What was worse, I felt a shyness in dealing boldly with the clay for fear of losing such likeness as I had got.

I see him now, wrapped in his Scotch plaid by the fire, and clearly in some sort of anticipation. About ten years later I was in the house, then become the museum, and was called upon to fix the room, but could not recall it. I fancy it was his bedroom.

At first he disposed himself with a sort of alacrity.

"Noo, of course I may talk freely?" "Well," I said doubtfully, "I really-"

"Oh, I may talk-and smoke too." His niece, who seemed to supervise, supported my hesitation, but I interposed, and so set to work. I forget now the many things he touched upon -mostly "poor Foosther-trew honest fellow!-Dickens-a noble hairt-both long since dead." I recall the actual words of one question put with a shrewd, sarcastic tone: "What d'ye hear noo of our Jew Premier?"

Finally, after about an hour's stayfor I would not trespass-I gathered

up my tools, apparatus, &c., and took my way thence, much marvelling at my own assurance. The work, such as it is, has found a refuge in Chelsea Town Hall. It represents him in the notorious felt hat and shawl. I fervently begged of his niece to give me, as a souvenir of this meeting, one of his precious churchwardens, and she was good enough to say she would send it on; but it never reached me not a surprising thing as it was a ticklish, impossible thing to pack, being so brittle.

His friend, Forster dear, was not one of those niggard monopolists, who jealously keep their great literary friends in a preserve to themselves, as though in dread of impairing their own influence. He was ever large-hearted and generous in this direction. You constantly heard him: "My dear friend, you must know Dickens," or "You shall meet Carlyle." With Forster to announce or engage for a thing, to say "shall" or "must," and it was as good as done.

Indeed, it is difficult to think of Carlyle or appreciate him without calling up the image of John Forster, who was really almost as much his invaluable ally and assistant as he was of Boz. In both cases, wherever, whenever, there was a difficulty or a troublesome business Forster came and settled it-settled it successfully. They both "consulted Forster," as their confidential and certain friend. Forster's life, on account of these relations with so many important persons, would be well worth doing. I myself have written a small volume in this direction -put forth as "by one of his friends" -but it deals rather with him as a high comedy or humorous character, which he certainly was.' It may be assumed as a certainty that he did all

1 That clever lady who used to write as "George Paston" was, some years ago, very eager to write a full and personal life of him, and consulted me on the matter

manner of good offices and kindly, useful things for Carlyle which we shall never hear of. One of the witnesses to Carlyle's will was Hares, or Haires, Forster's own butler at Palace Gate House, the same who, on his master's death, quaintly informed me what was the real cause of his death. "Fact was, sir, he had no staminer."

I can recall meetings with the great man of a quite unofficial kind. Here was a quartette: Forster, Dickens, Thomas Carlyle and myself! That was a privilege, indeed! And a delightful meeting it was. I recall Boz "playing round" the sage as Garrick did round Johnson-affectionately and in high good humor and wit, and, I could well see, much pleasing the old lion. It was pleasing to see him after dinner smoking away in his rough garments, for he was privileged to dress as he would. And it will be asked, what did I in that galère? How did I get there and into such company? Well, simply by no merit of my own, but by favor and owing to the unwearying kindness of my host. I may be absolved from an appearance of egotism or vanity if I quote the following, which will explain how it came about, and which is really typical of the hundreds of good offices which "Fuz" was ever doing:

"Thank the young ladies for me, and say all the kindest and prettiest things you can for me. I only wish I could say them for myself. Because in this particular I doubt you.

"I will be very angry with you (really angry and discontented every way) if you do not teach yourself, before you next cross the Channel, to regard this house as in some sort a second 'roof-tree'-and if you do not come here as a matter of course, and without any nonsense or botheration, very frequently indeed. That is, as long as it may be pleasant to you to do soand not to refuse a genuine pleasure to me.

"On this head I will not say more than that I have a real regard for you,

and that you have no surer way of making me happy and obliged than by coming to see me. Do you know what Wallenstein said of Max

"For oh! he stood beside me like my youth.'

"But don't forget my opening injunction."

Later I recall being bidden to a sort of banquet at Palace Gate. The sage always made an exception in favor of "the good Foorsther," as distinguished from common lion-hunters, and by special favor would consent to dine and be exhibited to a few. On this occasion "the table was full"; and we had a notable gathering: The Brownings, father and son, Robert Lytton, Elwin the Editor, who was in obstreperous spirits and told humorously to the whole table an account of bis drive with a madman on that very day. This was, in truth, a reconciliation dinner, for the once eternally beloved Browning. "My dear friend," used Forster to say to me, "you should come to dine on Sunday, but know that is consecrated to Browning-nothing interferes with that Sunday dinner. "Tis sacred. It has gone on for years."

As the cynic might expect or prophesy-delight so violent would lead as of course to "violent ending." One day the news went round of a sad altercation between the two old friends at a dinner party, when it seems Forster sneered at his friend's "snobbish" praises of a titled friend of his, on which came the answer "that he would throw this decanter, &c.," if the speech was repeated. With difficulty and great exertion the thing was made up, and this dinner was a result. Alas! towards the close I actually heard our host somewhat scornfully gibing at his friend, and saw the latter, with great effort, biting his lips and striving hard to restrain himself. A year or so later the poet said to me, "Seen Forster? O, I never see him now."

Forster was a most "tempestuous"

man-a perfect Berserker; yet with Carlyle it was wonderful to see how gentle, how devotional almost, he could be; treating him like some altogether "superman," to use the jargon of our time, attuning his voice to the lowest, sweetest accents, anticipating his every wish, and striving to show gratitude for the condescension of a visit or an accepted dinner. I well recall how the host, in a very delicate way, showed how much he wished to please his guest. After dinner, when the ladies had gone, there was the usual little flourish about "Mr. Carlyle's churchwarden and tobacco," which had been sent out for to a special tobacconist, brought in and laid before him with much formality, we all looking on reverently as he filled the bowl and lit. We looked again as he drew his first inhalation; and a very old-fashioned, and not unpicturesque, figure he presented, sunk in armchair by the fire, with the yard-long clay in his fingers. I and Robert Lytton, thinking there was now a general license, drew forth our cigars and lit up. But we presently heard our host calling from the top of the table in friendly rebuke: "My dear Robert Lytton and Percy, this is all very well, but Mr. Carlyle is one thing-you are another. Anything he pleases to do here he is welcome to do, and I am proud that he does it. He may smoke, but I have not given the privilege to others at this table of mine. You have both taken it on yourselves, without consulting me at all. Well, well, what's done is done. So I suppose you must go on." We, of course, were penitent, but perfectly understood for whom the speech was really intended. And the great Thomas chuckled boarsely to himself, enjoying his friend's humor. This illustrates what now seems a singular social restraintthe law against smoking after dinner. There was something highly musical or melodious in Carlyle's voice which it

was delightful to listen to a sort of chanting or monotone, very rich, rising and falling. The laugh, or "chuckle" was hardly so pleasant, having something bitter and scoffing, a sort of "gibing," as it were.

The dinner was a pleasant one. Our host had the art, from long practice, of keeping all "in movement," and rather skilfully drew out his great friend without unduly pressing him. It was after the ladies had gone that my turn came rather unexpectedly in the shape of a regular bear's hug, much as Bozzy got shaken and mauled at his first presentation to his sage. The Irish Church was being abolished, and the sage declaimed rather vehemently on the topic; but, to our surprise, condemned it as "puir foolish, hasty thing." He spoke in a very interesting way, deploring the loss of the local clergyman who, he protested, "had a vara ceovalizin' influence on the native." He then spoke of the various agitations, repeal of the Union, &c. But when I incautiously ventured to halflaughingly say: "There you have, at least, the logical solution-departure," a perfect coup de théâtre followedcoup de foudre rather. With a look of fury and in hoarse tones he roared out, "We'll joost out every one of yer thraets first." Shall I ever forget the delighted roar of enjoyment that burst from the listeners! They were enchanted, as they told me later-were all infinitely obliged to me for "poking up the old Lion," and I had done so effectively. I forget what reply I made, but I saw that "the old Lion" enjoyed the situation and the general applause.

In the drawing-room I was standing apart-perhaps looking a little rueful after my castigation-when I heard the chime of his fine voice at my ear: "Well, tell me now," he said gently, "and how goes on your account of that wratched creature, Dodd, the forger

And he entered into the matter with apparent or real interest. Here was his little amende for the rough-andtumble onset below. How amiable of him! It reminded me irresistibly of the scene in Boswell's book, of Johnson's rude setting down of Goldy, and of his coming up to him later in the night with some soothing words. "It is much, sir, from you that I can take ill!" I might have replied with Goldy.

I recall yet another interesting night at this same Palace Gate House, where an unbounded hospitality seemed ever to reign. The kindly John had asked me and my two sisters, welltrained musicians, to dine and meet the sage. It was a large party-Mrs. Lehmanns, née Chambers (of Edinburgh) and some more. By a rare stroke I found myself beside the great man, but discovered, rather to my surprise, that he did not encourage talk, being otherwise busy. And the cue was not to disturb him. But at times I would hear him breaking into an odd sotto voce comment-as if to himself-on any statement that caught his ear, as when some Bishop's or Archbishop's proceedings or speeches were mentioned: "Ach! the puir auld dotard!" followed by a sort of ferocious chuckle. This was really very funny, and the drollery was that almost everyone alluded to was invariably described as "a wratched auld dodderin' fule." As he spoke his words were literally addressed to his plate! The cue, however, was to leave him entirely alone.

He had a passion for all national airs -notably for his own, also relishing the Irish-above all, the Marseillaise, Ca ira, and the like. My sisters knew many of these lilts, as did the Scotch lady, so we were likely to have a "field night." My youngest sister, who bad a well-trained voice, knew what was expected, and came prepared with

of Waters, and the rest-with others of a more florid east. I had warned her that the way to the sage's heart was not by "show off" paths, but by appealing to his sympathies; but this advice was not followed. At the close there came a long-sustained chuckling, with a sort of private commentary, addressed half to himself, though not to the singer: "Ach! the puir Tammypuir little Tammy Moore!"-this over again several times. "Puir Tammy! 'call my spirit from this troubled world.' Likely he'd go! Hech! hech!" It would be hard to give an idea of the profound dramatic contempt conveyed in these words. It seemed to say: "That trumpery tatter of a creatur!" To me I confess they seemed convincing, and the "puir Tammy's" reputation was demolished on the spot. "Ach! but then Rabbie Burens!" he broke out again in a deeply admiring fit, adding a clever criticism contrasting the two Bards. He graciously and good-naturedly tried to admire, as one song of "puir Tammy's" came after the other. "Ach! yes, that's pratty wellbut not much, Somehow it does not reach the hairt. Ah! the puir Tammy! hech! hech! hech! wi' his Bulbuls and Bendemeer streams. Hech! hech!"

Then came the turn of the Scottish lady, who was well fitted for her duty, having a genuine national spirit, and putting much native feeling into her songs. Of course she captured the sage, and furnished song after song to his delight and approbation. But when the elder sister, ever a thoughtful, capable person, found herself at the piano, playing snatches of the melodies, straying through the minstrelsy, touching a few snatches here, a few there, hither and thither, by a happy chance the sage called out, "D'ye ken Coulin?" Her answer was to strike up at once in soft appealing chords, and with due feeling