imple' on her nose, which distressed her sorely, did not lienate her admirers. Damn your nose,' said Anthony sterling, to whom she complained of the annoyance, 'for sensible woman you have really the oddest ideas! As anybody really attached to you could love you an om less if you were all covered over with smallpox!' Yet the letters of the last twenty-five years of her life re not those of a happy woman. If this new collection, hich belongs to the period 1839-63, stood alone, or were ken with absolute literalness, it might be thought that ings were worse with her than, in all probability, they ally were. Allowances must be made. Some of the tters were written in the morbid mood of ill-health. others, as Mr Huxley reminds us, she uses the languge of humorous exaggeration in writing to a niece who ad been an inmate of Carlyle's household and an eyeitness of his wife's domestic troubles. Yet, in spite of iscounting much that appears on the surface of the tters, they do, as we turn the pages, strengthen the npression that we are the spectators of the tragedy of woman's heart. It was not that she seriously doubted arlyle's deep affection for her. But, as penurious of raise as he was of pence, he was too self-centred to be nsiderate or to pay those small tributes of recognition hich mean much to a wife. Toiling for him from orning to night, mending his clothes, cooking, cleaning, pholstering, and papering and painting with her own ands, her Cinderella-like labours were grudgingly cepted as something less than his due. She was arved for the expression of affection or approval from le man whom she admired and loved.

Great books are not written without blood and tears, or is it always only the writer who weeps and bleeds. abit and custom had done something for Mrs Carlyle, ough they never subdued the fatal romance' of her aracter. She had passed beyond the dreary helpless' age of 'first unlearning to be a much-made-of Only Child.' at her 'fur-mantle of imperturbability' was not always oof against the winter of our discontent' which set when a book was being written. These were indeed mes of tribulation. Carlyle, never easy to live with, ust have been almost intolerable to the inmates of his usehold. He ought to have had, says Mrs Carlyle,

'a strong-minded woman for wife, with a perfectly sound liver, plenty of solid fat, and mirth and good humour world a without end-men do best with their opposites. I am too like himself in some things-especially as to the state of our livers, and so we aggravate one another's tendencies to at despair!'

the e

The fattest and strongest-minded of women might have endured the 'sulphury and brimstoneish' atmosphere of o one of the periods of composition with more philosophic fee calm; she could not have described these occasions withiand more vivacity.

to b

secc

ing E

'Carlyle,' says his wife, 'is now got about as deep in the Hell of his Cromwell as he is likely to get-there is a certain is cr point of irritability and gloom, which, when attained, I say f to myself now soul take thy ease-such ease as thou canst mi get for nothing worse can well be!" Desperation in that proo case induces a sort of content.'

66

Or again:

hole

bi

his co

Thank

ment

fa

ressin ad of nds,

from

'The Cromwell-turmoil is again subsiding.. God! and now I hope we shall really be done with that man if he had been my husband's own Father he could not have gone thro' more hardship for him! We have lived in the valley of the shadow of Cromwell now, as of Death, for some three years. But everything comes to an end if one have patience. What is to come next Heaven knows.'

or su

Ter

ter w

igate

moria

ching ght a

at b

In

At times like these, Carlyle was 'a man of sorrows not acquainted with silence-tho' he does love it platonically Even when some 'Reign of Terror,' established by the writing of a book, was not raging at its full height, there were other permanent troubles. Carlyle belonged, said his wife, to the perplexed and perplexing section of humanity,' to whom the difficulty of realising thei desires is small, compared with the difficulty of ascertain ing for themselves what their real desires are.' Incessant changes of plans exercised Mrs Carlyle's patience sorely She found it impossible to live a rational, never to say the th a contented life' in a state of always 'hanging in the wind.' Nor, if she had really been the kind of woman who could never overlook 'Want of Elegance,' would

are

Measa

she have always been satisfied with her husband's appear buy

ance. Carlyle was in the habit of stuffing his ears with cotton wool to shut out the sound.

6

'C's hair,' writes his wife, is creeping slowly over the ops of his ears, but that is all the way it has got. Meanwhile the cotton is still used for one ear-in which, however, never stays long, but is generally to be seen (not without stonishment by the uninitiated) sticking, a small white ellet, at the end of some stray hair-for all the world like a now berry.'

On the other hand, there are abundant signs of utual affection and good understanding between usband and wife. She knew that he could always be alied on to be 'good on great occasions'; she wrote to im every second day when he was absent, defended him gainst his critics, treasured his sayings, took pride in is growing fame, noted with satisfaction the signs of he Millennium-attentions from Booksellers are more fallible proof of rise in the world for people in our line han a whole string of coroneted carriages at the door.' he helped him to choose his pipes. He even trusted her order his coats and trousers, till, one day, she ordered coat of Sky blue and yellow buttons which made him a ornament to Society in every direction'-and quite look his faith in my judgement (he told me)" so far the dressing of him was concerned." He, on his side, as proud of her social gifts, of her popularity with his en friends, nicknamed her 'Destroyer of the peace of milies' from the number of wives whom she made alous, or suddenly exclaimed, as she was sitting halfwake over her coffee, just to look at you there, looking if butter would not melt in your mouth, and think of e profligate life you lead!' Readers of the Letters id Memorials of Jane Welsh Carlyle' will remember r touching letter (No. 87, July 14, 1846) expressing delight at a birthday present of a card-case, and her morse at having, for a moment, thought herself fortten. In the new collection of letters two similar esents are recorded, and the explanation given illusates the thoughtful kindness of Carlyle. It shows him a pleasant light. So sacred' was his horror of opping,' that he was 'puzzled to buy his own indispensles.' It needed no ordinary effort for such a man, not ly to buy but to devise a gift. Yet, after the death Mrs Welsh, in order that his wife might feel less solate on such anniversaries as her birthdays and New Vol. 242.-No. 480.

.

Year's Day, Carlyle made a practice of giving her presents on these occasions. For Christmas, 1847, he had

were

mtere

in a fit of audacity almost incredible chosen to buy a cloak a woman's cloak. . . . he was much consoled by my assurance that it could be worn. He had bought it by gas light, he said, and "felt quite desperate about it when he saw it in the morning." But it is a wonderful cloak for him to have bought-warm and not very ugly-and a good Row, i shape.'

turned

e

Car

The letters contain many details about Carlyle's friendship with Lady Ashburton. Mrs Carlyle was by no means always blind to the comedy of the situations dr She notes with amused satisfaction that Lady Ashburton at has set up for t

for wh

only

ake hi

wald 1

'a green parrot to which she pays the most marked attention even in spite of his calling it a green chimera. And th Parrot does not mind interrupting him when he is speakin -does not fear to speak thro' him (as the phrase is) and he Ladyship listens to the parrot-even when C is saying th most sensible things! By Heaven she is the very cleveres woman I ever saw or heard of."'

above

profes

am Sin, m

.it

be to

fred

And

Nor, whatever Mrs Carlyle might write in privatple letters to her cousin, did she wear her heart on he sleeve. Waiting for dinner at a party given by Dickening 'old Rogers, who ought to have been buried long ago, so of humi and ill-natured he is grown, said to me, pointing to a cha beside him, "Sit down, my dear,-I want to ask you; is you husband as much infatuated as ever with Lady Ashburton? "Oh, of course," I said laughing, "why shouldn't he?" "No -do you like her-tell me honestly is she kind to youkind as she is to your husband?" Why you know it Pl impossible for me to know how kind she is to my husband but I can say she is extremely kind to me and I should stupid and ungrateful if I did not like her." "Humph! (di appointedly) Well! it is very good of you to like her whe she takes away all your husband's company from you-he always there isn't he?" "Oh gracious no! (still laughin admirably) he writes and reads a great deal in his ow study." "But he spends all his evenings with her I told?" "No-not all-for example you see he is here th evening." "Yes," he said in a tone of vexation, "I see he here this evening-and hear him too-for he has done nothin but talk across the room since he came in." Very devili

with

at lea

Cons

was

Mares

ld man! but he got no satisfaction to his devilishness out If me.".

Whatever may have been the trials of Mrs Carlyle's fe, there were compensations. As the Man of Genius's Vife'-it is her own phrase-she lived among some of The most interesting men of the day. If they came to heyne Row, in the first instance, to see Carlyle, not few returned to see his wife. Alfred Tennyson was ne of those who did so. On the first occasion, he had ome to see Carlyle who was dining out.

'Alfred is dreadfully embarrassed with women alone-for entertains at one and the same moment a feeling of almost doration for them and an ineffable contempt! adoration I Ippose for what they might be-contempt for what they re! The only chance of my getting any right good of him as to make him forget my womanness-so I did just what arlyle would have done, had he been there; got out pipes ad tobacco-and brandy and water-with a deluge of tea ver and above. The effect of these accessories was miracuus-he professed to be ashamed of polluting my room, lt, he said, as if he were stealing cups and sacred vessels the Temple"-but he smoked all the same-for three ortal hours!-talking like an angel-only exactly as if he ere talking with a clever man.'

66

The humility of the attitude of a clever woman wards a man, and, perhaps, even the adoration for nnyson, may strike some people as early Victorian. nyhow, it was not long before Tennyson came again— is time to see Mrs Carlyle and not her husband. At an mateur Play,' in which Dickens and Forster acted, she let Alfred Tennyson in the lobby-and that was the best it! And better still he came to take tea and talk and oke with me-me-by myself me-the following evening such at least was his intention, not a little flattering to my nity considering his normal state of indolence-but the ult was that he found Creek (Craik) and John (Carlyle) ́d they made a mess of it. "The Devil fly away with them th."

Interesting figures, vivaciously described, appear in e letters, or take part in improvised dinner-parties at leyne Row. Mazzini and other political refugees, pecially Godefroi Cavaignac, drop in at all hours of