200 FRESH FIELDS 



decay. It had doubtless witnessed the extinction 

 of many households before that of the Carlyles. 



My own visit to that house was in one autumn 

 night in 1871. Carlyle was then seventy-six years 

 old, his wife had been dead five years, his work 

 was done, and his days were pitifully sad. He was 

 out taking his after-dinner walk when we arrived, 

 Mr. Conway and I ; most of his walking and riding, 

 it seems, was done after dark, an indication in itself 

 of the haggard and melancholy frame of mind habit- 

 ual to him. He presently appeared, wrapped in a 

 long gray coat that fell nearly to the floor. His 

 greeting was quiet and grandfatherly, and that of 

 a man burdened with his own sad thoughts. I 

 shall never forget the impression his large, long, 

 soft hand made in mine, nor the look of sorrow 

 and suffering stamped upon the upper part of the 

 face, sorrow mingled with yearning compassion. 

 The eyes were bleared and filmy with unshed and 

 unshedable tears. In pleasing contrast to his coarse 

 hair and stiff, bristly, iron-gray beard, was the 

 fresh, delicate color that just touched his brown 

 cheeks, like the tinge of poetry that plays over his 

 own rugged page. I noted a certain shyness and deli- 

 cacy, too, in his manner, which contrasted in the 

 same way with what is alleged of his rudeness and 

 severity. He leaned his head upon his hand, the 

 fingers thrust up through the hair, and, with his 

 elbow resting upon the table, looked across to my 

 companion, who kept the conversation going. This 

 attitude he hardly changed during the two hours 



