THOMAS CAKLYLE. 369 



cushion to protect him from the rude collisions of the 

 world. The late Mr. Venables, whose judgment on 

 such a . point may be trusted, often spoke to me of 

 Carlyle's extraordinary power of conversation. In bis 

 noon of life it was without a parallel. And now, with 

 the floodgates of grief fully opened, that power rose to 

 a height which it had probably never attained before. 

 Three or four times during the narrative he utterly 

 broke down. I could see the approach of the crisis, 

 and prepare for it. After thus giving way, a few 

 sympathetic words would cause him to rapidly pull 

 himself together, and resume the flow of his discourse. 

 I subsequently tried to write down what he said, but I 

 will not try to reproduce it here. While he thus spoke 

 to me, all that remained of his wife lay silent in an 

 adjoining room. 



His house was left unto him desolate. Sympathy 

 from all quarters flowed towards him, but it seemed 

 to do him little good. His whole life was wrapped in 

 mourning. I think it probable that in the lamenta- 

 tions which have reached the public through the 

 * Eeminiscences,' he did himself wrong. His was a 

 temper very likely to exaggerate his shortcomings; 

 very likely to blame himself to excess for his over- 

 absorption in his work, and his too great forgetfulness 

 of his wife. The figure of Johnson standing bareheaded 

 in the market-place of Lichfield, to atone for some 

 failure of duty to his father, fascinated Carlyle ; and 

 now in his hour of woe he imitated Johnson, not by 

 baring his head, but by lacerating his heart. They 

 had had their differences -due probably more to her 

 vivid and fanciful imaginings than to anything else. 

 He, however, took the whole blame upon himself. It 

 was loving and chivalrous, but I doubt whether it was 

 entirely just. I think it likely that in her later 



