220 A SUNDAY IN CHEYNE ROW. 



signs of decay. It had doubtless witnessed the ex- 

 tinction of many households before that of the Car- 

 lyles. 



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. 

 Con way 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 habitual 

 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 bur- 

 dened with his own sad thoughts. I shall never for- 

 get 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 cer- 

 tain shyness and delicacy 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. 



