GREAT BRITAIN SIXTY YEARS AGO (_Continued_)
_Carlyle--Mrs. Baillie--The Young Queen--Napoleon_
One of the lions of whom I was in pursuit was Thomas Carlyle. Very few
Americans at that time had ever seen him, for he lived a very secluded
and laborious life in a little brick house at Chelsea, in the southwest
of London; and he rarely kept open doors. His life was the opposite to
that of Dickens and Macaulay, and he was never lionized, except when he
went to Edinburgh to deliver his address before the University, years
afterwards. I sent him a note in which I informed him of the
enthusiastic admiration which we college students felt for him, and that
I desired to call and pay him my respects. To my note he responded
promptly: "You will be welcome to-morrow at three o'clock, the hour when
I become accessible in my garret here." I found his "garret" to be a
comfortable front room on the second floor of his modest home. It was
well lined with books, and a portrait of Oliver Cromwell hung behind his
study chair. He was seated at his table with a huge German volume open
before him. His greeting was very hearty, but, with a comical look of
surprise, he said in broad Scotch: "You are a verra young mon." I told
him of the appetite we college boys had for his books, and he assured me
at once that while he had met some of our eminent literary men he had
never happened to meet a college boy before. "Your Mr. Longfellow," said
he, "called to see me yesterday. He is a man skilled in the tongues.
Your own name I see is Dootch. The word 'Cuyler' means a delver, or one
who digs underground. You must be a Dutchman." I told him that my
ancestors had come over from Holland a couple of centuries ago, and I
was proud of my lineage; for my grandfather, Glen Cuyler, was a
descendant of Hendrick Cuyler, one of the early Dutch settlers of
Albany, who came there in 1667. "Ah," said he, "the Dootch are the
brawvest people of modern times. The world has been rinnin' after a red
rag of a Frenchman; but he was nothing to William the Silent. When
Pheelip of Spain sent his Duke of Alva to squelch those Dutchmen they
joost squelched him like a rotten egg--aye, _they did_."
I asked him why he didn't visit America, and told him that I had
observed his name registered at Ambleside, on Lake Windermere. "Nae,
nae," said he, "I never scrabble my name in public places." I explained
that it was on the hotel register that I had seen "Thomas Carlyle." "It
was not mine," he replied, "I never travel only when I ride on a horse
in the teeth of the wind to get out of this smoky London. I would like
to see America. You may boast of your Dimocracy, or any other 'cracy, or
any other kind of political roobish, but the reason why your laboring
folk are so happy is that you have a vast deal of land for a very few
people." In this racy, picturesque vein he ran on for an hour in the
most cordial, good humor. He was then in his prime, hale and athletic,
with a remarkably keen blue eye, a strong lower jaw and stiff iron gray
hair, brushed up from a capacious forehead; and he had a look of a
sturdy country deacon dressed up on a Sunday morning for church. He was
very carefully attired in a new suit that day for visiting, and, as I
rose to leave, he said to me: "I am going up into London and I will walk
wi' ye." We sallied out and he strode the pavement with long strides
like a plowman. I told him I had just come from the land of Burns, and
that the old man at the native cottage of the poet had drunk himself to
death by drinking to the memory of Burns.
At this Carlyle laughed loudly, and remarked: "Was that the end of him?
Ah, a wee bit drap will send a mon a lang way." He then told me that
when he was a lad he used to go into the Kirkyard at Dumfries and,
hunting out the poet's tomb, he loved to stand and just read over the
name--"Rabbert Burns"--"Rabbert Burns." He pronounced the name with deep
reverence. That picture of the country lad in his earliest act of
hero-worship at the grave of Burns would have been a good subject for
the pencil of Millais or of Holman Hunt. At the corner of Hyde Park I
parted from Mr. Carlyle, and watched him striding away, as if, like the
De'il in "Tam O'Shanter," he had "business on his hand."
Thirty years afterwards, in June, 1872, I felt an irrepressible desire
to see the grand old man once more, and I accordingly addressed him a
note requesting the favor of a few minutes' interview. His reply was,
perhaps, the briefest letter ever written. It was simply:
"Three P.M.
T.C."
He told me afterwards that his hand had become so tremulous that he
seldom touched a pen. My beloved friend, the Rev. Newman Hall, asked the
privilege of accompanying me, as, like most Londoners, he had never put
his eye on the recluse philosopher. We found the same old brick house,
No. 5 Cheyne Row, Chelsea, without the slightest change outside or in.
But, during those thirty years the gifted wife had departed, and a sad
change had come over the once hale, stalwart man. After we had waited
some time, a feeble, stooping figure, attired in a long blue flannel
gown, moved slowly into the room. His gray hair was unkempt, his blue
eyes were still keen and piercing, and a bright hectic spot of red
appeared on each of his hollow cheeks. His hands were tremulous, and his
voice deep and husky. After a few personal inquiries the old man
launched out into a most extraordinary and characteristic harangue on
the wretched degeneracy of these evil days. The prophet, Jeremiah, was
cheerfulness itself in comparison with him. Many of the raciest things
he regaled us with were entirely too personal for publication. He amused
us with a description of half a night's debate with John Bright on
political economy, while he said, "Bright theed and thoud with me for
hours, while his Quaker wife sat up hearin' us baith. I tell ye, John
Bright _got_ as gude as he _gie_ that night"; and I have no doubt that
he did.
Most of his extraordinary harangue was like an eruption of Vesuvius, but
the laugh he occasionally gave showed that he was talking about as much
for his own amusement as for ours. He was terribly severe on Parliament,
which he described as "endless babblement and windy talk--the same
hurdy-gurdies grinding out lies and inanities." The only man he had ever
heard in Parliament that at all satisfied him was the Old Iron Duke. "He
gat up and stammered away for fifteen minutes; but I tell ye, he was the
only mon in Parliament who gie us any credible portraiture of the
facts." He looked up at the portrait of Oliver Cromwell behind him, and
exclaimed with great vehemence: "I ha' gone doon to the verra bottom of
Oliver's speeches, and naething in Demosthenes or in any other mon will
compare wi' Cromwell in penetrating into the veritable core of the fact.
Noo, Parliament, as they ca' it, is joost everlasting babblement and
lies." We led him to discuss the labor question and the condition of the
working classes. He said that the turmoil about labor is only "a lazy
trick of master and man to do just as little honest work and to get just
as much for it as they possibly can--that is the labor question." It did
my soul good, as a teetotaler, to hear his scathing denunciation of the
liquor traffic. He was fierce in his wrath against "the horrible and
detestable damnation of whuskie and every kind of strong drink." In this
strain the thin and weird looking old Iconoclast went on for an hour
until he wound up with declaring, "England has joost gane clear doon
into an abominable cesspool of lies, shoddies and shams--down to a
bottomless _damnation_. Ye may gie whatever meaning to that word that ye
like." He could not refrain from laughing heartily himself at the
conclusion of this eulogy on his countrymen. If we had not known that
Mr. Carlyle had a habit of exercising himself in this kind of talk, we
should have felt a sort of consternation. As it was we enjoyed it as a
postscript to "Sartor Resartus" or the "Latter Day" pamphlets, and
listened and laughed accordingly. As we were about parting from him with
a cordial and tender farewell, my friend, Newman Hall, handed him a copy
of his celebrated little book, "Come to Jesus," Mr. Carlyle, leaning
over his table, fixed his eye upon the inscription on the outside of the
booklet, and as we left the room, we heard him repeating to himself the
title "Coom to Jesus--Coom to Jesus."
About Carlyle's voluminous works, his glorious eulogies of Luther, Knox
and Cromwell, his vivid histories, his pessimistic utterances, his
hatred of falsehood and his true, pure and laborious life, I have no
time or space to write. He was the last of the giants in one department
of British literature. He will outlive many an author who slumbers in
the great Abbey. I owe him grateful thanks for many quickening,
stimulating thoughts, and shall always be thankful that I grasped the
strong hand of Thomas Carlyle.
One of the literary celebrities to whom I had credentials was the
venerable Mrs. Joanna Baillie, not now much read, but then well known
from her writings and her intimacy with Sir Walter Scott, and to whom
Lockhart devotes a considerable space in the biography. Her residence
was in Hampstead, and I was obliged, after leaving the omnibus, to walk
nearly a mile across open fields which are now completely built over by
mighty London. The walk proved a highly profitable one from the society
of an intelligent stranger who, like every true English gentleman, when
properly approached, was led to give all the information in his power.
When I reached the suburban village of Hampstead, after passing over
stiles and through fields, I at last succeeded in finding her residence,
a quiet little cottage, with a little parlor which had been honored by
some of the first characters of our age. "The female Shakespeare," as
she was sometimes called in those days, was at home and tripped into the
room with the elastic step of a girl, although she was considerably over
three score years and ten. She was very petite and fair, with a sweet
benignant countenance that inspired at once admiration and affection.
Almost her first words to me were: "What a pity you did not come ten
minutes sooner; for if you had you would have seen Mr. Thomas Campbell,
who has just gone away." I was exceedingly sorry to have missed a sight
of the author of "Hohenlinden" and the incomparable "Battle of the
Baltic," but was quite surprised that he was still seeking much society;
for in those days he was lamentably addicted to intoxicants. On more
than one public occasion he was the worse for his cups; and when, after
his death, a subscription was started to place his statue in Westminster
Abbey, Samuel Rogers, the poet, cynically said, "Yes, I will gladly give
twenty pounds any day to see dear old Tom Campbell stand steady on his
legs." It is a matter of congratulation that the most eminent men of the
Victorian era have not fallen into some of the unhappy habits of their
predecessors at the beginning of the last century. Mrs. Baillie
entertained me with lively descriptions of Sir Walter Scott, and of her
old friend, Mr. Wordsworth, who was her guest whenever he came up to
London. She expressed the warmest admiration for the moral and
political, though not all of the religious, writings of our Dr.
Channing, whom she pronounced the finest essayist of the time. She also
felt a curious interest (which I discovered in many other notable people
in England) to learn what she could in regard to our American Indians,
and expressed much admiration when I gave her some quotations from the
picturesque eloquence of our sons of the forest.
Every American who visited London in those days felt a laudable
curiosity to see the young Queen, who had been crowned but four years
before. I went up to Windsor Castle, and after inspecting it, joined a
little group of people who were standing at the gateway which leads out
to the Long Drive and Virginia Water. They were waiting to get a look at
the young Queen, who always drove out at four o'clock. Presently the
gate opened and a low carriage, preceded by three horsemen, passed
through. It contained a plump baby, nearly two years of age, wrapped in
a buff cloak and held up in the arms of its nurse. That baby became the
Empress Dowager of Germany, the mother of the present Kaiser and of
Prince Henry, who has lately been our guest. In a few minutes afterwards
a pony phaeton, with two horses, passed through the gate and we all
doffed our hats. It was driven by handsome young Prince Albert, dressed
in a gray overcoat and silk hat. To this day I think of him as about the
most captivating young husband that I have ever seen. By his side sat
his young wife, dressed in a small white bonnet with pink feather and
wrapped in a white shawl. Her complexion was exceedingly fresh and fair.
Her light brown hair was dressed in the "Grecian" style, and as she
bowed gracefully I observed the peculiarity of her smile--that she
showed her teeth very distinctly. This resulted from the shortness of
her upper lip. "A pretty girl she is too" was the remark I heard from
the visitors as the carriage went on down the drive. That was my first
glimpse of royalty, and I little dreamed that she was to be the longest
lived sovereign that ever sat on the British throne, and the most
popular woman in all modern times.
Thirty years rolled away and I saw the good Queen again. The Albert
Memorial, erected to the handsome Prince Consort, whom she idolized, had
just been completed, and one morning the Queen came incognito to make
her first private inspection of the memorial. Through the intimation of
a friend I hurried at once to the Park, and found a small company of
people gathered there. Her Majesty had just come, accompanied by Prince
Arthur, the Princess Louise and the young Princess Beatrice; and they
were examining the gorgeous new structure. The Queen wore a plain black
silk dress and her children were very plainly attired, so that they
looked like a group of good, honest republicans. The only evidence of
royalty was that the company of gentlemen who were pointing out to the
Queen the various beauties of the monument just completed were careful
not to turn their backs upon Her Majesty. I observed that when her
children bade her "good morning" they kneeled and kissed her hand. She
remained sitting in her carriage for some time, chatting and laughing
with her daughter Beatrice. Her countenance had become very florid and
her figure very stout. The last time that I saw her driving in the Park
her full, rubicund face made her look not only like the venerable
grandmother of a host of descendants, but of the whole vast empire on
which the sun never sets. Last year the most beloved sovereign that has
ever occupied the British throne was laid in the gorgeous mausoleum at
Frogmore beside the husband of her youth and the sharer of twenty-two
years of happy and holy wedlock. All Christendom was a mourner beside
that royal tomb.
From London I went on a very brief visit to Paris, at the time when
Louis Phillipe was at the height of his power and apparently securely
seated on his throne. Within a half a dozen years from that time he was
a refugee in disguise, and the kingdom of France was followed by the
Republic of Lamartine. My brief visit to Paris was made more agreeable
by the fact that my kinsman, the Hon. Henry Ledyard, was then in charge
of the American Embassy, in the absence of his father-in-law, General
Lewis Cass, our Ambassador, who had returned to America for a visit. The
one memorable incident of that brief sojourn in Paris that I shall
recall was a visit to the tomb of Napoleon, whose remains had been
brought home the year before from the Island of St. Helena. Passing
through the Place de la Concord and crossing the Seine, a ten minutes'
walk brought me to the Hospital des Invalides. I reached it in the
morning when the court in front was filled with about three hundred
veterans on an early parade. Many of them were the shattered relics of
Napoleon's Grand Army--glorious old fellows in cocked hats and long blue
coats, and weather-beaten as the walls around them. After a few moments
I hurried into the Rotunda, which is nearly one hundred feet in height,
surrounded by six small recesses, or alcoves. "Where is Napoleon?" said
I to one of the sentinels. "There," said he, pointing to a recess, or
small chapel, hung with dark purple velvet and lighted by one glimmering
lamp. I approached the iron railing and, there before me, almost within
arm's length, in the marble coffin covered by his gray riding coat of
Marengo, lay all that was mortal of the great Emperor. At his feet was a
small urn containing his heart, and upon it lay his sword and the
military cap worn at the battle of Eylau. Beside the coffin was gathered
a group of tattered banners captured by him in many a victorious fight.
Three gray-haired veterans, whose breasts were covered with medals, were
pacing slowly on guard in front of the alcove. I said to them in French:
"Were you at Austerlitz?" "Oui, oui," they said. "Were you at Jena?"
"Oui, oui." "At Wagram?" "Oui, oui," they replied. I lingered long at
the spot, listening to the inspiring strains of the soldiery without,
and recalling to my mind the stirring days when the lifeless clay beside
me was dashing forward at the head of those very troops through the
passes of the Alps and over the bridge at Lodi. It seemed to me as a
dream, and I could scarcely realize that I stood within a few feet of
the actual body of that colossal wonder-worker whose extraordinary
combination of military and civil genius surpassed that of any other man
in modern history. And yet, when all shall be summoned at last before
the Great Tribunal, a Wilberforce, a Shaftesbury, or an Abraham Lincoln
will never desire to change places with him.