shelter of some rocks. were spoken the boat righted, the stress | our disembarking after the squall at of the storm abated, and we got under sea. Froude stooped and gathered a flower, a common pink thing, called, I believe "sea-thrift," or "sea-pink,' and gave it me, with some trifling remark. The matter was only noticeable as occurring after such very near risk of none of the party gathering flowers on "this earthly ball " any more. Then Froude said coldly: "Don't trust to first impressions, Mrs. Ireland!" And he gave me one of his unfavorable, searching looks. The men pulled the boat up into a little cove, and we got out while they put all to rights as well as they could. No emotion whatever was expressed on any side, but one of the men looked pale. We again took our seats in the boat and made for the landing-place. On the homeward sailing, in calm and sunless water, Froude said to me: "You are not afraid of the sea! I had an American gentleman of some note here with me lately, and took him out, and we had a bit of a squall; and this man turned positively green with fear." "He was probably seasick,' " said I. "The lad began spouting some of his most outrageous poems," said Froude, "Oh dear no!" said Froude em- some of his very worst!" And the phatically; "he was in a rage to think narrator smiled bitterly, continuing : that such an important person as him-"We all sat in amazement till he finself was like to meet his death in our ished, when Ruskin, making his way wretched mud-puddle! It was simply through the company, hurried up, and a contemptible consciousness of self took Swinburne fairly in his arms, that made him green." saying, "How beautiful! how divinely beautiful ! " The conversation, on this boating expedition, had turned much upon Arthur Hugh Clough, towards whom Froude evidently felt great affection. Indeed, he spoke of him with real tenderness, and extreme admiration. ness." Froude spoke much and kindly of Matthew Arnold, but contrasted him, in many points, with Clough. Swinburne, it will be remembered, was, at this time, little more than a boy. Words of mine cannot describe the extraordinary beauty of this place, "The Molt," as it appeared to me. Sitting at my bedroom window, I felt I could cast a pebble into the deep blue "Poor Clough!" he said, "his heart was pretty well worn out; he could not have lived any longer, and never would have done any more. His was a fine, spiritual nature, with the high-sea far below. est ideals, the deepest conscientious- Between the house and the sea lie grounds with sloping velvet lawns, close cut and deep in tint; here and there spreading cedar-trees, the ilex, the acacia. On the walls of the house the wisteria, which, however, was not in blossom at the time of my visit; but the Gloire de Dijon roses hung their fragrant blooms, the heliotrope grew like a tree, and one whole wing was loaded with great fragrant magnolia blooms. Winding paths led gradually down to the landing-stage, past an orange garden and many plots of almost "Mat Arnold," he said, “had a useful sort of working conscience, and plenty of smartness, but " and the speaker's eyes became thoughtful and dreamy, and he relapsed into silence. He was often silent after touching on any theme which warmed him. A slight but significant trait marked "Ah-you are not very easy to catch - but who was Cuittickins'?" (Alluded to in several of Mrs. Carlyle's letters.) "That was Bishop Terrot," I reEpiscopalian bishop in Edin plied, burgh." "Ah," said Froude sharply; "but why Cuittikins'?' These I explained to be the tightbuttoned gaiters worn by ecclesiastical dignitaries—and my companion laughed heartily. tropical vegetation. A low, grey stone At length he said, looking keenly wall bounded the pleasure grounds, down at me : and over it the Pampas-grass drooped its heavy heads nearly into the sea beneath! The house itself, large, low, rambling, seems cut out of the living rock, which towers behind it, and is crowned with trees and greenery. The deep purple of the sky reminded me of Italy; the incessant murmur of the sea down below gave me a sense of sadness and of peace. I sat one morning on a garden seat on the terrace overlooking the sloping lawn, with all the marvellous beauty of the place imprinting itself unalterably on my mind. Breakfast was over, and the freedom of an English country-house gave me the opportunity of quiet thought for a while. By and by the Freuch window of Froude's study was pushed open from within, and he walked towards me. It was with a decidedly disparaging and doubtful air that he approached me on the occasion I have alluded to. His step left the crisp, white gravel, and fell on the deep, close turf on which my seat was placed. I said : "I shall always be so glad I came here." "That is what you feel now," he answered pointedly ; "better wait and see what you have to report in a few days!" I looked up, and met what I thought a satirical smile it was rather grue some. On the same morning I said to him, as we sat in the study: "I have formed my own opinions of the character of Jane Welsh Carlyle — and nothing can alter them." "he "I have no wish to alter them,' said shortly. "I am the last person to do so." "With this view," I said, "I have brought with me a lecture written by me for the Literary and Philosophical Society of and delivered quite three months since and dated, as you see. This is my bulwark of defence. For this lecture is the essence of my memoir- if I am to write one-and unless I am wrong in my facts, I shall incorporate it intact in the more permanent form." I then asked permission to read it to him. "It will give you less trouble," said I, "than deciphering my writing and you must hear it, as, if the genuineness of my book is ever questioned, here is my "I don't know what you mean, Mr. Froude," I said, and he laughed out-reply." right. "As to that," he continued, "you see, I am trying to make myself agreeable at present, and so, I suppose, well are you? Later onone can't tell." And he laughed again. Froude assented, and I commenced my hard task. He only stopped me once. It was where, in quoting Miss Jewsbury's account of the scene in St. George's Hospital, I used her expression as to the sweet and smiling calm on the face of the dead woman. Here Froude made a quick action with his In our conversation on the subject of Mrs. Carlyle, Froude questioned me with a pertinacity and a searching in-hand and said : tensity tolerably hard to bear. I, knowing what I had any chance of knowing of this woman's life as closely as my own, bore patiently the almost intolerable ordeal, answering quietly and in as few words as I could. "That is wrongI never saw a sterner face in my life." The reading ended-I sat quietly and Froude said: "Yes, you shall do the book. It wants a woman - and a wife-and a happy wife." world be wrong, but do you be in the right !" "Those are your tactics," I said; "but you surely don't expect me to carry them out ?" He looked at me with some kindness in his eyes, I thought, and said: "No; not you, perhaps." And the matter dropped. Speaking of Arthur Helps on one occasion, Froude said that when Helps first came to visit him, he said: "Now, before we begin, let me ask "I am not clever enough for that," you one question. Do you keep a I replied. "That answer is disingenuous," he said. "Well," said I, "I don't want to write those books. · That's better," said Froude, and turned away. But afterwards he renewed the subject and said: "I am glad you don't come to me saying you think you have a mission, of any kind, or want to remove a veil from the eyes of mistaken humanity on any subject or to do anything grand or philanthropical or that sort of idiotcy. I have heard so much of that kind of thing." "Oh dear no!" I said. "I want to put a little money in my pocket. I have no other motive, and as a publisher asked for the book, I took the necessary steps. Nothing more.' "That's well," said Froude. ner It was a trial to me on several occasions to find myself taking a hand at whist with Mr. Froude as my partand evidently an accomplished player. I, only equal to what is called "family whist," felt myself often at fault, on one occasion making a very decided and stupid blunder. I saw the muscles of Mr. Froude's face contract involuntarily. He was too well-bred to manifest a moment's impatience. "I am sorry I made such a stupid mistake," said I, while the cards were being dealt for the next hand. Then Froude spoke with some shy ness: "Oh, my dear Mrs. Ireland! don't talk like that. Never say you are in the wrong! Let all the rest of the diary ?" No," said Froude, "and 1 never mean to!" "Had "All right," said his guest. you kept a diary, I would never have spoken a word in your presence.” I was impressed with a certain reticence observed by Mr. Froude in speaking of Mrs. Carlyle. We have it in her own letters that she must, at one time, have actually contemplated leaving him. And the idea must have been discussed in Froude's presence. For he said to me that Carlyle had showed remarkable equanimity at the prospect a prospect which might possibly be regarded in the light of a halfjest (one of those jests, however, which have within them a terrible grain of carnest). Carlyle had replied that he was very busy, full of work, and did not think, on the whole, that he should miss her very much ! This proposal and this reply — were they pure jest, or half earnest — had, at any rate, caused keen pain to Mr. Froude, as was seen in his flashing eyes when he told the anecdote, and heard in the vibrations of a voice which bore a singular power of expressing emotion, while an absolute immobility of other manifestation prevailed. He impressed me as an idealist of a very high order, and his truths lay oftentimes deeper than what we are pleased to term facts. He did not wish to tell the world more than it must inevitably know of the vie intime of the Carlyles. He withheld more than can ever now be known. But in forcing himself to the truthful | what is called "The Earl's Walk." and terrible pictures he has given the The pathway seems cut in the side of public, he at least protected these dear the rock overhanging the sea, the friends from the utterly unscrupulous rocky sides clothed with greenery, and monstrous distortions that would while arching shrubs make almost a certainly have been presented by some darkness broken only now and then by sensational writer or other, who, with opener spaces; the sun shone in golden half the truth and an unbridled real-arrows here and there, and the deep ism, would have produced a portrait murmur of the water below was never for the world to gape at and gaze at. quite lost. Now and then came રી The position was a hard one, but vision of the whole scene-point and Froude never flinched. We have only headland and bay, one after the other to remember Mrs. Stowe's theories about Byron and Lady Leigh to illustrate our meaning. Speaking of "humbug," Froude said: “Of course, there always must be humbug while the world lasts." "Yes," I said, "there must be selfdeceivers, at any rate, but not necessarily those who deliberately and knowingly wish to deceive others." "Well," he replied, "if the people first deceive themselves, they naturally take in others." "But," said I, "there is surely a choice between the blindness of selfdeception and the cold and calculated deception imposed upon the unwary ?" And Froude laughed and said: "I suppose there is a choice; but the clever deceivers have one merit, at least they have an object in view the others are generally such fools." very exquisite and harmonious. The talk was desultory. At a sudden turn in the winding path we came on a party of six or seven pedestrians, ladies and gentlemen, headed by a lady, whọ, introducing her friends and her husband, expressed much disappointment at finding Mr. Froude bound for a walk, and not "at home" that particular afternoon. "You see," said she, when one has friends down from town, one has but two attractions to offer the fine scenery, and a call on Mr. Froude." This speech was perhaps not altogether a wise one. But the company had driven some miles, and left their carriage at and then walked some miles, and now found themselves within twenty minutes' walk of their avowed object. They were doubtless literary people, too, an Oxford professor or so, and a recently returned Indian warrior, the names only heard by me, and now forgotten. But Froude could not be "lionized." "I have was not a man to "show his paces." He responded with perfect courtesy to the appeals made to him, and said quietly : On one occasion the talk turned on Roman Catholicism-the priesthood. "I don't like them," said Froude; "but perhaps you do.” "Not at all," I answered. no leaning that way." "Ah! so you say," said Froude, with a keen glance at me. "But I dare say they will make a convert you yet." will." of He "It's rather unfortunate, but I wish to open this part of the country to my friend, Mrs. and I must go a little And he laughed. No," ," I said sternly, "they never further round the Point; but my daughter will be delighted to go back with you to the Molt." And, raising his cap, he made his adieux. "I'm glad to hear you say so," was his rejoinder; "but I should enjoy it immensely if they did convert you, and then I should have a little talk with you on the subject.' I had stood back, and now wondered if I should say, "Pray don't consider me in the matter." But instinct told One lovely afternoon, just before I me that such a speech would be ridiculeft, we started on a walk-Miss lous, and would expose me to a sharp Froude, Mr. Froude, and I-through and well-deserved snub. It was not I, essentially not I, who was being considered. Mr. Froude simply did not choose to be forced to entertain his friends' friends. And he was right. So I held my peace. We walked along with very little conversation. But, on our return, the whole party were seated on the lawn, and footmen were bringing out afternoon tea, fruit, etc., and I went to my own room. The visit was not a long one. The next day I left the Molt. But more than once I had occasion to see Mr. Froude at his house in Onslow Gardens, and had further opportunity of studying that deeply interesting personality. "It's a horrid-looking thing," I said, "whoever it is." "Atrocious! "" said Mr. Froude emphatically. "Is it not? Well, I'm sorry to say it's a bust of myself, just presented to me by Sir Edgar Boehm. Very kind of him, wasn't it? And now, of course, I have to stick it up there in a very prominent place, and show it to all my friends. Pleasant, isn't it?" "Boehm doesn't see you with my | eyes,” said I. "It doesn't remind me of you in the least." And he laughed heartily, and said : "That's well! I didn't think I was quite such a ruffian as that!" An awkward incident marked one of Froude rarely spoke of having known these calls of mine. It happened that Mrs. Carlyle, and I was left to infer I had been at the Kensington Mu- whether he saw her often or seldom, seum a few days before, examining and whether it was friendship or mere Greek models, reproductions of various acquaintance that formed the tie beantique, and sometimes not very attrac-tween them; or whether he had letters tive, classic torsos and casts of cele- from her, or had ever possessed her brated statues. confidence in any way. Mr. Froude accompanied me on one occasion and told me much about what interested him. Some weeks later, I had been at luncheon with him and his family in their own home, and, the meal over, the ladies had just bid me good-bye, as I had some literary ques-her. tions to ask of Mr. Froude. He and I me, in so many words. were just adjourning to the library, when he stopped a moment, and, pointing out a bust on a bookcase, the centre of three full-sized and dignified representations in marble, he said: Once only did he speak more personally of her while I was with him, saying: "At any rate, she told me I was the only one of her husband's friends who had not made love to her." He certainly felt a deep compassion for But it was never expressed to "I must not forget to show you the very latest addition to my treasures. What do you think of it ?" I looked up, and, with my head full of the galleries and museums I had been visiting, said : you. [In a letter to Mr. Ireland, Mr. Froude thus spoke of the "Life of Mrs. Carlyle :" In indifferent health, and under conditions "You may well be proud of Mrs. Ireland. severe and trying, she has executed a most difficult and delicate work with remarkable success. Her own generous and enthusiastic sympathy with her subject alone could have enabled her to go through with it. The book can have done nothing but good. Some day or other the world will under "It's a very terrible head. and most stand Carlyle's own action in preparing repellent." "Yes," he said, "I with agree Now, who should you say it is?" I, being ignorant about these things, answered vaguely : Nero, perhaps, or one of the Borgias ?" old know these memoirs, and will see in it the finest illustration of his own character. Mrs. Ireland has brought that day appreciably I rarely or never read literary criticisms in newspapers. They are mainly nearer. written to order by persons who know nothing of what they are writing about. They are, however, the echoes of the public opinion of the time, and so far as I have seen, Mrs. Ireland and you may be well satisfied. To yourself, as so old a friend |