Then I went to see Jedburgh [172] Abbey, in a half ruined corner of which he lies entombed—Lockhart
beside him—a beautiful place, with his own Tweed still running close by, and his Eildon Hills looking on. The man who drove me about showed me a hill which Sir Walter was very fond of visiting, from which he could see over the Border, etc. This hill is between Abbotsford and Jedburgh: [173] and when his Coach horses, who drew his Hearse, got there, to that hill, they could scarce be got on.
My mission to Scotland was done; but some civil pleasant people, whom I met at Abbotsford, made me go with them (under Cook’s guidance) to the Trossachs, Katrine, Lomond, etc., which I did not care at all about; but it only took a day. After which, I came in a day to London, rather glad to be in my old flat land again, with a sight of my old Sea as we came along.
And in London I went to see my dear old Donne, because of wishing to assure myself, with my own eyes, of his condition; and I can safely say he looked better than before his Illness, near two years ago. He had a healthy colour; was erect, alert, and with his old humour, and interest in our old topics. . . .
I looked in at the Academy, as poor a show as ever I had seen, I thought; only Millais attracted me: a Boy with a red Sash: and that old Seaman with his half-dreaming Eyes while the Lassie reads to him. I had no Catalogue: and so thought the Book was—The Bible—to which she was drawing his thoughts, while the sea-breeze through the open
Window whispered of his old Life to him. But I was told afterwards (at Donne’s indeed) that it was some account of a N. W. Passage she was reading. The Roll Call I could not see, for a three deep file of worshippers before it: I only saw the ‘hairy Cap’ as Thackeray in his Ballad, [174] and I supposed one would see all in a Print as well as in the Picture. But the Photo of Miss Thompson herself gives me a very favourable impression of her. It really looks, in face and dress, like some of Sir Joshua’s Women. . . .
Another Miss Austen! Of course under Spedding’s Auspices, the Father of Evil.
From W. H. Thompson to W. A. Wright.
On 17 July 1883, shortly after FitzGerald’s death, the late Master of Trinity wrote to me from Harrogate, ‘As regards FitzGerald’s letters, I have preserved a good many, which I will look through when we return to College. I have a long letter from Carlyle to him, which F. gave me. It is a Carlylesque étude on Spedding, written from dictation by his niece, but signed by the man himself in a breaking hand. The thing is to my mind more characteristic of T. Carlyle than of James Spedding—that “victorious man” as C. calls him. He seems unaware of one distinguishing feature of J. S.’s mind—its subtlety of perception—and the excellence of his English style escapes his critic, whose notices on that subject by the bye would not necessarily command assent.’