“Here likewise now rests
Jane Welsh Carlyle,
Spouse of Thomas Carlyle, Chelsea, London.
She was born at Haddington, 14th July, 1800,
The only child of the above John Welsh,
And of Grace Welsh, Caplegill,
Dumfriesshire, his wife.
In her bright existence she
Had more sorrows than are common, but also a soft
Invincibility and clearness of discernment, and a noble
Loyalty of heart which are rare. For 40 years she was
The true and ever-loving helpmate of her husband,
And by act and word unwearily forwarded him as none
Else could, in all of worthy, that he did or attempted.
She died at London on the 21st April, 1866,
Suddenly snatched away from him, and
The light of his life, as if gone out.”
I believe the above to be a pretty correct version of this strange inscription, though the last line seems to read hard.
There is a quaint old three-arched bridge spanning the river near the cathedral, and in it, if the tourist looks up on the side next the ruin, he will notice a large hook. On this hook culprits used to be hanged. They got no six-foot drop in those days, but were simply run up as sailors run up the jib-sail, the slack of the rope was belayed to something, and they were left to kick until still and quiet in death.
A visit to a celebrated pigeonry was a pleasant change from the churchyard damp and the gloom of that ruined cathedral. Mr Coalston is a famous breeder of pigeons of many different breeds. The houses are very large, and are built to lean against a tall brick wall. The proprietor seemed pleased to show me his lovely favourites, and put them up in great flocks in their aviaries or flights.
So successful has this gentleman been in his breeding that the walls are entirely covered with prize cards.
He loves his pigeons; and here in the garden near them he has built himself an arbour and smoking-room, from the windows of which he has them all in view.
We started about two pm. I would willingly have gone sooner, but the Wanderer was surrounded on the square by a crowd of the most pleasant and kindly people I ever met in my life. Of course many of these wanted to come in, so for nearly an hour I held a kind of levée. Nor did my visitors come empty-handed; they brought bouquets of flowers and baskets of strawberries and gooseberries, to say nothing of vegetables and eggs. Even my gentle Jehu John was not forgotten, and when at length we rolled away on our road to Musselburgh, John had a bouquet in his bosom as large as the crown of his hat.
God bless old Haddington, and all the kindly people in it!