It was on the death of his wife that Carlyle’s attached friend, Louisa, Lady Ashburton,[[74]] knowing the state of grief into which he was plunged by the sudden blow, persuaded him to come out to Mentone to pass some weeks with her in a charming villa not far from the hotel, La Grande Bretagne, where I was staying with Lady Marian Alford, and her son, the late Lord Brownlow. During the early part of the winter there had been daily intercourse between the Villa and the Hotel, and Lady Ashburton, anxious to distract the mourner’s mind, and give a new turn to his thoughts, induced him with herself to become a constant associate in our walks and drives, and to dine and pass the evening very frequently at the Hotel, and while away the hours in delightful conversation with the mother and son to whom I have before alluded. It was thus I learned to know and love Carlyle, of whose genius I had so long been an ardent admirer, that it was an easy transition from mere acquaintance to intimate friendship.
[74]. Louisa Caroline, daughter of the Right Honourable James A. Stewart-Mackenzie; married William, second Lord Ashburton.
Our visit to Mentone came to a sad and abrupt close through the sudden death of Lord Brownlow, one of the most gifted, single-minded, unselfish beings it was ever my privilege to meet. On the day previous to his death he rode, as was his wont, his favourite cob through the pretty woods of Cap St Martin, accompanied by myself, two other lady friends, and Carlyle, on foot. It was a beautiful scene, and a beautiful calm evening, and Carlyle wrote a most touching account of that last ride, which he said was a beautiful close to a beautiful life.
I met him afterwards in more than one country house in England, and when we were together in London I was in the constant habit of knocking at the door in Cheyne Row at the hour when I knew I should have the chance of enjoying the society which I prized so highly.
In one respect, and one alone, he reminded me of Walter Savage Landor, and that was the violent invectives in which he not infrequently indulged against persons, places, and opinions—a habit with which the readers of his life have become alas! too familiar. I say alas! because I think the injudicious publication of such exaggerated expressions through the cold medium of printed words, conveys a most erroneous impression of the man himself. It is true that, even while talking with me, Carlyle would launch forth into the most unwarrantable philippics, but then he would break off suddenly, and all the venom and bitterness be drowned in a burst of ringing laughter, and his handsome, though naturally grim, face would ripple all over with good-humoured smiles, so that no one who saw or heard him could doubt for a moment the kindly nature and the tender heart.
In the printed pages no friendly look is there, no tones of genial laughter, to counteract and soften down the words that look hard and uncompromising in black and white; and as I read the interesting record of his life, I earnestly desired that many passages might have been omitted.
THE GROVE[[75]]
[75]. The seat of the Earl of Clarendon.
At this charming Hertfordshire home I was a constant guest, and I look back with gratitude and pleasure to the “many good times” and varied social enjoyments which the very name of The Grove awakens in my mind.