Pages from a Journal with Other Papers | Page 4

that it was bare, pure humanity. At times it is
difficult not to believe that Carlyle, notwithstanding his piety, loves it
all the more on that account. It is strange that an example so salutary

and stimulating to the poorest and meanest of us should be set by an
unbelieving king, and that my humdrum existence should be secretly
supported by "Frederick II. Roi de Prusse."
* * *
Soon after Carlyle died I went to Ecclefechan and stood by his grave. It
was not a day that I would have chosen for such an errand, for it was
cold, grey, and hard, and towards the afternoon it rained a slow,
persistent, wintry rain. The kirkyard in Ecclefechan was dismal and
depressing, but my thoughts were not there. I remembered what Carlyle
was to the young men of thirty or forty years ago, in the days of that
new birth, which was so strange a characteristic of the time. His books
were read with excitement, with tears of joy, on lonely hills, by the
seashore and in London streets, and the readers were thankful that it
was their privilege to live when he also was alive. All that excitement
has vanished, but those who knew what it was are the better for it.
Carlyle now is almost nothing, but his day will return, he will be put in
his place as one of the greatest souls who have been born amongst us,
and his message will be considered as perhaps the most important
which has ever been sent to us. This is what I thought as I stood in
Ecclefechan kirkyard, and as I lingered I almost doubted if Carlyle
COULD be dead. Was it possible that such as he could altogether die?
Some touch, some turn, I could not tell what or how, seemed all that
was necessary to enable me to see and to hear him. It was just as if I
were perplexed and baffled by a veil which prevented recognition of
him, although I was sure he was behind it.

EARLY MORNING IN JANUARY

A warm, still morning, with a clear sky and stars. At first the hills were
almost black, but, as the dawn ascended, they became dark green, of a
peculiarly delicate tint which is never seen in the daytime. The quietude
is profound, although a voice from an unseen fishing-boat can now and
then be heard. How strange the landscape seems! It is not a variation of

the old landscape; it is a new world. The half-moon rides high in the
sky, and near her is Jupiter. A little way further to the left is Venus, and
still further down is Mercury, rare apparition, just perceptible where the
deep blue of the night is yielding to the green which foretells the sun.
The east grows lighter; the birds begin to stir in the bushes, and the cry
of a gull rises from the base of the cliff. The sea becomes responsive,
and in a moment is overspread with continually changing colour, partly
that of the heavens above it and partly self-contributed. With what slow,
majestic pomp is the day preceded, as though there had been no day
before it and no other would follow it!

MARCH

It is a bright day in March, with a gentle south-west wind. Sitting still
in the copse and facing the sun it strikes warm. It has already mounted
many degrees on its way to its summer height, and is regaining its
power. The clouds are soft, rounded, and spring-like, and the white of
the blackthorn is discernible here and there amidst the underwood. The
brooks are running full from winter rains but are not overflowing. All
over the wood which fills up the valley lies a thin, purplish mist,
harmonising with the purple bloom on the stems and branches. The
buds are ready to burst, there is a sense of movement, of waking after
sleep; the tremendous upward rush of life is almost felt. But how silent
the process is! There is no hurry for achievement, although so much has
to be done--such infinite intricacy to be unfolded and made perfect. The
little stream winding down the bottom turns and doubles on itself; a
dead leaf falls into it, is arrested by a twig, and lies there content.

JUNE

It is a quiet, warm day in June. The wind is westerly, but there is only
just enough of it to waft now and then a sound from the far-off town, or

the dull, subdued thunder of cannon-firing from ships or forts distant
some forty miles or more. Massive, white-bordered clouds, grey
underneath, sail overhead; there was heavy rain last night, and they are
lifting and breaking a little. Softly and slowly they go, and