Recollections of a Long Life - An Autobiography | Page 8

be a Dutchman." I told him that my ancestors had come over from
Holland a couple of centuries ago, and I was proud of my lineage; for
my grandfather, Glen Cuyler, was a descendant of Hendrick Cuyler,
one of the early Dutch settlers of Albany, who came there in 1667.
"Ah," said he, "the Dootch are the brawvest people of modern times.
The world has been rinnin' after a red rag of a Frenchman; but he was
nothing to William the Silent. When Pheelip of Spain sent his Duke of
Alva to squelch those Dutchmen they joost squelched him like a rotten

egg--aye, they did."
I asked him why he didn't visit America, and told him that I had
observed his name registered at Ambleside, on Lake Windermere. "Nae,
nae," said he, "I never scrabble my name in public places." I explained
that it was on the hotel register that I had seen "Thomas Carlyle." "It
was not mine," he replied, "I never travel only when I ride on a horse in
the teeth of the wind to get out of this smoky London. I would like to
see America. You may boast of your Dimocracy, or any other 'cracy, or
any other kind of political roobish, but the reason why your laboring
folk are so happy is that you have a vast deal of land for a very few
people." In this racy, picturesque vein he ran on for an hour in the most
cordial, good humor. He was then in his prime, hale and athletic, with a
remarkably keen blue eye, a strong lower jaw and stiff iron gray hair,
brushed up from a capacious forehead; and he had a look of a sturdy
country deacon dressed up on a Sunday morning for church. He was
very carefully attired in a new suit that day for visiting, and, as I rose to
leave, he said to me: "I am going up into London and I will walk wi'
ye." We sallied out and he strode the pavement with long strides like a
plowman. I told him I had just come from the land of Burns, and that
the old man at the native cottage of the poet had drunk himself to death
by drinking to the memory of Burns.
At this Carlyle laughed loudly, and remarked: "Was that the end of him?
Ah, a wee bit drap will send a mon a lang way." He then told me that
when he was a lad he used to go into the Kirkyard at Dumfries and,
hunting out the poet's tomb, he loved to stand and just read over the
name--"Rabbert Burns"--"Rabbert Burns." He pronounced the name
with deep reverence. That picture of the country lad in his earliest act
of hero-worship at the grave of Burns would have been a good subject
for the pencil of Millais or of Holman Hunt. At the corner of Hyde Park
I parted from Mr. Carlyle, and watched him striding away, as if, like
the De'il in "Tam O'Shanter," he had "business on his hand."
Thirty years afterwards, in June, 1872, I felt an irrepressible desire to
see the grand old man once more, and I accordingly addressed him a
note requesting the favor of a few minutes' interview. His reply was,

perhaps, the briefest letter ever written. It was simply:
"Three P.M. T.C."
He told me afterwards that his hand had become so tremulous that he
seldom touched a pen. My beloved friend, the Rev. Newman Hall,
asked the privilege of accompanying me, as, like most Londoners, he
had never put his eye on the recluse philosopher. We found the same
old brick house, No. 5 Cheyne Row, Chelsea, without the slightest
change outside or in. But, during those thirty years the gifted wife had
departed, and a sad change had come over the once hale, stalwart man.
After we had waited some time, a feeble, stooping figure, attired in a
long blue flannel gown, moved slowly into the room. His gray hair was
unkempt, his blue eyes were still keen and piercing, and a bright hectic
spot of red appeared on each of his hollow cheeks. His hands were
tremulous, and his voice deep and husky. After a few personal inquiries
the old man launched out into a most extraordinary and characteristic
harangue on the wretched degeneracy of these evil days. The prophet,
Jeremiah, was cheerfulness itself in comparison with him. Many of the
raciest things he regaled us with were entirely too personal for
publication. He amused us with a description of half a night's debate
with John Bright on political economy, while he said, "Bright theed and
thoud with me for hours, while his Quaker wife sat up hearin' us baith. I
tell ye, John Bright got as gude as he