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
Copyrights
Pages from a Journal with Other Papers from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
