Arnold, who, with the deep sympathy arising from kindred nobility of soul, had long cherished a high reverence for Carlyle, was very proud of having received such a guest under his roof, and during those few last weeks of life was wont to be in high spirits, talking with his several guests, and describing with much interest, his recent visit to Naseby with Carlyle, “its position on some of the highest table-land in England—­the streams falling on the one side into the Atlantic, on the other into the German Ocean—­far away, too, from any town—­Market Harborough, the nearest, into which the cavaliers were chased late in the long summer evening on the fourteenth of June.”

Perhaps the most graphic description of Carlyle’s manner and conversation ever published, is contained in the following passage from a letter addressed to Emerson by an accomplished American, Margaret Fuller, who visited England in the autumn of 1846, and whose strange, beautiful history and tragical death on her homeward voyage, are known to most readers.

The letter is dated Paris, November 16, 1846.

“Of the people I saw in London, you will wish me to speak first of the Carlyles.  Mr. C. came to see me at once, and appointed an evening to be passed at their house.  That first time, I was delighted with him.  He was in a very sweet humour,—­full of wit and pathos, without being overbearing or oppressive.  I was quite carried away with the rich flow of his discourse, and the hearty, noble earnestness of his personal being brought back the charm which once was upon his writing, before I wearied of it.  I admired his Scotch, his way of singing his great full sentences, so that each one was like the stanza of a narrative ballad.  He let me talk, now and then, enough to free my lungs and change my position, so that I did not get tired.  That evening, he talked of the present state of things in England, giving light, witty sketches of the men of the day, fanatics and others, and some sweet, homely stories he told of things he had known of the Scotch peasantry.

“Of you he spoke with hearty kindness; and he told, with beautiful feeling, a story of some poor farmer, or artisan in the country, who on Sunday lays aside the cark and care of that dirty English world, and sits reading the Essays, and looking upon the sea.

“I left him that night, intending to go out very often to their house.  I assure you there never was anything so witty as Carlyle’s description of ——­ ——.  It was enough to kill one with laughing.  I, on my side, contributed a story to his fund of anecdote on this subject, and it was fully appreciated.  Carlyle is worth a thousand of you for that;—­he is not ashamed to laugh when he is amused, but goes on in a cordial, human fashion.

“The second time Mr. C. had a dinner-party, at which was a witty, French, flippant sort of man, author of a History of Philosophy,[A] and now writing a Life of Goethe, a task for which he must be as unfit as irreligion and sparkling shallowness can make him.  But he told stories admirably, and was allowed sometimes to interrupt Carlyle a little, of which one was glad, for that night he was in his more acrid mood, and though much more brilliant than on the former evening, grew wearisome to me, who disclaimed and rejected almost everything he said.