BY THE GRAVE OF CARLYLE.

ECCLEFECHAN, February 10, 1881.

ON Saturday last a child came to me and said, "He is dead." I did not ask, Who? For nearly two weeks all eyes in Europe and America which know the value of a great man in this world had been centred on that home in Chelsea where Carlyle lay dying. He had long been sighing for death, for, he said, "Life is a burden when the strength has gone out of it." For a long time he had been unable to receive his friends in the evening: those true Noctes Ambrosianæ were forever past. Brief interviews with intimate friends in the early afternoon, followed by a drive with one or another of them, continued for about a year more. But these drives were not cheerful. The old man's voice was some

times scarcely audible. "The daughters of song are low." I found it painful to have to bend so close to catch the words, which when caught showed the intellect still abiding in its strength. It was long ere it must also be said, "Those that look out of the

windows be darkened." But slowly that time came too. The old man sank into a state of painless prostration. The effort to attend to what was said to him was a disturbance, and all was silent around. him. He was conscious nearly unto the last, and thoughtfully intimated to his nephew and niece, who had so long watched beside him, that he was in no pain. His last word was a gentle "Good-bye." At half-past eight, February 5, the end came without struggle. The golden lamp was not shattered; it went out. And how dark seemed London that day! On Monday morning I started northward through a snow-storm, and in the evening was driving through the narrow streets of Annan. Along these same streets he and Irving used to walk in their schooldays. Next morning I called on his sister, Mrs. Austin, who much resembles him. She spoke sweetly of her great brother in his early youth-how loving he was as a son, how affectionate to them all, even in those days when his mind was harassed with doubts and misgivings about the path on which he should enter. Sleep might fail him, and appetite, but love for those who needed his love never failed him. She is one of two sisters surviving. The one remaining brother, James, resides in a pleasant home in the neighborhood, and is about seventy-five years of age. The other surviving sister is Mrs. Aitken, of Dumfries.