interview with Mrs. Alexander Carlyle, in the presence of
her husband, and of Mr. Ouvry, who was acting as solicitor for all
parties. On this occasion Mrs. Carlyle said that Froude had
promised her the whole profits of the Reminiscences, that her uncle
had approved of this arrangement, and that she would not take less.
Thus the first difference between Froude and the Carlyle family
related to money. Mrs. Carlyle did not know that the memoirs of her
aunt would be among the reminiscences, and the sum which had
promised her was the speculative value of an American edition, which
was never in fact realised.

In lieu of this he offered half the English profits, and brought out
the Reminiscences, "Jane Welsh Carlyle" being among them. They were
eagerly read, not merely by all lovers of good literature, but by
all lovers of gossip, good or bad. Carlyle's pen, like Dante's, "bit
into the live man's flesh for parchment." He had a Tacitean power of
drawing a portrait with a phrase which haunted the memory. James
Carlyle, the Annandale mason, was as vivid as Jonathan Oldbuck
himself. But it was upon Mrs. Carlyle that public interest fastened.
The delineation of her was most beautiful, and most pathetic. There
were few expressions of actual remorse, and Carlyle was not the
first man to feel that the value of a blessing is enhanced by loss.
But there was an undertone of something more than regret, a
suspicion or suggestion of penitence, which set people talking. It
is always pleasant to discover that a preacher of righteousness has
not been a good example himself, and "poor Mrs. Carlyle" received
much posthumous sympathy, as cheap as it was useless. Whether Froude
should have published the memoir is a question which may be
discussed till the end of time. He conceived himself to be under a
pledge. He had given his word to a dead man, who could not release
him. It seems, however, clear that he should have taken the course
least injurious to Carlyle's memory, and in such a very delicate
matter he might well have asked advice. From the purely literary
point of view there could be no doubt at all. Not even Frederick the
Great, that storehouse of "jewels five words long," contains more
sparkling gems than these two precious little volumes. Froude speaks
in his preface of having made "requisite omissions." A few more
omissions might have been made with advantage, especially a brutal
passage about Charles Lamb and his sister, which Elia's