nd when his Coach horses, who
drew his Hearse, got there, to that hill, they could scarce be got on.

My mission to Scotland was done; but some civil pleasant people, whom I
met at Abbotsford, made me go with them (under Cook's guidance) to the
Trossachs, Katrine, Lomond, etc., which I did not care at all about; but
it only took a day. After which, I came in a day to London, rather glad
to be in my old flat land again, with a sight of my old Sea as we came
along.

And in London I went to see my dear old Donne, because of wishing to
assure myself, with my own eyes, of his condition; and I can safely say
he looked better than before his Illness, near two years ago. He had a
healthy colour; was erect, alert, and with his old humour, and interest
in our old topics. . . .

I looked in at the Academy, as poor a show as ever I had seen, I thought;
only Millais attracted me: a Boy with a red Sash: and that old Seaman
with his half-dreaming Eyes while the Lassie reads to him. I had no
Catalogue: and so thought the Book was--The Bible--to which she was
drawing his thoughts, while the sea-breeze through the open Window
whispered of his old Life to him. But I was told afterwards (at Donne's
indeed) that it was some account of a N. W. Passage she was reading. The
Roll Call I could not see, for a three deep file of worshippers before
it: I only saw the 'hairy Cap' as Thackeray in his Ballad, {174} and I
supposed one would see all in a Print as well as in the Picture. But the
Photo of Miss Thompson herself gives me a very favourable impression of
her. It really looks, in face and dress, like some of Sir Joshua's
Women. . . .

Another Miss Austen! Of course under Spedding's Auspices, the Father of
Evil.

_From W. H. Thompson to W. A. Wright_.

On 17 July 1883, shortly after FitzGerald's death, the late Master of
Trinity wrote to me from Harrogate, 'As regards FitzGerald's letters, I
have preserved a good many, which I will look through when we return to
College. I have a long letter from Carlyle to him, which F. gave me. It
is a Carlylesque etude on Spedding, written from dictation by his niece,
but signed by the man himself in a breaking hand. The thing is to my
mind more characteristic of T. Carlyle than of James Spedding--that
"victorious man" as C. calls him. He seems unaware of one distinguishing
feature of J. S.'s mind--its subtlety of perception--and the excellence
of his English style escapes his critic, whos