oman of any disease so
long as she was perched on her toes with her spine out of plumb.
His advice to me was to get out of the London fogs as quickly as
possible. No one who has not suffered a London fog can imagine the
terrible gloom that pervades everywhere. One can see nothing out of
the windows but a dense black smoke. Drivers carry flambeaux in the
streets to avoid running into each other. The houses are full; the
gas burns all day, but you can scarcely see across the room;
theaters and places of amusement are sometimes closed, as nothing
can be seen distinctly. We called on Dr. Berridge, also, thinking
it best to make the acquaintance of both that we might decide from
their general appearance, surroundings, conversation and
comparative intelligence, which one we would prefer to trust in an
emergency. We found both alike so promising that we felt we could
trust either to give us our quietus, if die we must, on the high
dilutions. It is a consolation to know that one's closing hours at
least are passed in harmony with the principles of pure science. On
further acquaintance we found these gentlemen true disciples of the
great Hahneman.

As we were just then reading Froude's "Life of Carlyle," we drove
by the house where he lived and paused a moment at the door, where
poor Jennie went in and out so often with a heavy heart. It is a
painful record of a great soul struggling with poverty and
disappointment; the hope of success as an author so long deferred
and never wholly realized. His foolish pride of independence and
headship, and his utter obliviousness as to his domestic duties and
the comfort of his wife, made the picture still darker. Poor
Jennie, fitted to shine in any circle, yet doomed all her married
life to domestic drudgery, with no associations with the great man
for whose literary companionship she had sacrificed herself. It
adds greatly to one's interest in Scott, Dickens, Thackeray,
Charlotte Bronte, Bulwer, James and George Eliot, to read them
amidst the scenes where they lived and died. Thus in my leisure
hours, after the fatigues of sight-seeing and visiting, I re-read
many of these authors near the places where they spent their last
days on earth.

As I had visited Ambleside forty years before and seen Harriet
Martineau in her prime, I did not go with Miss Anthony to Lake
Windermere. She found the well-known house occupied by Mr. William
Henry Hills, a liberal Quaker named after William Henry Ch