De'il in "Tam O'Shanter," he had "business on his hand."

Thirty years afterwards, in June, 1872, I felt an irrepressible desire
to see the grand old man once more, and I accordingly addressed him a
note requesting the favor of a few minutes' interview. His reply was,
perhaps, the briefest letter ever written. It was simply:

"Three P.M.
T.C."

He told me afterwards that his hand had become so tremulous that he
seldom touched a pen. My beloved friend, the Rev. Newman Hall, asked the
privilege of accompanying me, as, like most Londoners, he had never put
his eye on the recluse philosopher. We found the same old brick house,
No. 5 Cheyne Row, Chelsea, without the slightest change outside or in.
But, during those thirty years the gifted wife had departed, and a sad
change had come over the once hale, stalwart man. After we had waited
some time, a feeble, stooping figure, attired in a long blue flannel
gown, moved slowly into the room. His gray hair was unkempt, his blue
eyes were still keen and piercing, and a bright hectic spot of red
appeared on each of his hollow cheeks. His hands were tremulous, and his
voice deep and husky. After a few personal inquiries the old man
launched out into a most extraordinary and characteristic harangue on
the wretched degeneracy of these evil days. The prophet, Jeremiah, was
cheerfulness itself in comparison with him. Many of the raciest things
he regaled us with were entirely too personal for publication. He amused
us with a description of half a night's debate with John Bright on
political economy, while he said, "Bright theed and thoud with me for
hours, while his Quaker wife sat up hearin' us baith. I tell ye, John
Bright _got_ as gude as he _gie_ that night"; and I have no doubt that