postscript to "Sartor Resartus" or the "Latter Day" pamphlets, and
listened and laughed accordingly. As we were about parting from him with
a cordial and tender farewell, my friend, Newman Hall, handed him a copy
of his celebrated little book, "Come to Jesus," Mr. Carlyle, leaning
over his table, fixed his eye upon the inscription on the outside of the
booklet, and as we left the room, we heard him repeating to himself the
title "Coom to Jesus--Coom to Jesus."

About Carlyle's voluminous works, his glorious eulogies of Luther, Knox
and Cromwell, his vivid histories, his pessimistic utterances, his
hatred of falsehood and his true, pure and laborious life, I have no
time or space to write. He was the last of the giants in one department
of British literature. He will outlive many an author who slumbers in
the great Abbey. I owe him grateful thanks for many quickening,
stimulating thoughts, and shall always be thankful that I grasped the
strong hand of Thomas Carlyle.

One of the literary celebrities to whom I had credentials was the
venerable Mrs. Joanna Baillie, not now much read, but then well known
from her writings and her intimacy with Sir Walter Scott, and to whom
Lockhart devotes a considerable space in the biography. Her residence
was in Hampstead, and I was obliged, after leaving the omnibus, to walk
nearly a mile across open fields which are now completely built over by
mighty London. The walk proved a highly profitable one from the society
of an intelligent stranger who, like every true English gentleman, when
properly approached, was led to give all the information in his power.
When I reached the suburban village of Hampstead, after passing over
stiles and through fields, I at last succeeded in finding her residence,
a quiet little cottage, with a little parlor which had been honored by
some of the first characters of our age. "The female Shakespeare," as