28 December 1868 – 31 December 1868

To Cheyne Row (heavy rain). Parlour : 'Scotch lassie,' niece of Carlyle, lives at Dumfries, has never been to London before, been here about three months (,?)^ — National Gallery, the Titians, etc. Speaks gravely and sensibly. Enter T. C, very friendly and famihar : ' Go up, sir, to that place there (drawing-room), and we'll see what can be done.' A yellow gleam shows through the rain as we go upstairs. Portrait of Landor on the stairs. We started on our walk, passing through Hans Place in a shower of rain. He spoke of his own writ- ings— ' they gave me much trouble. I brought them into the world with labour and sorrow, and I must reckon most of them but small trash after all. Ay, there's far too much dogmatism going : English funeral service, for example. The Scotch way is better in that. People write to me to try to bring me to Christ — ah me ! If the Universe grinds me to nothing, I will hold that to be best and say " Not my will but thine be done." I don't pretend to understand the Universe — it's a great deal bigger than I am. The Darwinian Theory tried to meddle with things that are out of man's reach : and besides — I don't care a straw about all that ! People ought to be modester.' In answer to a remark of mine one day Carlyle blazed up — ' Write my autobiography } I would as soon think of cutting my throat with my pen-knife when I get back home ! The Biographers too ! If those gentlemen would let me alone I should be much obliged to them. I would say, as Shakespeare would say to Peter Cunningham, " Sweet Friend, for Jesus' sake forbear." '

Return to Lymington.

Fine. Walk to EfFord, sunset. Evening, Methodist chapel. Watch Night. 1 Mary Carlyle Aitken, afterwards Mrs. Alexander Carlyle.