LORD  BYRON  and  his  TIMES
Documents Biography Criticism

The Life and Letters of John Gibson Lockhart
Chapter 19: 1828-48

Vol. I. Preface
Vol. I Contents.
Chapter 1: 1794-1808
Chapter 2: 1808-13
Chapter 3: 1813-15
Chapter 4: 1815-17
Chapter 5: 1817-18
Chapter 6: 1817-19
Chapter 7: 1818-20
Chapter 8: 1819-20
Chapter 9: 1820-21
Chapter 10: 1821-24
Chapter 11: 1817-24
Chapter 12: 1821-25
Chapter 13: 1826
Vol. II Contents
Chapter 14: 1826-32
Chapter 15: 1828-32
Chapter 16: 1832-36
Chapter 17: 1837-39
Chapter 18: 1837-43
‣ Chapter 19: 1828-48
Chapter 20: 1826-52
Chapter 21: 1842-50
Chapter 22: 1850-53
Chapter 23: 1853-54
Chapter 24: Conclusion
Vol. II Index
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Licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 Unported License.
Produced by CATH
LONDON, 1828-1848
Correspondence with Carlyle.—Review of Life of Burns.—Their first meeting.—Carlyle’s description of Lockhart.—Desires Mr. Elwin to write a Life of Lockhart.—“Mr. Carlyle knows this to be a lie.”—The Goethe medal.—Lockhart proposes a novel.—Carlyle offers “Chartism.”—Borrows books.—Lockhart answers as “Able Editor.”—Carlyle on Jenny Geddes.—Carlyle on his wife’s mother’s death.—Lockhart’s reply.—His poem.—Carlyle on the Infinities and other matters.—On the gifted Gilfillan.—Carlyle’s affection for Lockhart.—His desire that Lockhart’s life should be written.

At this point—a kind of middle point before the evil days begin—it may be convenient to introduce all Lockhart’s extant correspondence with Mr. Carlyle. To Lockhart, though they saw each other seldom (a quiet dinner is noted now and then), Mr. Carlyle was greatly attached.1 In 1828 he called Lockhart’s book on Burns “a trivial one enough,” but the sage was not on good terms with the nature of things in 1828. In 1831 they met. “Lockhart (whom I did not know) desires to be introduced to me,” at a Fraser dinner. “A precise, brief, active person of considerable faculty, which, however, had shaped itself gigmanically only.

1 Once Lockhart met Carlyle at Lord Ashburton’s. His diary says of the visit, “very stupid!”

Fond of quizzing, yet not very maliciously. Has a broad black brow, indicating force and penetration; but a lower half of face diminishing into the character at best of distinctness, almost of triviality. Rather liked the man, and shall like to meet him again.” “Lockhart dandiacal, not without force, but barren and unfruitful.”1 In 1872, Mr. Carlyle urged
Mr. Elwin, Lockhart’s aid and successor in the Quarterly, to write a Life of his old chief, but in vain. Mr. Alexander Carlyle informs me that his wife, then Miss Carlyle Aitken, used to write letters for her uncle. “She had said to Mr. Elwin, ‘Mr. Carlyle believes this’” (something as to Lockhart’s character in respect of the Scott-Christie duel, Mr. Alexander Carlyle thinks) “‘to be an error.’ Carlyle, reading the letter before sealing, came on the words, ‘believes this to be an error,’ struck his pencil through them, and wrote instead, ‘knows this to be a lie’”2 Mr. Froude mentions Carlyle’s great and lasting regard for Lockhart, whom he so seldom saw.

I now give the whole correspondence in one mass, despite the separation of dates: the unity of subject seems to justify this arrangement. Lockhart writes as to the famous Goethe medal, unaccountably unacknowledged by Scott:—

June 7, 1834.

Dear Sir,—I am much obliged to you for

1Thomas Carlyle, First Forty Years,” ii. 233, 263.

2 Letter from Mr. Alexander Carlyle, February 27, 1896.

your communication, and shall not forget it when I reach that part of
Sir Walter Scott’s life to which it refers. My impression is that I have seen at Abbotsford the medals, and that I never did see the letter of Goethe. So if it be not too much, pray, when the original turns up, be so good as to transcribe the necessary paragraph.—Yours very truly,

J. G. Lockhart.”

Mr. Carlyle complied with this request: his original letter to Scott is at Abbotsford. Like Mr. Carlyle, Lockhart could feel “low.”

April 24, 1839.

My dear Carlyle,—I am your debtor, and Varnhagen’s too, for a very neat and pleasant little book, which you shall read when you like. I am sorry to hear you are low, but I am myself in profundissimis.—Ever yours,

J. G. Lockhart.”

That Carlyle should write a novel, as Lockhart next proposes, was a curious suggestion. Thomas busy over a love-scene cannot well be imagined.


Dear Saurteig,—There used to be a learned Icelander in the Advocates’ Library, but he left there years ago, and is now established, I think, at
Copenhagen—Rask, his name, I believe. I know of no one here at all inclined to that lore. Like you, I have dabbled in it, and in the Danish and Swedish, but not lately. I was in youth, language mad, and remember with wonder spending a whole winter on Anglo-Saxon, from which I diverted to the Saga religion.

“I hope we shall walk, or, better, dine together soon; but I am now going into Herts for a few days.

“Now give us a Romance of the Middle Ages, or of any age. Why not Cromwell’s time and the Scotch Covenanters? You have more the power of putting life into the dry bones than anybody but Scott, and nothing could be more unlike his method of doing it than yours. Ergo, you may walk into a field that always will be rich for whoso can walk without stick or crutch.—Yours,

Able Editor.”

The familiarity of this note seems to show that it is later than the following proposal from Carlyle:—

“5 Cheyne Row, Chelsea,
May 20, 1839.

Dear Sir,—It will probably seem surprising that I of all persons should propose writing for you in the Quarterly Review. Neither do I propose it for a series of times, nor altogether definitely even for one first time. For one first time, however,
there is in it such a look of possibility that I find it worth while to consult you on the matter.

“I have, and have had for many years, a word to speak on the condition of the lower classes in this country. My notions on this subject differ intensely from those of the speculating Radicals, intensely from those of the Whigs: it seems to me the better class of the Conservatives are, on the whole, the persons to whom it were hopefullest, and in many ways fittest, to address myself. There are writers in your Review with whom I have a deep sympathy; a Rev. Mr. Sewell in particular, whose name I inquired out some years ago, gets in general from me the heartiest, most entire assent all along till we get to the conclusion he draws, when, strangely enough, I am obliged to answer, ‘Not at all by any means,’ for most part! On the whole, I think I partly understand what the conditions of this proposed sermon of mine would be; and if you gave me scope I think I could tell my audience a strange thing or two without offence—nay, with hope of persuading and interesting certain of them.

“At all events, as I said, it is a kind of necessity for me to speak this word, some time or other, somewhere or other; and as I cannot afford to pay for printing pamphlets, or even to write for nothing, I find on looking round me that first of all I ought to ask you to consider what is feasible about this, and let me know your decision.

“I come almost daily into the Piccadilly region,
and could give you a meeting anywhere in that quarter, at any house, at any time (about the middle hours of the day), you might please to appoint. At all events, pray consider this proposal not altogether as an intrusion, but at lowest as a proof of something which (I judge very certainly), if you knew it to the bottom, would not be offensive to you.—I remain, dear Sir, yours very sincerely,

T. Carlyle.”

Lockhart was unable to accept Carlyle’s essay, which, indeed, was a book, not an article. Carlyle writes, after he learned this, assuring Lockhart that he is not annoyed:—

“5 Cheyne Row, Chelsea,
December 11, 1839.

My dear Sir,—There are two books of yours here; which I beg you to understand are not meant to be kept as black-mail, but to be returned with thanks. I retain them only till the Chartism concern be printed—till I can send you a copy of that along with them.

“However, the reason of my writing is not these books, which are probably of no value at all to you; but a reflection I made yesterday on the irritable nature of authors—on the doubts you may by possibility have about my being irritated! God knows I am much gratified, by your praise of me especially, which I believe to have much more sincerity in it than praise usually has. For the rest, I consider
that your decision about that wild piece as an article for the
Quarterly was altogether what it should have been, what on the whole I expected it to be. Fraser is printing the thing now as a separate pamphlet. Your negative was necessary to decide me as to that step. The Westminster people were willing to have taken the thing after you; but I was not willing to appear with it there. And so it comes out in the pamphlet way—quod bonum sit! One has an equation with more than one unknown quantity in it: eliminate the Quarterly y, there remains x—printing as a pamphlet.

“With many kind regards, and a hope to fall in with you again by-and-by,—I remain, my dear Sir, yours very truly always,

T. Carlyle.”

Carlyle was now in search of books on the Covenant, and found them hard to obtain; to buy books was, indeed, difficult for him at this date.

“5 Cheyne Row, Chelsea,
October 26, 1840.

Dear Mr. Lockhart,—In reference to one of the topics touched upon yesterday, when I was lucky enough to come athwart your orbit for a little,—it strikes me that I might as well have asked you if you did not by chance possess a copy of the Covenanter Baillie’sLetters and Journals’? or perhaps you know some charitable soul who has one, and would lend it me to read? As I borrow
books from all persons, it ought to be added that I endeavour to make conscience of punctually returning them uninjured. I have been in quest of this Baillie for two years and more, to no purpose hitherto. It strikes me that one Peterkin republished it at Edinburgh lately, or was about doing that; in which case you are more likely to have it.

“I will ask farther, now that my hand is in, whether you have not, in defect of Baillie or not in defect, some stock of books on that period of history, in which a hungry reaver might be allowed, on occasion, to forage? I desiderate greatly the Literature of it, Songs, Pasquinades, &c &c.—so far as it had any Literature.

At lowest, perhaps you can tell me something about Jenny Geddes! I search to no purpose for any glimmering of light about Jenny. C. K. Sharpe (in Kirkton) says, she had sat on the Cutty Stool for a mistake in behaviour; but even that small fact I am unable to verify. Burns, you tell me, named his mare after her;—proper surely. In truth, she stands as a most memorable monumental figure, this poor Jenny, to me; featureless, I am afraid, for ever. Shakespeare’s is not the only lost Biography! Greedy oblivion makes haste to swallow us all.—Believe me, yours very heartily,

T. Carlyle.”

Lockhart did possess some books on the period
Carlyle was studying—Napier’sMontrose,” for example. Carlyle writes:—

Chelsea, January 6, 1841.

My dear Sir,—Yesterday I left your Napier’sMontrose’ with Fraser, who promised to send it home forthwith; many thanks for it. The book is very readable, not without talent: an anti-Cameronian rant, as in the former case, but with somewhat of the dissonance abated, marrowbone and cleaver music mostly left out, &c. I find the great Montrose not unintelligible; a right brave man, with his haughty shut mouth, with his broad mournful brow; a man of genius,—a hero and hero-worshipper, with nothing but a poor shambling Charles First to worship: one of the most tragical conditions. Ah me!

“Have you ‘Argyle’s Letters’ among your Maitland books? or is it a Bannatyne one?

“If you ever see that Mr. Richardson, of Fludyer Street,1 perhaps you will bethink you to gather from him whether he actually possesses a stock of Covenant works, and is communicative of it? I have got from Scotland, after endless labour, a Baillie under way for me. A hapless man searching in these departments is like a cinder-sifter, a Parisian rag-picker, searching and swashing through all gutters, happy if here and there he find a copper button or an old nail!

1 Mr. Richardson had a good library, now at Kirklands.


“I wish I fell in with you oftener. A mouthful of rational conversation does a man real good; and he seldom gets it in these times and places, poor devil!—Yours very truly, T. Carlyle.”

“The good honest Scotch face” of poor Charles Scott, spoken of by Carlyle in the following letter, had been sketched by Lockhart long ago. Carlyle also comments on Lockhart’s article on Copyright: the subject of his own humorous petition:—

“5 Cheyne Row, Chelsea,
January 11, 1842.

My dear Sir,—If you have yet got any certain intelligence about poor Charles Scott, may I claim of you to let me share in it. If not yet, then as soon as any does arrive. I have the liveliest impression of that good honest Scotch face and character, though never in contact with the young man but that once. Alas, so many histories are tragedies; or rather, all histories are! I pray you, let me know.

“That is a capital article on the Copyright question: a conviction in it as deep and vivid as my own, or that of any other idealist; but embodied, with excellent dexterity, in the given element of practicalities, possibilities, and existing facts—which do and will exist, let us bless them or curse them! It cannot but do great service. I fancy I know the hand very well: a most velvet touch; truly a
patte-de-velours, yet here and there with a terrible claw in it!
Mr. R. Chambers’s till is infinitely obliged.—Yours always truly,

T. Carlyle.”

Carlyle’s grief at the death of Mrs. Carlyle’s mother finds expression in his next letter.1 That he wrote to Lockhart in» this hour of sadness proves his confidence in his friend’s heart and sympathy.

Templand, Thornhill, Dumfriesshire,
March 26, 1842.

Dear Lockhart,—An event has occurred here, of which, though it can only concern you through me, I think I should apprise you. My poor wife’s mother, Mrs. Welsh of this place, has been unexpectedly called away by death. She was a person of much generosity and worth; whose very frailties and failings, being, as they were, all virtues in a state of obstruction and terrene imprisonment, now make one love her more, now that the imprisonment has broken down, and all has melted into clearness and eternity! My wife, her only daughter and child, has returned to Chelsea; her letters still betoken extreme misery and disconsolation. Mrs. Welsh was a widow, and her father had died here, and before him her sister. This establishment is now to be abandoned and terminated. None can fancy what all that will mean

1 See “Thomas Carlyle,” ii. 237.

for me. Rough country businesses, with the poor passions and avidities of rustic men, occupy me for a part of every day. I keep myself all alone otherwise; alone with the old hills and rivers, with God’s universe and the spirits of the dead. I am to be here yet, I suppose, for a matter of three weeks. You need not write to me; send me a friendly thought in silence.

“It is often far longer than this that I do not see you; but I feel as if, were I within four miles of you at present, not even London should keep me from exchanging a few words with a thinking man. Adieu.—I remain yours very truly always,

T. Carlyle.”

P.S.—This Mrs. Welsh was the owner of the little dog Shandy which used to run about the feet of Sir Walter Scott. Ah me!”

The dog, which fell in love with Sir Walter in the street, is mentioned in Carlyle’s essay on Scott. Lockhart replies thus:—

Sussex Place, April 1, 1842.

Dear Carlyle,—Thanks for your brief, friendly missive from the hills. I have outlived so many friends, and am left with so few, that it is no wonder I should dwell a good deal more in the past than the present; but I am nevertheless quite alive to whatever interests and concerns you, and therefore your wife—never seen by me, alas! but often heard
of, and respected for her own sake as well as Thomas Carlyle’s afar off. Pray, since you have spoken of this loss, speak again and tell me that it brings some addition to your worldly resources, i.e., £, s. d.—makes you somewhat a fatter victim for the altar of Income-Tax
Peel. You and I would not be made a whit loftier in spirit, or more Mayfairish in personal habits, by the sudden bequest of all that Lord Stratford has just not carried with him to the ingleside of Father Dis; but it would be a fine thing to be independent of booksellers, and, though I don’t hope ever to be so, I would fain hear that you are henceforth. Meanwhile, with philosophy such as you can muster, thole the factor’s clash, and all the botherations of the Moorland region, and return to us, be it rich or poor.

“It is an old belief
That on some solemn shore
Beyond the sphere of grief
Dear friends shall meet once more—
Beyond the sphere of Time
And Sin and Fate’s control,
Serene in changeless prime
Of Body and of Soul.
That creed I fain would keep,
This hope I’ll not forego;
Eternal be the Sleep
Unless to waken so.”
“Yours very truly,
J. G. Lockhart.”

The verses are part of a lyric written by Lockhart in 1841. Mr. Carlyle answers wisely as to booksellers; but he had grumbled the same grumble himself, as his published letters declare. The letter is touchingly affectionate, and displays the sage in his best mood:—

Templand, Thornhill,
April 5, 1842.

Dear Lockhart,—Your letter is very kind and friendly; thanks to you for it.

“We are not much richer, even in money, by our good mother’s death, which has made us poorer in so many other ways: a small peculium, once hers, is now ours, and might in case of extremity keep the hawks out of a poor author’s eyes (which is a blessing too); but henceforth, as heretofore, our only sure revenue must be the great one which Tullius speaks of by the name Parcimonia—meaning abstinence, rigorous abnegation—Scotch thrift, in a word! Not so bad a vectigal after all. Really the Scotch are a meritorious people. They make wholesome pottage by boiling oatmeal in water; savoury soup of a singed sheep’s head. They teach a poor man to understand that he is verily to live on bread and water, or even to die for want of bread and water, rather than beg, and be another’s bondsman. They say, with their rigorous stoicism, and Calvinism, which is hyper-stoicism: ‘Suffer, abstain;’ thou art there to abstain and endure! Honour to them, poor fellows. It is really the lesson which destiny itself
teaches every man, in the great inarticulate way, throughout this life; and if the man be not a blockhead and unteachable, he learns it, let him be born in a peasant’s hut or a king’s palace.

“We growl much about bookseller-servitude; worse than Algerine—and yet at bottom we are but a foolish folk. Consider you, for example, how many of your good things you would perhaps never have taken the trouble to write at all had there been no such servitude! Servitude is a blessing and a great liberty, the greatest that could be given a man! So the shrewd little De Stael, on reconsidering and computing it, found that the place, of all places ever known to her, she had enjoyed the most freedom in, was the Bastille. As to me, I have dragged this ugly millstone Poverty at my heels, spurning it and cursing it often enough, ever since I was a man; yet there it tagged and lumbered on; and at length I was obliged to ask myself, Had they cut it for thee, sent thee soaring like a foolish tumbler-pigeon, like a mad Byron! Thank the millstone, thou fool; it is thy ballast, and keeps the centre of gravity right! In short, we are a foolish people, born fools—and it were wise, perhaps, at present, to go and smoke a pipe in silence under the stars.

“The mountain-tops are aglow like so many volcanoes: it is poor tarry shepherds burning their heather, to let the grass have a chance. Sirius is glancing blue-bright like a spirit—a comrade of
more than twenty years. Penpont smoke-cloud and Drumlanrig Castle have alike gone out. In the north is an Aurora—footlights of this great Theatre of a Universe, where you and I are players for an hour. God is great; and all else is verily altogether small.

“These last days, the rustics and factors driven out of my way, have been altogether like a kind of Sabbath to me—different enough from Agnew’s. Unhappily they are now to end: in the beginning of next week come packers, carpenters; on the Thursday it all ends in an uproar of auctioneers, &c.; I before that am far off, never to return hither. Back to your whirlpool, I suppose, in some few days more. Adieu, dear Lockhart; many good nights.—Yours very truly,

T. Carlyle.”

Lockhart here acknowledges Carlyle’sPast and Present,” in Carlyle’s own manner:—

April 27, 1843.

Father Saurteig,—Thanks to thee for thy new work—a real piece of work such as even thou hadst not before given us the like of—not even in ‘Sartor Resartus.’ I could wish thou hadst not put forth more of this at once than the two or three first books, and that the first had been placed last of these. Thou shouldst have begun assuredly with thy true revivification of the men of St. Edmundsburg.


“Neither can I agree with my teacher in what he more than once proclaimeth as his judgment general, touching Olivier of Tyburn; nor, indeed, am I very sure that I leap as yet contentedly to any of thy distinct conclusions, save one—namely, that we are all wrong and all like to be damned (p. 158). But I thank thee for having made me conscious of life and feeling for sundry hours by thy pages, whether figurative, or narrative, or didactic Thou hast done a book such as no other living man could do or dream of doing.

“Give us more of thy pictures of the past. Bad is the present, and black exceedingly the future, and even thou canst do little for either of them, except truly that thou canst enable thy fellows now breathing to breathe more nimbly whenever it so pleaseth thee to indite a page of Carlylism.—So resteth ever thine,

J. G. Lockhart.”

The Templand epistles are those of which Carlyle speaks in his notes on the letters of Mrs. Carlyle, where he fears that he has lost Lockhart’s replies. “A hard, proud, singularly intelligent, and also affectionate man, whom in the distance I esteemed more than perhaps he ever knew. Seldom did I speak to him; but hardly ever without learning and gaining something.”1

“The ways are sair” from Regent’s Park to

1Letters of Jane Welsh Carlyle,” i. 44.

Cheyne Row, wherefore the two men rarely met.
Lockhart was of Carlyle’s mind, as a letter of his to Croker shows, on the overwhelming importance of the question of Society, and had become nearly as indifferent as Carlyle to Whig and Tory. The correspondence is thoroughly characteristic. Lockhart “was not afraid” of Carlyle, as many people must have been, so gruff was the bark of the sage, though innocuous enough was his bite. In Lockhart’s notes we mark the heavy heart and the light tone of the man, his Pantagruelism, confit en dépit des malheurs.

Carlyle’s letters are, as always, the man himself. How true, especially (despite his own murmurings), are his remarks on Lockhart’s grumble at the “booksellers,” a traditional grumble: Lockhart had no cause for complaint. Two later letters of Carlyle’s may be added. The gifted Gilfillan, whom he here recommends, published later in a kind of “Life of Scott” the usual things about Lockhart, called him “malignant,” “virulent,” and so forth. He who would defend Lockhart, said Mr. Gilfillan, would be “another Lockhart,” with the rest of such inspired judgments.

Bay House, Alverstoke,
Nov. 20, 1845.

Dear Lockhart,—A poor, meritorious Scotchman, a burgher minister in Dundee, of the name of Gilfillan, has published a book—I believe at his own expense too, poor fellow—under the title
Gallery of Literary Portraits,’ or some such thing; and is about sending, as in duty bound, a copy to the Quarterly. I know not whether this poor book will in the least lie in your way; but to prevent you throwing it aside without so much as looking at it, I write now to bear witness that the man is really a person of superior parts; and that his book, of which I have read some of the sections, first published in a country newspaper that comes to me, is worthy of being looked at a little by you,—that you may decide then, with cause shown, whether there is anything to be done with it. I am afraid not very much! A strange, oriental, Scriptural style; full of fervour, and crude gloomy fire,—a kind of opium style. However, you must look a little, and say.

“This testimony I have volunteered to send, having seen the man as well as his writing;—and now this is all I have to say. The antecedents to this step, and the corollaries that follow from it on your part and on mine, are not needed to be written. I believe you will do me the honour (a very great honour as times go) to believe what I have written; and the helping of a poor fellow that has merit, when he can be helped,—this, I take it, is at all times felt to be a pleasure and a blessing by you as by me. And so enough of it.

“We are here on the Hampshire coasts, hiding with kind friends from the London fogs for a while: a pleasant place in comparison, especially when one
has tobacco and nothing to do! When I return to town I design again to try Sussex Place, though my successes there are rather far between, of late. Why do you never come to see me?—With real regard, yours ever truly,

T. Carlyle.”

This is the last letter which has been preserved:—

Chelsea, March 29, 1849.

Dear Lockhart,—Here are your Session Papers again, with many thanks to the Lord Peter and you. I had heard of Jeffrey’s opinion on the same question, but do not find it here; perhaps he sits in some other ‘Division,’ under some other kind of wig. May the Lord help them all—and us all!

“There will be required, I perceive, a very great deal more palaver before they get a real English Poor-Law passed for Scotland; but to that conclusion, if they should paint an inch thick, they will be obliged to come;—and even that (God knows!) will not stead them very long. Palaver has been loud very long; but Fact, in these times, is getting still louder—loud as Cavaignac’s cannon and the thunder of the gods! I confess I am not sorry that this brutish dog-kennel is either to be cut off altogether or made more human a little. Was not Peel’s prophecy, the other week, a kind of gleam as of something like a dawn that would get above
the horizon by-and-by? If there lay ten years more of life in that man, he might still do great things.

“You will never more come to Chelsea; and at Sussex Place it is useless for me to call—yet I will once again before long, in spite of the grim Fates. If you are in bed or abroad, your blood be on your own head!

“Good be with you at any rate; I do salute you across the Arctic seas and their ice-floes; and am always, dear Lockhart, yours sincerely,

T. Carlyle.”

By 1849 Lockhart’s health and private sorrows made him averse to paying visits; probably Carlyle and he saw little of each other henceforth. The great probability of encountering Leigh Hunt at Mr. Carlyle’s may not have been wholly agreeable to Lockhart. In all affections there is celui qui aime, et celui qui se laisse aimer. It seems not unlikely that Carlyle was in the former position: he had a real and warm affection for Lockhart, who, in his own misfortunes, turned seldom for comfort to others, as Carlyle at Templands had turned to him. But, at bottom, the two men trusted and understood each other. Carlyle, in his latest days, was often heard, Mr. Froude says, to quote Lockhart’s lines, “It is an old belief.” He often insisted that Lockhart’s biography should be written then, while there were
many who well remembered him. Thus loyalty of friendship, ever constant in Lockhart, and ever constant to him, followed him beyond his resting-place beside the Tweed with a love more strong than death. And it is of this man that people said, “He is without a friend.”