Froude as witnesses; the good Professor Masson, who had taken endless
pains, alike friendly and wise, being at the very last objected to in
the character of "witness," as "a party interested," said the Edinburgh
lawyer. I a little regretted this circumstance; so I think did Masson
secretly. He read us the deed with sonorous emphasis, bringing every
word and note of it home to us. Then I signed; then they two--Masson
witnessing only with his eyes and mind. I was deeply moved, as I well
might be, but held my peace and shed no tears. _Tears_ I think I have
done with; never, except for moments together, have I wept for that
catastrophe of April 21, to which whole days of weeping would have been
in other times a blessed relief.... This is my poor "Sweetheart Abbey,"
"Cor Dulce," or New Abbey, a sacred casket and _tomb_ for the sweetest
"heart" which, in this bad, bitter world, was all my own. Darling,
darling! and in a little while we shall _both_ be at rest, and the Great
God will have done with us what was His will.'[39]

When the Tories were preparing to 'dish the Whigs' over the Reform Bill,
Carlyle felt impelled to write a pamphlet, which he called _Shooting
Niagara, and After_. It was his final utterance on British politics.
Proof sheets and revisions for new editions of his works engrossed his
attention for some time. He went annually to Scotland, and devoted a
great deal of time on his return to Chelsea to the sorting and
annotating of his wife's letters.

Early in 1869 the Queen expressed a wish, through Dean Stanley, to
become personally acquainted with Carlyle. The meeting took place at
Westminster Deanery: 'The Queen,' Carlyle said, 'was really very
gracious and pretty in her demeanour throughout; rose greatly in my
esteem by everything that happened; did not fall in any point. The
interview was quietly very mournful to me; the one point of real
interest, a sombre thought: "Alas! how would it have cheered her, bright
soul, for my sake, had she been there!"'

When Carlyle was in constant expectation of his end, he--in June
1871--brought to Mr Froude's house a large parcel of papers. 'He put it
in my hands,' says Froude. 'He told me to take it simply and absolutely
as my own, without reference to any other person or persons, and to do
with it as I pleased after he was gone. He explained, when he saw me
surprised, that it was an account of his wife's history, that it was
incomplete, that he could himself form no