the bed, but it had been removed elsewhere; all was neat as she loved it, but all was calm—­calm as death.  I remembered the last sight of her; she raised herself in bed, and tried to turn her eyes after me, and said, with a sort of smile, “You all have such melancholy faces.”  They were the last words I ever heard her utter, and I hurried away, for she did not seem quite conscious of what she said.  When I returned, immediately [before] departing, she was in a deep sleep.  It is deeper now.  This was but seven days since.

They are arranging the chamber of death; that which was long the apartment of connubial happiness, and of whose arrangements (better than in richer houses) she was so proud.  They are treading fast and thick.  For weeks you could have heard a foot-fall.  Oh, my God!

May 19.—­Anne, poor love, is ill with her exertions and agitation—­cannot walk—­and is still hysterical, though less so.  I advised flesh-brush and tepid bath, which I think will bring her about.  We speak freely of her whom we have lost, and mix her name with our ordinary conversation.  This is the rule of nature.  All primitive people speak of their dead, and I think virtuously and wisely.  The idea of blotting the names of those who are gone out of the language and familiar discourse of those to whom they were dearest is one of the rules of ultra-civilisation which, in so many instances, strangle natural feeling by way of avoiding a painful sensation.  The Highlanders speak of their dead children as freely as of their living, and mention how poor Colin or Robert would have acted in such or such a situation.  It is a generous and manly tone of feeling; and, so far as it may be adopted without affectation or contradicting the general habits of society, I reckon on observing it.

May 20.—­To-night, I trust, will bring Charles or Lockhart, or both; at least I must hear from them.  A letter from Violet [Lockhart] gave us the painful intelligence that she had not mentioned to Sophia the dangerous state in which her mother was.  Most kindly meant, but certainly not so well judged.  I have always thought that truth, even when painful, is a great duty on such occasions, and it is seldom that concealment is justifiable.

Sophia’s baby was christened on Sunday, 14th May, at Brighton, by the name of Walter Scott.[270] May God give him life and health to wear it with credit to himself and those belonging to him.  Melancholy to think that the next morning after this ceremony deprived him of so near a relation.  Sent Mr. Curle L11 to remit Mrs. Bohn, York Street, Covent Garden, for books—­I thought I had paid the poor woman before.

May 21.—­Our sad preparations for to-morrow continue.  A letter from Lockhart; doubtful if Sophia’s health or his own state of business will let him be here.  If things permit he comes to-night.  From Charles not a word; but I think I may expect him.  I wish to-morrow were over; not that I fear it, for my nerves are pretty good, but it will be a day of many recollections.