the American moralist.  Emerson gave him, as might have been expected, no practical advice, but recommended him to read the Vedas.  Nothing mattered much to Emerson, who took the opportunity to give a lecture in London on the Spiritual Unity of all Animated Beings.  Froude attended it, and there first saw Carlyle, who burst, characteristically enough, into a shout of laughter at the close.  Carlyle loved Emerson; but the Emersonian philosophy was to him like any other form of old clothes, only rather more grotesque than most.

In the Long Vacation of 1848 Froude went alone to Ireland for the third time, and shut himself up at Killarney.  From Killarney he wrote a long account of himself to Clough: 

“Killarney, July 15, 1848.

“I came over here where for the present I am all day in the woods and on the lake and retire at night into an unpleasant hotel, where I am sitting up writing this and waiting with the rest of the household rather anxiously for the arrival of a fresh wedded pair.  Next week I move off across the lake to a sort of lodge of Lord Kenmare, where I have persuaded an old lady to take me into the family.  I am going to live with them, and I am going to have her ladyship’s own boudoir to scribble in.  It is a wild place enough with porridge and potatoes to eat, varied with what fish I may provide for myself and arbutus berries if it comes to starving.  The noble lord has been away for some years.  They will put a deal table into the said boudoir for me, and if living under a noble roof has charms for me I have that at least to console myself with.  I can’t tell about your coming.  There may be a rising in September, and you may be tempted to turn rebel, you know; and I don’t know whether you like porridge, or whether a straw bed is to your—­not ‘taste,’ touch is better, I suppose.  It is perfectly beautiful here, or it would be if it wasn’t for the swarm of people about one that are for ever insisting on one’s saying so.  Between hotel-keeper and carmen and boatmen and guides that describe to my honour the scenery, and young girls that insist on my honour taking a taste of the goats’ milk, and a thousand other creatures that insist on boring me and being paid for it, I am really thankful every night when I get to my room and find all the pieces of me safe in their places.  However, I shall do very well when I get to my lodge, and in the meantime I am contented to do ill.  I have hopes of these young paddies after all.  I think they will have a fight for it, or else their landlords will bully the Government into strong measures as they call them—­and then will finally disgust whatever there is left of doubtful loyalty in the country into open unloyalty, and they will win without fighting.  There is the most genuine hatred of the Irish landlords everywhere that I can remember to have heard expressed of persons or things.  My landlady that is to be next week told me she believed it was God’s doing.  If God wished the people