saying, simply: "We cannot always expect to have our own way in an
attack," when down in his great heart he knows that the proudest people
ever defeated have cast the final die, and lost. We stand over his ashes
and feel that they are the ashes of a truly great man whom "unmerciful
disaster followed fast and followed faster." We see James Gordon
Bennett, the jibe of all the printers because of his crooked eyes. Yet
he dies the owner of the greatest money-making newspaper of all
newspaper history, a journal which sends expeditions to Africa and
squadrons to the north pole. We see a "canny" Scotch boy at study. He
"takes wonderfully to German," and soon the English world is hailing him
as the "literary Columbus." He has shown them the greatness of
Frederick, of Schiller, and Goethe. He writes a history of the French
Revolution, and calls it the "truth clad in hell-fire." He reads a
library in a few hours, or, rather, he reads what he has not read--and
finally he lies down, hating the world, hating freedom, but full of
genius, and men say "Carlyle is dead."