Part III.--July, 1824.

" August, 1824.

" September, 1824.

It was enlarged, and separately published by Messrs. Taylor and

Hessey, the proprietors of the Magazine, in 1825.

The translation of "Wilhelm Meister," in 1824,[A] was the first real

introduction of Goethe to the reading world of Great Britain. It

appeared without the name of the translator, but its merits were too

palpable to be overlooked, though some critics objected to the strong

infusion of German phraseology which had been imported into the

English version. This acquired idiom never left our author, even in

his original works, although the "Life of Schiller," written but a few

months before, is almost entirely free from the peculiarity. "Wilhelm

Meister," in its English dress, was better received by the English

reading public than by English critics. De Quincey, in one of his

dyspeptic fits, fell upon the book, its author, and the translator,[B]

and Lord Jeffrey, in the Edinburgh Review, although admitting Carlyle

to be a talented person, heaped condemnation upon the work.

[Footnote A: Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship. 3 Vols., Edinburgh,

1824.]

[Footnote B: Curiously enough in the very numbers of the "London

Magazine" containing the later instalments of Carlyle's Life of

Schiller.]

Carlyle's next work was a series of translations, entitled "German

Romance: Specimens of the chief Authors; with Biographical and

Critical Notices." 4 vols. Edinburgh, 1827. The Preface and

Introductions are reprinted in the second volume of Carlyle's

Collected Works: the Specimens translated from Hoffmann and La Motte

Fouqué, have not been reprinted.

"This," says Carlyle, in 1857, "was a Book of Translations, not of my

suggesting or desiring, but of my executing as honest journey-work in

defect of better. The pieces selected were the suitablest discoverable

on such terms: not quite of _less_ than no worth (I considered) any

piece of them; nor, alas, of a very high worth any, except one only.

Four of these lots, or quotas to the adventure, Musæus's, Tieck's,

Richter's, Goethe's, will be given in the final stage of this Series;

the rest we willingly leave, afloat or stranded, as waste driftwood,

to those whom they may farther concern."

It was in 1826 that Mr. Carlyle married Miss Jane Welsh, the only

child of Dr. John Welsh, of Haddington,[A] a lineal descendant of John

Knox, and a lady fitted in every way to be the wife of such a man. For

some time after marriage he continued to reside at Edinburgh, but

in May, 1828, he took up his residence in his native county, at

Craigenputtoch--a solitary farmhouse on a small estate belonging to

his wife's mother, about fifteen miles from Dumfries, and in one of

the most secluded parts of the country. Most of his letters to Goethe

were written from this place.

[Footnote A: Her father had been dead some seven years when Carlyle

and she were married, and the life interest of her inheritance in the

farm of Craigenputtoch had been made over to her mother, who survived

until 1842, when it reverted to Carlyle.]

In one of the letters sent from Craigenputtoch to Weimar, bearing

the date of 25th September, 1828, we have a charming picture of our

author's seclusion and retired literary life at this period:--

"You inquire with such warm interest respecting our present abode and

occupations, that I feel bound to say a few words about both, while

there is still room left. Dumfries is a pleasant town, containing

about fifteen thousand inhabitants, and may be considered the centre

of the trade and judicial system of a district which possesses some

importance in the sphere of Scottish industry. Our residence is not

in the town itself, but fifteen miles to the north-west, among the

granite hills and the black morasses which stretch westward through

Galloway, almost to the Irish Sea. In this wilderness of heath and

rock, our estate stands forth a green oasis, a tract of ploughed,

partly enclosed, and planted ground, where corn ripens, and trees

afford a shade, although surrounded by sea-mews and rough-woolled

sheep. Here, with no small effort, have we built and furnished a neat,

substantial dwelling; here, in the absence of professorial or other

office, we live to cultivate literature according to our strength,

and in our own peculiar way. We wish a joyful growth to the rose and

flowers of our garden; we hope for health and peaceful thoughts to

further our aims. The roses, indeed, are still in part to be planted,

but they blossom already in anticipation. Two ponies, which carry

us everywhere, and the mountain air, are the best medicines for weak

nerves. This daily exercise--to which I am much devoted--is my only

recreation: for this nook of ours is the loneliest in Britain--six

miles removed from any one likely to visit me. Here Rousseau would

have been as happy as on his island of St. Pierre. My town friends,

indeed, ascribe my sojourn here to a similar disposition, and forbode

me no good result. But I came hither solely with the design to

simplify my way of life, and to secure the independence through which

I could be enabled to remain true to myself. This bit of earth is our

own; here we can live, write, and think, as best pleases ourselves,

even though Zoilus himself were to be crowned the monarch of

literature. Nor is the solitude of such great importance; for a

stage-coach takes us speedily to Edinburgh, which we look upon as our

British Weimar. And have I not, too, at this moment piled up upon

the table of my little library a whole cart-load of French, German,

American, and English journals and periodicals--whatever may be their

worth? Of antiquarian studies, too, there is no lack. From some of

our heights I can descry, about a day's journey to the west, the hill

where Agricola and his Romans left a camp behind them. At the foot of

it I was born, and there both father and mother still live to love me.

And so one must let time work."

The above letter was printed by Goethe himself, in his Preface to

a German transition of Carlyle's "Life of Schiller," published at

Frankfort in 1830. Other pleasant records of the intercourse between

them exist in the shape of sundry graceful copies of verses addressed

by Goethe to Mrs. Carlyle, which will be found in the collection of

his poems.

Carlyle had now fairly started as an original writer. From the lonely

farm of Craigenputtoch went forth the brilliant series of Essays

contributed to the Edinburgh, Westminster, and Foreign Reviews, and to

Fraser's Magazine, which were not long in gaining for him a literary

reputation in both hemispheres. To this lonely farm came one day in

August, 1833, armed with a letter of introduction, a visitor from the

other side of the Atlantic: a young American, then unknown to fame, by

name Ralph Waldo Emerson. The meeting of these two remarkable men was

thus described by the younger of them, many years afterwards:--

"I came from Glasgow to Dumfries, and being intent on delivering a

letter which I had brought from Rome, inquired for Craigenputtoch.

It was a farm in Nithsdale, in the parish of Dunscore, sixteen miles

distant. No public coach passed near it, so I took a private carriage

from the inn. I found the house amid desolate heathery hills, where

the lonely scholar nourished his mighty heart. Carlyle was a man from

his youth, an author who did not need to hide from his readers, and as

absolute a man of the world, unknown and exiled on that hill-farm, as

if holding on his own terms what is best in London. He was tall

and gaunt, with a cliff-like brow, self-possessed, and holding his

extraordinary powers of conversation in easy command; clinging to his

northern accent with evident relish; full of lively anecdote, and with

a streaming humour, which floated everything he looked upon. His talk

playfully exalting the familiar objects, put the companion at once

into an acquaintance with his Lars and Lemurs, and it was very

pleasant to learn what was predestined to be a pretty mythology. Few

were the objects and lonely the man, 'not a person to speak to

within sixteen miles except the minister of Dunscore; so that books

inevitably made his topics.

"He had names of his own for all the matters familiar to his

discourse. 'Blackwood's' was the 'sand magazine;' 'Fraser's' nearer

approach to possibility of life was the 'mud magazine;' a piece of

road near by that marked some failed enterprise was 'the grave of the

last sixpence.' When too much praise of any genius annoyed him, he

professed hugely to admire the talent shewn by his pig. He had spent

much time and contrivance in confining the poor beast to one enclosure

in his pen, but pig, by great strokes of judgment, had found out

how to let a board down, and had foiled him. For all that, he still

thought man the most plastic little fellow in the planet, and he liked

Nero's death, 'Qualis artifex pereo!' better than most history. He

worships a man that will manifest any truth to him. At one time he had

inquired and read a good deal about America. Landor's principle was

mere rebellion, and that he feared was the American principle. The

best thing he knew of that country was, that in it a man can have meat

for his labour. He had read in Stewart's book, that when he inquired

in a New York hotel for the Boots, he had been shown across the

street, and had found Mungo in his own house dining on roast turkey.

"We talked of books. Plato he does not read, and he disparaged

Socrates; and, when pressed, persisted in making Mirabeau a hero.

Gibbon he called the splendid bridge from the old world to the new.

His own reading had been multifarious. Tristram Shandy was one of his

first books after Robinson Crusoe, and Robertson's America an early

favourite. Rousseau's Confessions had discovered to him that he was

not a dunce; and it was now ten years since he had learned German, by

the advice of a man who told him he would find in that language what

he wanted.

"He took despairing or satirical views of literature at this

moment; recounted the incredible sums paid in one year by the great

booksellers for puffing. Hence it comes that no newspaper is trusted

now, no books are bought, and the booksellers are on the eve of

bankruptcy.

"He still returned to English pauperism, the crowded country, the

selfish abdication by public men of all that public persons should

perform. 'Government should direct poor men what to do. Poor Irish

folk come wandering over these moors. My dame makes it a rule to give

to every son of Adam bread to eat, and supplies his wants to the next

house. But here are thousands of acres which might give them all meat,

and nobody to bid these poor Irish go to the moor and till it. They

burned the stacks, and so found a way to force the rich people to

attend to them.'

"We went out to walk over long hills, and looked at Criffel, then

without his cap, and down into Wordsworth's country. There we sat

down, and talked of the immortality of the soul. It was not

Carlyle's fault that we talked on that topic, for he had the natural

disinclination of every nimble spirit to bruise itself against walls,

and did not like to place himself where no step can be taken. But he

was honest and true, and cognizant of the subtile links that bind ages

together, and saw how every event affects all the future. 'Christ died

on the tree: that built Dunscore kirk yonder: that brought you and me

together. Time has only a relative existence.'

"He was already turning his eyes towards London with a scholar's

appreciation. London is the heart of the world, he said, wonderful

only from the mass of human beings. He liked the huge machine. Each

keeps its own round. The baker's boy brings muffins to the window at a

fixed hour every day, and that is all the Londoner knows, or wishes

to know, on the subject. But it turned out good men. He named certain

individuals, especially one man of letters, his friend, the best mind

he knew, whom London had well served."[A]

[Footnote A: "English Traits," by R.W. Emerson. First Visit to

England.]

"Carlyle," says Emerson, "was already turning his eyes towards

London," and a few months after the interview just described he did

finally fix his residence there, in a quiet street in Chelsea, leading

down to the river-side. Here, in an old-fashioned house, built in the

reign of Queen Anne, he and his wife settled down in the early summer

of 1834; here they continued to live together until she died; and here

Carlyle afterwards lived on alone till the end of his life.

With another man, of whom he now became the neighbour--Leigh Hunt--he

had already formed a slight acquaintance, which soon ripened into

a warm friendship and affection on both sides, in spite of their

singular difference of temperament and character.

"It was on the 8th of February, 1832," says Mr. Thornton Hunt, "that

the writer of the essays named 'Characteristics' received, apparently

from Mr. Leigh Hunt, a volume entitled 'Christianism,' for which he

begged to express his thanks. By the 20th of February, Carlyle, then

lodging in London, was inviting Leigh Hunt to tea, as the means of

their first meeting; and by the 20th of November, Carlyle wrote from

Dumfries, urging Leigh Hunt to 'come hither and see us when you want

to rusticate a month. Is that for ever impossible?' The philosopher

afterwards came to live in the next street to his correspondent, in

Chelsea, and proved to be one of Leigh Hunt's kindest, most faithful,

and most considerate friends."[A]

[Footnote A: From "The Correspondence of Leigh Hunt," edited by his

eldest son. London: Smith, Elder and Co. 1862. Vol. 1., p. 321.]

Mr. Horne tells a story very characteristic of both men. Soon after

the publication of "Heroes and Hero Worship," they were at a small

party, when a conversation was started between these two concerning

the heroism of man. "Leigh Hunt had said something about the islands

of the blest, or El Dorado, or the Millennium, and was flowing on his

bright and hopeful way, when Carlyle dropped some heavy tree-trunk

across Hunt's pleasant stream, and banked it up with philosophical

doubts and objections at every interval of the speaker's joyous

progress. But the unmitigated Hunt never ceased his overflowing

anticipations, nor the saturnine Carlyle his infinite demurs to those

finite flourishings. The listeners laughed and applauded by turns; and

had now fairly pitted them against each other, as the philosopher of

hopefulness and of the unhopeful. The contest continued with all that

ready wit and philosophy, that mixture of pleasantry and profundity,

that extensive knowledge of books and character, with their ready

application in argument or illustration, and that perfect ease and

good nature which distinguish both of these men. The opponents were so

well matched that it was quite clear the contest would never come to

an end. But the night was far advanced, and the party broke up. They

all sallied forth, and leaving the close room, the candles and the

arguments behind them, suddenly found themselves in presence of a most

brilliant starlight night. They all looked up. 'Now,' thought Hunt,

'Carlyle's done for! he can have no answer to that!' 'There,' shouted

Hunt, 'look up there, look at that glorious harmony, that sings with

infinite voices an eternal song of Hope in the soul of man.' Carlyle

looked up. They all remained silent to hear what he would say. They

began to think he was silenced at last--he was a mortal man. But out

of that silence came a few low-toned words, in a broad Scotch accent.

And who on earth could have anticipated what the voice said? 'Eh! it's

a sad sight!' Hunt sat down on a stone step. They all laughed--then

looked very thoughtful. Had the finite measured itself with infinity,

instead of surrendering itself up to the influence? Again they

laughed--then bade each other good night, and betook themselves

homeward with slow and serious pace."[A]

[Footnote A: "A New Spirit of the Age," by R.H. Home. London, 1844.

Vol. . p. 278.]

In 1840 Leigh Hunt left Chelsea, and went to live at Kensington, but

Carlyle never altogether lost sight of him, and on several occasions

was able to do him very serviceable acts of kindness; as, for

instance, in writing certain Memoranda concerning him with the view of

procuring from Government a small provision for Leigh Hunt's declining

years, which we may as well give in this place:--

MEMORANDA

CONCERNING MR. LEIGH HUNT.

"1. That Mr. Hunt is a man of the most indisputedly superior worth;

a _Man of Genius_ in a very strict sense of that word, and in all

the senses which it bears or implies; of brilliant varied gifts,

of graceful fertility, of clearness, lovingness, truthfulness; of

childlike open character; also of most pure and even exemplary private

deportment; a man who can be other than _loved_ only by those who have

not seen him, or seen him from a distance through a false medium.

"2. That, well seen into, he _has_ done much for the world;--as every

man possessed of such qualities, and freely speaking them forth in

the abundance of his heart for thirty years long, must needs do: _how_

much, they that could judge best would perhaps estimate highest.

"3. That, for one thing, his services in the cause of reform, as

Founder and long as Editor of the 'Examiner' newspaper; as Poet,

Essayist, Public Teacher in all ways open to him, are great and

evident: few now living in this kingdom, perhaps, could boast of

greater.

"4. That his sufferings in that same cause have also been great; legal

prosecution and penalty (not dishonourable to him; nay, honourable,

were the whole truth known, as it will one day be): unlegal obloquy

and calumny through the Tory Press;--perhaps a greater quantity of

baseless, persevering, implacable calumny, than any other living

writer has undergone. Which long course of hostility (nearly the

cruellest conceivable, had it not been carried on in half, or almost

total misconception) may be regarded as the beginning of his other

worst distresses, and a main cause of them, down to this day.

"5. That he is heavily laden with domestic burdens, more heavily than

most men, and his economical resources are gone from him. For the last

twelve years he has toiled continually, with passionate diligence,

with the cheerfullest spirit; refusing no task; yet hardly able with

all this to provide for the day that was passing over him; and now,

after some two years of incessant effort in a new enterprise ('The

London Journal') that seemed of good promise, it also has suddenly

broken down, and he remains in ill health, age creeping on him,

without employment, means, or outlook, in a situation of the

painfullest sort. Neither do his distresses, nor did they at any time,

arise from wastefulness, or the like, on his own part (he is a man of

humble wishes, and can live with dignity on little); but from

crosses of what is called Fortune, from injustice of other men, from

inexperience of his own, and a guileless trustfulness of nature, the

thing and things that have made him unsuccessful make him in reality

_more_ loveable, and plead for him in the minds of the candid.

"6. That such a man is rare in a Nation, and of high value there; not

to be _procured_ for a whole Nation's revenue, or recovered when taken

from us, and some £200 a year is the price which this one, whom we

now have, is valued at: with that sum he were lifted above his

perplexities, perhaps saved from nameless wretchedness! It is believed

that, in hardly any other way could £200 abolish as much suffering,

create as much benefit, to one man, and through him to many and all.

"Were these things set fitly before an English Minister, in whom great

part of England recognises (with surprise at such a novelty) a man of

insight, fidelity and decision, is it not probable or possible that

he, though from a quite opposite point of view, might see them in

somewhat of a similar light; and, so seeing, determine to do in

consequence? _Ut fiat_!

"T.C."

"Some years later," says a writer in "Macmillan's Magazine,"[A] "in

the 'mellow evening' of a life that had been so stormy, Mr. Leigh

Hunt himself told the story of his struggles, his victories, and

his defeats, with so singularly graceful a frankness, that the most

supercilious of critics could not but acknowledge that here was

an autobiographer whom it was possible to like. Here is Carlyle's

estimate of Leigh Hunt's Autobiography:--

[Footnote A: July, 1862.]

"Chelsea, June 17, 1850.

"DEAR HUNT,

"I have just finished your Autobiography, which has been most

pleasantly occupying all my leisure these three days; and you must

permit me to write you a word upon it, out of the fulness of the

heart, while the impulse is still fresh to thank you. This good

book, in every sense one of the best I have read this long while, has

awakened many old thoughts which never were extinct, or even properly

asleep, but which (like so much else) have had to fall silent amid the

tempests of an evil time--Heaven mend it! A word from me once more, I

know, will not be unwelcome, while the world is talking of you.

"Well, I call this an excellent good book, by far the best of the

autobiographic kind I remember to have read in the English language;

and indeed, except it be Boswell's of Johnson, I do not know where we

have such a picture drawn of a human life, as in these three volumes.

"A pious, ingenious, altogether human and worthy book; imaging, with

graceful honesty and free felicity, many interesting objects and

persons on your life-path, and imaging throughout, what is best of

all, a gifted, gentle, patient, and valiant human soul, as it buffets

its way through the billows of the time, and will not drown though

often in danger; cannot _be_ drowned, but conquers and leaves a track

of radiance behind it: that, I think, conies out more clearly to me

than in any other of your books;--and that, I can venture to assure

you, is the best of all results to realise in a book or written

record. In fact, this book has been like an exercise of devotion to

me; I have not assisted at any sermon, liturgy or litany, this long

while, that has had so religious an effect on me. Thanks in the name

of all men. And believe, along with me, that this book will be welcome

to other generations as well as to ours. And long may you live to

write more books for us; and may the evening sun be softer on you (and

on me) than the noon sometimes was!

"Adieu, dear Hunt (you must let me use this familiarity, for I am an

old fellow too now, as well as you). I have often thought of coming up

to see you once more; and perhaps I shall, one of these days

(though horribly sick and lonely, and beset with spectral lions, go

whitherward I may): but whether I do or not believe for ever in my

regard. And so, God bless you,

"Prays heartily,

"T. CARLYLE."

On the other hand Leigh Hunt had an enthusiastic reverence for

Carlyle. There are several incidental allusions to the latter, of more

or less consequence, in Hunt's Autobiography, but the following is the

most interesting:--

"_Carlyle's Paramount Humanity_.--I believe that what Mr. Carlyle

loves better than his fault-finding, with all its eloquence, is the

face of any human creature that looks suffering, and loving, and

sincere; and I believe further, that if the fellow-creature were

suffering only, and neither loving nor sincere, but had come to a pass

of agony in this life which put him at the mercies of some good man

for some last help and consolation towards his grave, even at the risk

of loss to repute, and a sure amount of pain and vexation, that

man, if the groan reached him in its forlornness, would be Thomas

Carlyle."[A]

[Footnote A: "Autobiography of Leigh Hunt, with Reminiscences of

friends and Contemporaries." (Lond. 1850.)]

It was in "Leigh Hunt's Journal,"--a short-lived Weekly Miscellany

(1850--1851)--that Carlyle's sketch, entitled "Two Hundred and Fifty

Years Ago,"[A] first appeared.

[Footnote A: "Two Hundred and Fifty Years Ago. From a waste paper bag

of T. Carlyle." Reprinted in Carlyle's Miscellanies, Ed. 1857.]

It was during his residence at Craigenputtoch that "Sartor Resartus"

("The Tailor Done Over," the name of an old Scotch ballad) was

written, which, after being rejected by several publishers, finally

made its appearance in "Eraser's Magazine," 1833--34. The book, it

must be confessed, might well have puzzled the critical gentlemen--the

"book-tasters"--who decide for publishers what work to print among

those submitted in manuscript. It is a sort of philosophical romance,

in which the author undertakes to give, in the form of a review of a

German work on dress, and in a notice of the life of the writer, his

own opinions upon matters and things in general. The hero, Professor

Teufelsdroeckh ("Devil's Dirt"), seems to be intended for a portrait

of human nature as affected by the moral influence to which a

cultivated mind would be exposed by the transcendental philosophy of

Fichte. Mr. Carlyle works out his theory--the clothes philosophy--and

finds the world false and hollow, our institutions mere worn-out rags

or disguises, and that our only safety lies in flying from falsehood

to truth, and becoming in harmony with the "divine idea." There is

much fanciful, grotesque description in "Sartor," with deep thought

and beautiful imagery. "In this book," wrote John Sterling, "we always

feel that there is a mystic influence around us, bringing out into

sharp homely clearness what is noblest in the remote and infinite,

exalting into wonder what is commonest in the dust and toil of every

day."

"Sartor" found but few admirers; those readers, however, were firm and

enthusiastic in their applause. In 1838 the "Sartor Resartus" papers,

already republished in the United States, were issued in a collected

form here; and in 1839-1840 his various scattered articles

in periodicals, after having similarly received the honour of

republication in America, were published here, first in four and

afterwards in five volumes, under the title of "Miscellanies."

It was in the spring of 1837 that Carlyle's first great historical

work appeared, "The French Revolution:--Vol. I., The Bastile; Vol. II,

The Constitution; Vol. III., The Guillotine." The publication of this

book produced a profound impression on the public mind. A history

abounding in vivid and graphic descriptions, it was at the same time

a gorgeous "prose epic." It is perhaps the most readable of all

Carlyle's works, and indeed is one of the most remarkable books of the

age. There is no other account of the French Revolution that can be

compared with it for intensity of feeling and profoundness of thought.

A great deal of information respecting Carlyle's manner of living and

personal history during these earlier years in London may be gleaned

incidentally from his "Life of John Sterling," a book, which, from the

nature of it, is necessarily partly autobiographical.

Thomas Moore and others met him sometimes in London society at this

time. Moore thus briefly chronicles a breakfast at Lord Houghton's, at

which Carlyle was present:--

"22nd May, 1838.--Breakfasted at Milnes', and met rather a remarkable

party, consisting of Savage, Landor, and Carlyle (neither of whom

I had ever seen before), Robinson, Rogers, and Rice. A good deal of

conversation between Robinson and Carlyle about German authors, of

whom I knew nothing, nor (from what they paraded of them) felt that I

had lost much by my ignorance."[A]

[Footnote A: Diary of Thomas Moore. (Lond. 1856.) Vol. vii., p. 224]

In 1835, after the publication of "Sartor Resartus," Carlyle received

an invitation from some American admirers of his writings, to visit

their country, and he contemplated doing so, but his labours in

examining and collecting materials for his great work on "The French

Revolution," then hastening towards completion, prevented him.

We may say that, for many reasons, it is to be regretted that this

design was never carried into execution. Had Carlyle witnessed with

his own eyes the admirable working of democratic institutions in the

United States, he might have done more justice to our Transatlantic

brethren, who were always his first and foremost admirers, and he

might also have acquired more faith in the future destinies of his own

countrymen.

In December, 1837, Carlyle wrote a very remarkable letter to a

correspondent in India, which has never been printed in his works,

and which we are enabled to give here entire. It is addressed to Major

David Lester Richardson, in acknowledgment of his "Literary Leaves,

or Prose and Verse," published at Calcutta in 1836. These "Literary

Leaves" contain among other things an article on the Italian Opera

(taking much the same view of it as Carlyle does), and a sketch of

Edward Irving. These papers no doubt pleased Carlyle, and perhaps led

him to entertain a rather exaggeratedly high opinion of the rest of

the book.

THOMAS CARLYLE TO DAVID LESTER RICHARDSON.

"5, Cheyne Row, Chelsea, London,

"_19th December_, 1837.

"My DEAR SIR,

"Your courteous gift, with the letter accompanying it, reached me only

about a week ago, though dated 20th of June, almost at the opposite

point of the year. Whether there has been undue delay or not is

unknown to me, but at any rate on my side there ought to be no delay.

"I have read your volume--what little of it was known to me before,

and the much that was not known--I can say, with true pleasure. It

is written, as few volumes in these days are, with fidelity, with

successful care, with insight and conviction as to matter, with

clearness and graceful precision as to manner: in a word, it is the

impress of a mind stored with elegant accomplishments, gifted with

an eye to see, and a heart to understand; a welcome, altogether

recommendable book. More than once I have said to myself and others,

How many parlour firesides are there this winter in England, at which

this volume, could one give credible announcement of its quality,

would be right pleasant company? There are very many, _could_ one give

the announcement: but no such announcement _can_ be given; therefore

the parlour firesides must even put up with ---- or what other stuff

chance shovels in their way, and read, though with malediction all the

time. It is a great pity, but no man can help it. We are now arrived

seemingly pretty near the point when all criticism and proclamation

in matters literary has degenerated into an inane jargon, incredible,

unintelligible, inarticulate as the cawing of choughs and rooks; and

many things in that as in other provinces, are in a state of painful

and rapid transition. A good book has no way of recommending itself

except slowly and as it were accidentally from hand to hand. The man

that wrote it must abide his time. He needs, as indeed all men do, the

_faith_ that this world is built not on falsehood and jargon but on

truth and reason; that no good thing done by any creature of God was,

is, or ever can be _lost_, but will verily do the service appointed

for it, and be found among the general sum-total and all of things

after long times, nay after all time, and through eternity itself. Let

him 'cast his bread upon the waters,' therefore, cheerful of heart;

'he will find it after many days.'

"I know not why I write all this to you; it comes very spontaneously

from me. Let it be your satisfaction, the highest a man can have in

this world, that the talent entrusted to you did not lie useless,

but was turned to account, and proved itself to be a talent; and the

'publishing world' can receive it altogether according to their own

pleasure, raise it high on the housetops, or trample it low into the

street-kennels; that is not the question at all, the _thing_ remains

precisely what it was after never such raising and never such

depressing and trampling, there is no change whatever in _it_. I bid

you go on, and prosper.

"One thing grieves me: the tone of sadness, I might say of settled

melancholy that runs through all your utterances of yourself. It is

not right, it is wrong; and yet how shall I reprove you? If you knew

me, you would triumphantly[A] for any spiritual endowment bestowed

on a man, that it is accompanied, or one might say _preceded_ as the

first origin of it, always by a delicacy of organisation which in

a world like ours is sure to have itself manifoldly afflicted,

tormented, darkened down into sorrow and disease. You feel yourself an

exile, in the East; but in the West too it is exile; I know not where

under the sun it is not exile. Here in the Fog Babylon, amid mud

and smoke, in the infinite din of 'vociferous platitude,' and quack

outbellowing quack, with truth and pity on all hands ground under the

wheels, can one call it a home, or a world? It is a waste chaos, where

we have to swim painfully for our life. The utmost a man can do is

to swim there like a man, and hold his peace. For this seems to me

a great truth, in any exile or chaos whatsoever, that sorrow was not

given us for sorrow's sake, but always and infallibly as a lesson to

us from which we are to learn somewhat: and which, the somewhat

once _learned_, ceases to be sorrow. I do believe this; and study

in general to 'consume my own smoke,' not indeed without very ugly

out-puffs at times! Allan Cunningham is the best, he tells me that

always as one grows older, one grows happier: a thing also which I

really can believe. But as for you, my dear sir, you have other work

to do in the East than grieve. Are there not beautiful things there,

glorious things; wanting only an eye to note them, a hand to record

them? If I had the command over you, I would say, read _Paul et

Virginie_, then read the _Chaumière Indienne_; gird yourself together

for a right effort, and go and do likewise or better! I mean what I

say. The East has its own phases, there are things there which the

West yet knows not of; and one heaven covers both. He that has an eye

let him look!

[Footnote A: There seems to be some omission or slip of the pen here.]

"I hope you forgive me this style I have got into. It seems to me on

reading your book as if we had been long acquainted in some measure;

as if one might speak to you right from the heart. I hope we shall

meet some day or other. I send you my constant respect and good

wishes; and am and remain,

"Yours very truly always,

"T. CARLYLE."

Carlyle first appeared as a lecturer in 1837. His first course was on

'German Literature,' at Willis's Rooms; a series of six lectures, of

which the first was thus noticed in the _Spectator_ of Saturday, May

6, 1837.[A]

[Footnote A: Facsimiled in "The Autographic Mirror," July, 1865.]

"_Mr. Thomas Carlyle's Lectures_.

"Mr. Carlyle delivered the first of a course of lectures on German

Literature, at Willis's Rooms, on Tuesday, to a very crowded and yet

a select audience of both sexes. Mr. Carlyle may be deficient in the

mere mechanism of oratory; but this minor defect is far more than

counterbalanced by his perfect mastery of his subject, the originality

of his manner, the perspicuity of his language, his simple but genuine

eloquence, and his vigorous grasp of a large and difficult question.

No person of taste or judgment could hear him without feeling that the

lecturer is a man of genius, deeply imbued with his great argument."

"This course of lectures," says a writer already quoted, "was well

attended by the fashionables of the West End; and though they saw

in his manner something exceedingly awkward, they could not fail to

discern in his matter the impress of a mind of great originality and

superior gifts."[A]

[Footnote A: JAMES GRANT: "Portraits of Public Characters." (Lond.

1841.) Vol. ii., p. 152.]

The following year he delivered a second course on the 'History of

Literature, or the Successive Periods of European Culture,' at

the Literary Institution in Edwards-street, Portman-square. 'The

Revolutions of Modern Europe' was the title given to the third course,

delivered twelve months later. The fourth and last series, of six

lectures, is the best remembered, 'Heroes and Hero-worship.' This

course alone was published, and it became more immediately popular

than any of the works which had preceded it. Concerning these

lectures, Leigh Hunt remarked that it seemed "as if some Puritan

had come to life again, liberalized by German philosophy and his own

intense reflections and experience." Another critic, a Scotch writer,

could see nothing but wild impracticability in them, and exclaimed,

"Can any living man point to a single practical passage in any of

these lectures? If not, what is the real value of Mr. Carlyle's

teachings? What is Mr. Carlyle himself but a phantasm!"

The vein of Puritanism running through his writings, composed upon

the model of the German school, impressed many critics with the belief

that their author, although full of fire and energy, was perplexed and

embarrassed with his own speculations. Concerning this Puritan element

in his reflections, Mr. James Hannay remarks, "That earnestness, that

grim humour--that queer, half-sarcastic, half-sympathetic fun--is

quite Scotch. It appears in Knox and Buchanan, and it appears in

Burns. I was not surprised when a school-fellow of Carlyle's told me

that his favourite poem was, when a boy, 'Death and Doctor Hornbook.'

And if I were asked to explain this originality, I should say that he

was a covenanter coming in the wake of the eighteenth century and the

transcendental philosophy. He has gone into the hills against 'shams,'

as they did against Prelacy, Erastianism, and so forth. But he lives

in a quieter age, and in a literary position. So he can give play

to the humour which existed in them as well, and he overflows with

a range of reading and speculation to which they were necessarily

strangers."

'Chartism,' published in 1839, and which, to use the words of a critic

of the time, was the publication in which "he first broke ground on

the Condition of England question," appeared a short time before the

lectures on 'Heroes and Hero-worship' were delivered. If we

remember rightly, Mr. Carlyle gave forth "those grand utterances"

extemporaneously and without an abstract, notes, or a reminder of any

kind--utterances not beautiful to the flunkey-mind, or valet-soul,

occupied mainly with the fold of the hero's necktie, and the cut

of his coat. Flunkey-dom, by one of its mouthpieces, thus speaks of

them:--

"Perhaps his course for the present year, which was on Hero-worship,

was better attended than any previous one. Some of those who were

present estimated the average attendance at three hundred. They

chiefly consisted of persons of rank and wealth, as the number of

carriages which each day waited the conclusion of the lecture to

receive Mr. Carlyle's auditors, and to carry them to their homes,

conclusively testified. The locality of Mr. Carlyle's lectures has, I

believe, varied every year. The Hanover Rooms, Willis's Rooms, and

a place in the north of London, the name of which I forget, have

severally been chosen as the place whence to give utterance to his

profound and original trains of thought.

"A few words will be expected here as to Mr. Carlyle's manner as a

lecturer. In so far as his mere manner is concerned, I can scarcely

bestow on him a word of commendation. There is something in his manner

which, if I may use a rather quaint term, must seem very uncouth to

London audiences of the most respectable class, _accustomed as they

are to the polished deportment[A] which is usually exhibited in

Willis's or the Hanover Rooms_. When he enters the room, and proceeds

to the sort of rostrum whence he delivers his lectures, he is,

according to the usual practice in such cases, generally received

with applause; but he very rarely takes any more notice of the mark

of approbation thus bestowed upon him, than if he were altogether

unconscious of it. And the same seeming want of respect for his

audience, or, at any rate, the same disregard for what I believe

he considers the troublesome forms of politeness, is visible at the

commencement of his lecture. Having ascended his desk, he gives a

hearty rub to his hands, and plunges at once into his subject. He

reads very closely, which, indeed, must be expected, considering

the nature of the topics which he undertakes to discuss. He is not

prodigal of gesture with his arms or body; but there is something in

his eye and countenance which indicates great earnestness of purpose,

and the most intense interest in his subject. _You can almost fancy,

in some of his more enthusiastic and energetic moments, that you

see his inmost soul in his face_. At times, indeed very often, he so

unnaturally distorts his features, as to give to his countenance a

very unpleasant expression. On such occasions, you would imagine that

he was suddenly seized with some violent paroxysms of pain. _He is

one of the most ungraceful speakers I have ever heard address a public

assemblage of persons_. In addition to the awkwardness of his general

manner, he 'makes mouths,' which would of themselves be sufficient to

mar the agreeableness of his delivery. And his manner of speaking, and

the ungracefulness of his gesticulation, are greatly aggravated by

his strong Scotch accent. Even to the generality of Scotchmen his

pronunciation is harsh in no ordinary degree. Need I say, then, what

it must be to an English ear?

[Footnote A: Shade of Mr. Turveydrop senior, hear this man!]

"I was present some months ago, during the delivery of a speech by Mr.

Carlyle at a meeting held in the Freemasons' Tavern, for the purpose

of forming a metropolitan library; and though that speech did not

occupy in its delivery more than five minutes, he made use of some of

the most extraordinary phraseology I ever heard employed by a

human being. He made use of the expression 'this London,' which he

pronounced 'this Loondun,' four or five times--a phrase which grated

grievously on the ears even of those of Mr. Carlyle's own countrymen

who were present, and which must have sounded doubly harsh in the ears

of an Englishman, considering the singularly broad Scotch accent with

which he spoke.

"A good deal of uncertainty exists as to Mr. Carlyle's religious

opinions. I have heard him represented as a firm and entire believer

in revelation, and I have heard it affirmed with equal confidence that

he is a decided Deist. My own impression is," &c.[A]

[Footnote A: "Portraits of Public Characters," by the author of

"Random Recollections of the Lords and Commons." Vol. ii. pp.

152-158.]

In 1841 Carlyle superintended the publication of the English

edition of his friend Emerson's Essays,[B] to which he prefixed a

characteristic Preface of some length.

[Footnote B: Essays: by R.W. Emerson, of Concord, Massachusetts. With

Preface by Thomas Carlyle. London: James Fraser, 1841.]

"The name of Ralph Waldo Emerson," he writes, "is not entirely new

in England: distinguished travellers bring us tidings of such a man;

fractions of his writings have found their way into the hands of

the curious here; fitful hints that there is, in New England, some

spiritual notability called Emerson, glide through Reviews and

Magazines. Whether these hints were true or not true, readers are now

to judge for themselves a little better.

"Emerson's writings and speakings amount to something: and yet

hitherto, as seems to me, this Emerson is perhaps far less notable for

what he has spoken or done, than for the many things he has not spoken

and has forborne to do. With uncommon interest I have learned that

this, and in such a never-resting, locomotive country too, is one of

those rare men who have withal the invaluable talent of sitting still!

That an educated man, of good gifts and opportunities, after looking

at the public arena, and even trying, not with ill success, what its

tasks and its prizes might amount to, should retire for long years

into rustic obscurity; and, amid the all-pervading jingle of dollars

and loud chaffering of ambitions and promotions, should quietly,

with cheerful deliberateness, sit down to spend _his_ life not in

Mammon-worship, or the hunt for reputation, influence, place, or any

outward advantage whatsoever: this, when we get a notice of it, is a

thing really worth noting."

In 1843, "Past and Present" appeared--a work without the wild power

which "Sartor Resartus" possessed over the feelings of the reader,

but containing passages which look the same way, and breathe the

same spirit. The book contrasts, in a historico-philosophical spirit,

English society in the Middle Ages, with English society in our own

day. In both this and the preceding work the great measures advised

for the amelioration of the people are education and emigration.

Another very admirable letter, addressed by Mr. Carlyle in 1843 to a

young man who had written to him desiring his advice as to a proper

choice of reading, and, it would appear also, as to his conduct in

general, we shall here bring forth from its hiding-place in an old

Scottish newspaper of a quarter of a century ago:--

"DEAR SIR,

"Some time ago your letter was delivered me; I take literally the

first free half-hour I have had since to write you a word of answer.

"It would give me true satisfaction could any advice of

mine contribute to forward you in your honourable course of

self-improvement, but a long experience has taught me that advice can

profit but little; that there is a good reason why advice is so seldom

followed; this reason namely, that it is so seldom, and can almost

never be, rightly given. No man knows the state of another; it is

always to some more or less imaginary man that the wisest and most

honest adviser is speaking.

"As to the books which you--whom I know so little of--should read,

there is hardly anything definite that can be said. For one thing, you

may be strenuously advised to keep reading. Any good book, any book

that is wiser than yourself, will teach you something--a great many

things, indirectly and directly, if your mind be open to learn.

This old counsel of Johnson's is also good, and universally

applicable:--'Read the book you do honestly feel a wish and curiosity

to read.' The very wish and curiosity indicates that you, then and

there, are the person likely to get good of it. 'Our wishes are

presentiments of our capabilities;' that is a noble saying, of deep

encouragement to all true men; applicable to our wishes and efforts in

regard to reading as to other things. Among all the objects that look

wonderful or beautiful to you, follow with fresh hope the one which

looks wonderfullest, beautifullest. You will gradually find, by

various trials (which trials see that you make honest, manful ones,

not silly, short, fitful ones), what _is_ for you the wonderfullest,

beautifullest--what is _your_ true element and province, and be able

to profit by that. True desire, the monition of nature, is much to be

attended to. But here, also, you are to discriminate carefully between

_true_ desire and false. The medical men tell us we should eat what

we _truly_ have an appetite for; but what we only _falsely_ have an

appetite for we should resolutely avoid. It is very true; and flimsy,

desultory readers, who fly from foolish book to foolish book, and get

good of none, and mischief of all--are not these as foolish, unhealthy

eaters, who mistake their superficial false desire after spiceries and

confectioneries for their real appetite, of which even they are

not destitute, though it lies far deeper, far quieter, after solid

nutritive food? With these illustrations, I will recommend Johnson's

advice to you.

"Another thing, and only one other, I will say. All books are properly

the record of the history of past men--what thoughts past men had in

them--what actions past men did: the summary of all books whatsoever

lies there. It is on this ground that the class of books specifically

named History can be safely recommended as the basis of all study of

books--the preliminary to all right and full understanding of anything

we can expect to find in books. Past history, and especially the past

history of one's own native country, everybody may be advised to begin

with that. Let him study that faithfully; innumerable inquiries will

branch out from it; he has a broad-beaten highway, from which all

the country is more or less visible; there travelling, let him choose

where he will dwell.

"Neither let mistakes and wrong directions--of which every man, in

his studies and elsewhere, falls into many--discourage you. There is

precious instruction to be got by finding that we are wrong. Let a

man try faithfully, manfully, to be right, he will grow daily more

and more right. It is, at bottom, the condition which all men have

to cultivate themselves. Our very walking is an incessant falling--a

falling and a catching of ourselves before we come actually to the

pavement!--it is emblematic of all things a man does.

"In conclusion, I will remind you that it is not by books alone, or

by books chiefly, that a man becomes in all points a man. Study to do

faithfully whatsoever thing in your actual situation, there and now,

you find either expressly or tacitly laid to your charge; that is

your post; stand in it like a true soldier. Silently devour the many

chagrins of it, as all human situations have many; and see you aim not

to quit it without doing all that _it_, at least, required of you.

A man perfects himself by work much more than by reading. They are a

growing kind of men that can wisely combine the two things--wisely,

valiantly, can do what is laid to their hand in their present sphere,

and prepare themselves withal for doing other wider things, if such

lie before them.

"With many good wishes and encouragements, I remain, yours sincerely,

"THOMAS CARLYLE.

"Chelsea, 13th March, 1843."

The publication of "Past and Present" elicited a paper "On the Genius

and Tendency of the Writings of Thomas Carlyle," from Mazzini, which

appeared in the "British and Foreign Review," of October, 1843.[A] It

is a candid and thoughtful piece of criticism, in which the writer,

while striving to do justice to Carlyle's genius, protests strongly

and uncompromisingly against the tendency of his teaching.

[Footnote A: Reprinted in the "Life and Writings of Joseph Mazzini."

(London, 1867). Vol. iv. pp. 56-144.]

Some months afterwards, when the House of Commons was occupied with

the illegal opening of Mazzini's letters, Carlyle spontaneously

stepped forward and paid the following tribute to his character:--

"TO THE EDITOR OF THE 'TIMES.'

"SIR,--

"In your observations in yesterday's _Times_ on the late disgraceful

affair of Mr. Mazzini's letters and the Secretary of State, you

mention that Mr. Mazzini is entirely unknown to you, entirely

indifferent to you; and add, very justly, that if he were the most

contemptible of mankind, it would not affect your argument on the

subject.[A]

[Footnote A: "Mr. Mazzini's character and habits and society are

nothing to the point, unless connected with some certain or probable

evidence of evil intentions or treasonable plots. We know nothing,

and care nothing about him. He may be the most worthless and the most

vicious creature in the world; but this is no reason of itself why

his letters should be detained and opened."--leading article, June 17,

1844.]

"It may tend to throw farther light on this matter if I now certify

you, which I in some sort feel called upon to do, that Mr. Mazzini is

not unknown to various competent persons in this country; and that he

is very far indeed from being contemptible--none farther, or very few

of living men. I have had the honour to know Mr. Mazzini for a series

of years; and, whatever I may think of his practical insight and skill

in worldly affairs, I can with great freedom testify to all men that

he, if I have ever seen one such, is a man of genius and virtue, a man

of sterling veracity, humanity, and nobleness of mind; one of those

rare men, numerable unfortunately but as units in this world, who are

worthy to be called martyr-souls; who, in silence, piously in their

daily life, understand and practise what is meant by that.

"Of Italian democracies and young Italy's sorrows, of extraneous

Austrian Emperors in Milan, or poor old chimerical Popes in Bologna,

I know nothing, and desire to know nothing; but this other thing I do

know, and can here declare publicly to be a fact, which fact all of

us that have occasion to comment on Mr. Mazzini and his affairs may do

well to take along with us, as a thing leading towards new clearness,

and not towards new additional darkness, regarding him and them.

"Whether the extraneous Austrian Emperor and miserable old chimera

of a Pope shall maintain themselves in Italy, or be obliged to decamp

from Italy, is not a question in the least vital to Englishmen. But

it is a question vital to us that sealed letters in an English

post-office be, as we all fancied they were, respected as things

sacred; that opening of men's letters, a practice near of kin to

picking men's pockets, and to other still viler and far fataler forms

of scoundrelism be not resorted to in England, except in cases of the

very last extremity. When some new gunpowder plot may be in the

wind, some double-dyed high treason, or imminent national wreck not

avoidable otherwise, then let us open letters--not till then.

"To all Austrian Kaisers and such like, in their time of trouble,

let us answer, as our fathers from of old have answered:--Not by such

means is help here for you. Such means, allied to picking of pockets

and viler forms of scoundrelism, are not permitted in this country for

your behoof. The right hon. Secretary does himself detest such, and

even is afraid to employ them. He dare not: it would be dangerous

for him! All British men that might chance to come in view of such

a transaction, would incline to spurn it, and trample on it, and

indignantly ask him what he meant by it?

"I am, Sir, your obedient servant,

"THOMAS CARLYLE.[A]

"Chelsea, June 18."

[Footnote A: From _The Times_, Wednesday, June 19, 1844.]

The autumn of this year was saddened for Carlyle by the loss of

the dear friend whose biography he afterwards wrote. On the 18th of

September, 1844--after a short career of melancholy promise, only half

fulfilled--John Sterling died, in his thirty-ninth year.

The next work that appeared from Carlyle's pen--a special service

to history, and to the memory of one of England's greatest men--was

"Oliver Cromwell's Letters and Speeches, with Elucidations and a

Connecting Narrative," two volumes, published in 1845. If there were

any doubt remaining after the publication of the "French Revolution"

what position our author might occupy amongst the historians of the

age, it was fully removed on the appearance of "Cromwell's Letters."

The work obtained a great and an immediate popularity; and though

bulky and expensive, a very large impression was quickly sold.

These speeches and letters of Cromwell, the spelling and punctuation

corrected, and a few words added here and there for clearness' sake,

and to accommodate them to the language and style in use now, were

first made intelligible and effective by Mr. Carlyle. "The authentic

utterances of the man Oliver himself," he says, "I have gathered them

from far and near; fished them up from the foul Lethean quagmires

where they lay buried. I have washed, or endeavoured to wash them

clean from foreign stupidities--such a job of buckwashing as I do not

long to repeat--and the world shall now see them in their own shape."

The work was at once republished in America, and two editions were

called for here within the year.

While engaged on this work, Carlyle went down to Rugby by express

invitation, on Friday, 13th May, 1842, and on the following day

explored the field of Naseby, in company with Dr. Arnold. The meeting

of two such remarkable men--only six weeks before the death of

the latter--has in it something solemn and touching, and unusually

interesting. Carlyle left the school-house, expressing the hope that

it might "long continue to be what was to him one of the rarest sights

in the world--a temple of industrious peace."

Arnold, who, with the deep sympathy arising from kindred nobility of

soul, had long cherished a high reverence for Carlyle, was very proud

of having received such a guest under his roof, and during those few

last weeks of life was wont to be in high spirits, talking with his

several guests, and describing with much interest, his recent visit to

Naseby with Carlyle, "its position on some of the highest table-land

in England--the streams falling on the one side into the Atlantic, on

the other into the German Ocean--far away, too, from any town--Market

Harborough, the nearest, into which the cavaliers were chased late in

the long summer evening on the fourteenth of June."

Perhaps the most graphic description of Carlyle's manner and

conversation ever published, is contained in the following passage

from a letter addressed to Emerson by an accomplished American,

Margaret Fuller, who visited England in the autumn of 1846, and whose

strange, beautiful history and tragical death on her homeward voyage,

are known to most readers.

The letter is dated Paris, November 16, 1846.

"Of the people I saw in London, you will wish me to speak first of the

Carlyles. Mr. C. came to see me at once, and appointed an evening to

be passed at their house. That first time, I was delighted with him.

He was in a very sweet humour,--full of wit and pathos, without being

overbearing or oppressive. I was quite carried away with the rich flow

of his discourse, and the hearty, noble earnestness of his personal

being brought back the charm which once was upon his writing, before I

wearied of it. I admired his Scotch, his way of singing his great full

sentences, so that each one was like the stanza of a narrative ballad.

He let me talk, now and then, enough to free my lungs and change my

position, so that I did not get tired. That evening, he talked of the

present state of things in England, giving light, witty sketches

of the men of the day, fanatics and others, and some sweet, homely

stories he told of things he had known of the Scotch peasantry.

"Of you he spoke with hearty kindness; and he told, with beautiful

feeling, a story of some poor farmer, or artisan in the country, who

on Sunday lays aside the cark and care of that dirty English world,

and sits reading the Essays, and looking upon the sea.

"I left him that night, intending to go out very often to their

house. I assure you there never was anything so witty as Carlyle's

description of ---- ----. It was enough to kill one with laughing.

I, on my side, contributed a story to his fund of anecdote on this

subject, and it was fully appreciated. Carlyle is worth a thousand of

you for that;--he is not ashamed to laugh when he is amused, but goes

on in a cordial, human fashion.

"The second time Mr. C. had a dinner-party, at which was a witty,

French, flippant sort of man, author of a History of Philosophy,[A]

and now writing a Life of Goethe, a task for which he must be as unfit

as irreligion and sparkling shallowness can make him. But he told

stories admirably, and was allowed sometimes to interrupt Carlyle a

little, of which one was glad, for that night he was in his more acrid

mood, and though much more brilliant than on the former evening, grew

wearisome to me, who disclaimed and rejected almost everything he

said.

[Footnote A: George Henry Lewes.]

"For a couple of hours he was talking about poetry, and the whole

harangue was one eloquent proclamation of the defects in his own mind.

Tennyson wrote in verse because the schoolmasters had taught him that

it was great to do so, and had thus, unfortunately, been turned from

the true path for a man. Burns had, in like manner, been turned from

his vocation. Shakespeare had not had the good sense to see that

it would have been better to write straight on in prose;--and such

nonsense, which, though amusing enough at first, he ran to death after

a while.

"The most amusing part is always when he comes back to some refrain,

as in the French Revolution of the _sea-green_. In this instance, it

was Petrarch and _Laura_, the last word pronounced with his ineffable

sarcasm of drawl. Although he said this over fifty times, I could not

help laughing when _Laura_ would come. Carlyle running his chin out

when he spoke it, and his eyes glancing till they looked like the eyes

and beak of a bird of prey.

Poor Laura! Luckily for her that her poet had already got her safely

canonized beyond the reach of this Teufelsdröckh vulture.

"The worst of hearing Carlyle is, that you cannot interrupt him. I

understand the habit and power of haranguing have increased very much

upon him, so that you are a perfect prisoner when he has once got hold

of you. To interrupt him is a physical impossibility. If you get a

chance to remonstrate for a moment, he raises his voice and bears

you down. True, he does you no injustice, and, with his admirable

penetration, sees the disclaimer in your mind, so that you are not

morally delinquent; but it is not pleasant to be unable to utter it.

The latter part of the evening, however, he paid us for this, by a

series of sketches, in his finest style of railing and raillery, of

modern French literature, not one of them, perhaps, perfectly just,

but all drawn with the finest, boldest strokes, and, from his point of

view, masterly. All were depreciating, except that of Béranger. Of him

he spoke with perfect justice, because with hearty sympathy.

"I had, afterward, some talk with Mrs. C., whom hitherto I had only

_seen_, for who can speak while her husband is there? I like her very

much;--she is full of grace, sweetness, and talent. Her eyes are sad

and charming.

* * * * *

"After this, they went to stay at Lord Ashburton's, and I only saw

them once more, when they came to pass an evening with us. Unluckily,

Mazzini was with us, whose society, when he was there alone, I enjoyed

more than any. He is a beauteous and pure music: also, he is a dear

friend of Mrs. C., but his being there gave the conversation a turn to

'progress' and ideal subjects, and C. was fluent in invectives on

all our 'rose-water imbecilities.' We all felt distant from him, and

Mazzini, after some vain efforts to remonstrate, became very sad. Mrs.

C. said to me,--

"'These are but opinions to Carlyle, but to Mazzini, who has given his

all, and helped bring his friends to the scaffold, in pursuit of such

subjects, it is a matter of life and death.'

"All Carlyle's talk, that evening, was a defence of mere

force,--success the test of right;--if people would not behave well,

put collars round their necks;--find a hero, and let them be his

slaves, &c. It was very Titanic, and anti-celestial. I wish the last

evening had been more melodious. However, I bid Carlyle farewell with

feelings of the warmest friendship and admiration. We cannot feel

otherwise to a great and noble nature, whether it harmonise with our

own or not. I never appreciated the work he has done for his age

till I saw England. I could not. You must stand in the shadow of that

mountain of shams, to know how hard it is to cast light across it.

"Honour to Carlyle! _Hoch_! Although, in the wine with which we drink

this health, I, for one, must mingle the despised 'rose-water.'

"And now, having to your eye shown the defects of my own mind, in

the sketch of another, I will pass on more lowly,--more willing to be

imperfect, since Fate permits such noble creatures, after all, to

be only this or that. It is much if one is not only a crow or

magpie;--Carlyle is only a lion. Some time we may, all in full, be

intelligent and humanely fair."

* * * * *

"_December_, 1846.--Accustomed to the infinite wit and exuberant

richness of his writings, his talk is still an amazement and

a splendour scarcely to be faced with steady eyes. He does not

converse;--only harangues. It is the usual misfortune of such marked

men,--happily not one invariable or inevitable,--that they cannot

allow other minds room to breathe, and show themselves in their

atmosphere, and thus miss the refreshment and instruction which the

greatest never cease to need from the experience of the humblest.

"Carlyle allows no one a chance, but bears down all opposition, not

only by his wit and onset of words, resistless in their sharpness as

so many bayonets, but by actual physical superiority,--raising his

voice, and rushing on his opponent with a torrent of sound. This is

not in the least from unwillingness to allow freedom to others. On the

contrary, no man would more enjoy a manly resistance to his thought.

But it is the impulse of a mind accustomed to follow out its own

impulse, as the hawk its prey, and which knows not how to stop in

the chase. Carlyle, indeed, is arrogant and overbearing; but in his

arrogance there is no littleness,--no self-love. It is the heroic

arrogance of some old Scandinavian conqueror;--it is his nature, and

the untameable impulse that has given him power to crush the dragons.

You do not love him, perhaps, nor revere; and perhaps, also, he would

only laugh at you if you did; but you like him heartily, and like to

see him the powerful smith, the Siegfried, melting all the old iron

in his furnace till it glows to a sunset red, and burns you, if you

senselessly go too near.

"He seems, to me, quite isolated,--lonely as the desert,--yet never

was a man more fitted to prize a man, could he find one to match

his mood. He finds them, but only in the past. He sings, rather than

talks. He pours upon you a kind of satirical, heroical, critical poem,

with regular cadences, and generally catching up, near the beginning,

some singular epithet, which serves as a _refrain_ when his song is

full, or with which, as with a knitting needle, he catches up the

stitches, if he has chanced, now and then, to let fall a row.

"For the higher kinds of poetry he has no sense, and his talk on that

subject is delightfully and gorgeously absurd. He sometimes stops a

minute to laugh at it himself, then begins anew with fresh vigour; for

all the spirits he is driving before him seem to him as Fata Morganas,

ugly masks, in fact, if he can but make them turn about; but he laughs

that they seem to others such dainty Ariels. His talk, like his books,

is full of pictures; his critical strokes masterly. Allow for his

point of view, and his survey is admirable. He is a large subject. I

cannot speak more or wiselier of him now, nor needs it;--his works are

true, to blame and praise him,--the Siegfried of England,--great and

powerful, if not quite invulnerable, and of a might rather to destroy

evil, than legislate for good."[A]

[Footnote A: "Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli." (Boston, 1852.) Vol.

iii., pp. 96-104.]

In 1848 Mr. Carlyle contributed a series of articles to the _Examiner_

and _Spectator_, principally on Irish affairs, which, as he has never

yet seen fit to reprint them in his Miscellanies, are apparently quite

unknown to the general public. With the exception of the last, they

may be considered as a sort of alarum note, sounded to herald

the approach of the Latter-Day Pamphlets, which appeared shortly

afterwards.

The following is a list of these newspaper articles:--

In _The Examiner_, 1848.

March 4. "Louis Philippe."

April 29. "Repeal of the Union."

May 13. "Legislation for Ireland."

In _The Spectator_, 1848.

May 13. "Ireland and the British Chief Governor."

" "Irish Regiments (of the New Era)."

In _The Examiner_, 1848.

Dec. 2. "Death of Charles Buller."

The last-named paper, a tribute to the memory of his old pupil, we

shall give entire. Another man of genius,[A] now also gone to his

rest, sang sorrowfully on the same occasion:

[Footnote A: W.M. Thackeray.]

"Who knows the inscrutable design?

Blest be He who took and gave!

Why should your mother, Charles, not mine,

Be weeping at her darling's grave?

We bow to Heaven that will'd it so,

That darkly rules the fate of all,

That sends the respite or the blow,

That's free to give, or to recall."

Carlyle's paper reads like a solemn and touching funeral oration to

the uncovered mourners as they stand round the grave before it is

closed:--

"A very beautiful soul has suddenly been summoned from among us; one

of the clearest intellects, and most aërial activities in England,

has unexpectedly been called away. Charles Buller died on Wednesday

morning last, without previous sickness, reckoned of importance, till

a day or two before. An event of unmixed sadness, which has created a

just sorrow, private and public. The light of many a social circle

is dimmer henceforth, and will miss long a presence which was always

gladdening and beneficent; in the coming storms of political trouble,

which heap themselves more and more in ominous clouds on our horizon,

one radiant element is to be wanting now.

"Mr. Buller was in his forty-third year, and had sat in Parliament

some twenty of those. A man long kept under by the peculiarities of

his endowment and position, but rising rapidly into importance of late

years; beginning to reap the fruits of long patience, and to see an

ever wider field open round him. He was what in party language is

called a 'Reformer,' from his earliest youth; and never swerved from

that faith, nor could swerve. His luminous sincere intellect laid bare

to him in all its abject incoherency the thing that was untrue, which

thenceforth became for him a thing that was not tenable, that it was

perilous and scandalous to attempt maintaining. Twenty years in

the dreary, weltering lake of parliamentary confusion, with its

disappointments and bewilderments, had not quenched this tendency, in

which, as we say, he persevered as by a law of nature itself, for the

essence of his mind was clearness, healthy purity, incompatibility

with fraud in any of its forms. What he accomplished, therefore,

whether great or little, was all to be _added_ to the sum of good;

none of it to be deducted. There shone mildly in his whole conduct

a beautiful veracity, as if it were unconscious of itself; a perfect

spontaneous absence of all cant, hypocrisy, and hollow pretence,

not in word and act only, but in thought and instinct. To a singular

extent it can be said of him that he was a spontaneous clear man. Very

gentle, too, though full of fire; simple, brave, graceful. What he

did, and what he said, came from him as light from a luminous body,

and had thus always in it a high and rare merit, which any of the more

discerning could appreciate fully.

"To many, for a long while, Mr. Buller passed merely for a man of wit,

and certainly his beautiful natural gaiety of character, which by no

means meant _levity_, was commonly thought to mean it, and did for

many years, hinder the recognition of his intrinsic higher qualities.

Slowly it began to be discovered that, under all this many-coloured

radiancy and coruscation, there burnt a most steady light; a sound,

penetrating intellect, full of adroit resources, and loyal by nature

itself to all that was methodic, manful, true;--in brief, a mildly

resolute, chivalrous, and gallant character, capable of doing much

serious service.

"A man of wit he indisputably was, whatever more amongst the wittiest

of men. His speech, and manner of being, played everywhere like soft

brilliancy of lambent fire round the common objects of the hour, and

was, beyond all others that English society could show, entitled to

the name of excellent, for it was spontaneous, like all else in him,

genuine, humane,--the glittering play of the soul of a real man. To

hear him, the most serious of men might think within himself, 'How

beautiful is human gaiety too!' Alone of wits, Buller never made wit;

he could be silent, or grave enough, where better was going; often

rather liked to be silent if permissible, and always was so where

needful. His wit, moreover, was ever the ally of wisdom, not of folly,

or unkindness, or injustice; no soul was ever hurt by it; never, we

believe, never, did his wit offend justly any man, and often have we

seen his ready resource relieve one ready to be offended, and light up

a pausing circle all into harmony again. In truth, it was beautiful to

see such clear, almost childlike simplicity of heart coexisting with

the finished dexterities, and long experiences, of a man of the world.

Honour to human worth, in whatever form we find it! This man was true

to his friends, true to his convictions,--and true without effort,

as the magnet is to the north. He was ever found on the right

side; helpful to it, not obstructive of it, in all he attempted or

performed.

"Weak health; a faculty indeed brilliant, clear, prompt, not deficient

in depth either, or in any kind of active valour, but wanting the

stern energy that could long endure to _continue_ in the deep, in the

chaotic, new, and painfully incondite--this marked out for him his

limits; which, perhaps with regrets enough, his natural veracity and

practicality would lead him quietly to admit and stand by. He was not

the man to grapple, in its dark and deadly dens, with the Lernæan coil

of social Hydras; perhaps not under any circumstances: but he did,

unassisted, what he could; faithfully himself did something--nay,

something truly considerable;--and in his _patience_ with the much

that by him and his strength could not be done let us grant there was

something of beautiful too!

"Properly, indeed, his career as a public man was but beginning.

In the office he last held, much was silently expected of him; he

himself, too, recognised well what a fearful and immense question this

of Pauperism is; with what ominous rapidity the demand for solution

of it is pressing on; and how little the world generally is yet

aware what methods and principles, new, strange, and altogether

contradictory to the shallow maxims and idle philosophies current at

present, would be needed for dealing with it! This task he perhaps

contemplated with apprehension; but he is not now to be tried with

this, or with any task more. He has fallen, at this point of the

march, an honourable soldier; and has left us here to fight along

without him. Be his memory dear and honourable to us, as that of

one so worthy ought. What in him was true and valiant endures for

evermore--beyond all memory or record. His light, airy brilliancy has

suddenly become solemn, fixed in the earnest stillness of Eternity.

_There_ shall we also, and our little works, all shortly be."

In 1850 appeared the "Latter-Day Pamphlets," essays suggested by the

convulsions of 1848, in which, more than in any previous publication,

the author spoke out in the character of a social and political censor

of his own age. "He seemed to be the worshipper of mere brute force,

the advocate of all harsh, coercive measures. Model prisons and

schools for the reform of criminals, poor-laws, churches as at present

constituted, the aristocracy, parliament, and other institutions, were

assailed and ridiculed in unmeasured terms, and generally, the

English public was set down as composed of sham heroes, and a valet

or 'flunkey' world." From their very nature as stern denunciations

of what the author considered contemporary fallacies, wrongs, and

hypocrisies, these pamphlets produced a storm of critical indignation

against him.

The life of John Sterling was published in the following year; and

Carlyle then began that long spell of work--the "History of Frederick

the Great"--which extended over thirteen years, the last, and perhaps

the greatest, monument of his genius.

In 1856, when we may suppose his mind to be full of the details of

battles, and overflowing with military tactics, he received from Sir

W. Napier his "History of the Administration of Scinde," and wrote the

following letter to the author:--

"THOMAS CARLYLE TO SIR WILLIAM NAPIER.

"Chelsea, May 12, 1856.

"DEAR SIR,

"I have read with attention, and with many feelings and reflections,

your record of Sir C. Napier's Administration of Scinde. You must

permit me to thank you, in the name of Britain at large, for writing

such a book; and in my own poor name to acknowledge the great

compliment and kindness implied in sending me a copy for myself.

"It is a book which every living Englishman would be the better

for reading--for studying diligently till he saw into it, till he

recognised and believed the high and tragic phenomenon set forth

there! A book which may be called 'profitable' in the old Scripture

sense; profitable for reproof, for correction and admonition, for

great sorrow, yet for 'building up in righteousness' too--in heroic,

manful endeavour to do well, and not ill, in one's time and place.

One feels it a kind of possession to know that one has had such a

fellow-citizen and contemporary in these evil days.

"The fine and noble qualities of the man are very recognisable to me;

his subtle, piercing intellect turned all to the practical, giving

him just insight into men and into things; his inexhaustible adroit

contrivances; his fiery valour; sharp promptitude to seize the good

moment that will not return. A lynx-eyed, fiery man, with the spirit

of an old knight in him; more of a hero than any modern I have seen

for a long time.

"A singular veracity one finds in him; not in his words alone--which,

however, I like much for their fine rough _naïveté_--but in his

actions, judgments, aims; in all that he thinks, and does, and

says--which, indeed, I have observed is the root of all greatness or

real worth in human creatures, and properly the first (and also the

rarest) attribute of what we call _genius_ among men.

"The path of such a man through the foul jungle of this world--the

struggle of Heaven's inspiration against the terrestrial fooleries,

cupidities, and cowardices--cannot be other than tragical: but the man

does tear out a bit of way for himself too; strives towards the good

goal, inflexibly persistent till his long rest come: the man does

leave his mark behind him, ineffaceable, beneficent to all good men,

maleficent to none: and we must not complain. The British nation of

this time, in India or elsewhere--God knows no nation ever had more

need of such men, in every region of its affairs! But also perhaps no

nation ever had a much worse chance to get hold of them, to recognise

and loyally second them, even when they are there.

"Anarchic stupidity is wide as the night; victorious wisdom is but as

a lamp in it shining here and there. Contrast a Napier even in Scinde

with, for example, a Lally at Pondicherry or on the Place de Grève;

one has to admit that it is the common lot, that it might have been

far worse!

"There is great talent in this book apart from its subject. The

narrative moves on with strong, weighty step, like a marching phalanx,

with the gleam of clear steel in it--sheers down the opponent objects

and tramples them out of sight in a very potent manner. The writer,

it is evident, had in him a lively, glowing image, complete in all its

parts, of the transaction to be told; and that is his grand secret

of giving the reader so lively a conception of it. I was surprised to

find how much I had carried away with me, even of the Hill campaign

and of Trukkee itself; though without a map the attempt to understand

such a thing seemed to me desperate at first.

"With many thanks, and gratified to have made this reflex

acquaintance, which, if it should ever chance to become a direct one,

might gratify me still more,

"I remain always yours sincerely,

"T. CARLYLE."[A]

[Footnote A: "Life of General Sir William Napier, K.C.B." Edited by

H.A. Bruce, M.P. London: Murray, 1864. Vol. ii. pp. 312-314.]

In June, 1861, a few days after the great fire in which Inspector

Braidwood perished in the discharge of his duty, Carlyle broke a long

silence with the following letter:--

"TO THE EDITOR OF THE 'TIMES.'

"SIR,--

"There is a great deal of public sympathy, and of deeper sort than

usual, awake at present on the subject of Inspector Braidwood. It is

a beautiful emotion, and apparently a perfectly just one, and well

bestowed. Judging by whatever light one gets, Braidwood seems to have

been a man of singular worth in his department, and otherwise; such a

servant as the public seldom has. Thoroughly skilled in his function,

nobly valiant in it, and faithful to it--faithful to the death.

In rude, modest form, actually a kind of hero, who has perished in

serving us!

"Probably his sorrowing family is not left in wealthy circumstances.

Most certainly it is pity when a generous emotion, in many men, or in

any man, has to die out futile, and leave no _action_ behind it. The

question, therefore, suggests itself--Should not there be a 'Braidwood

Testimonial,' the proper parties undertaking it, in a modest, serious

manner, the public silently testifying (to such extent, at least) what

worth its emotion has?

"I venture to throw out this hint, and, if it be acted on, will, with

great satisfaction, give my mite among other people; but must, for

good reasons, say further, that this [is] all I can do in the matter

(of which, indeed, I know nothing but what everybody knows, and a

great deal less than every reader of the newspapers knows); and that,

in particular, I cannot answer any letters on the subject, should such

happen to be sent me.

"In haste, I remain, Sir, your obedient servant,

"T. CARLYLE.[A]

"5, Cheyne-row, Chelsea, June 30."

[Footnote A: (Printed in _The Times_, Tuesday, July 2, 1861.)]

The "History of Frederick the Great" was completed early in 1865.

Later in the same year the students of Edinburgh University elected

Carlyle as Lord Rector. We cannot do better than describe the

proceedings and the subsequent address in the words of the late

Alexander Smith:--

"Mr. Gladstone demitted office, and then it behoved the students of

the University to cast about for a worthy successor. Two candidates

were proposed, Mr. Carlyle and Mr. Disraeli; and on the election day

Mr. Carlyle was returned by a large and enthusiastic majority. This

was all very well, but a doubt lingered in the minds of many whether

Mr. Carlyle would accept the office, or if accepting it, whether he

would deliver an address--said address being the sole apple which the

Rectorial tree is capable of bearing. The hare was indeed caught, but

it was doubtful somewhat whether the hare would allow itself to be

_cooked_ after the approved academical fashion. It was tolerably well

known that Mr. Carlyle had emerged from his long spell of work on

"Frederick," in a condition of health the reverse of robust; that

he had once or twice before declined similar honours from Scottish

Universities--from Glasgow some twelve or fourteen years ago, and from

Aberdeen some seven or eight; and that he was constitutionally opposed

to all varieties of popular displays, more especially those of the

oratorical sort.

"But all dispute was ended when it was officially announced that Mr.

Carlyle had accepted the office of Lord Rector, that he would conform

to all its requirements, and that the Rectorial address would be

delivered late in spring. And so when the days began to lengthen in

these northern latitudes, and crocuses to show their yellow and purple

heads, people began to talk about the visit of the great writer, and

to speculate on what manner and fashion of speech he would deliver.

"Edinburgh has no University Hall, and accordingly when speech-day

approached, the largest public room in the city was chartered by the

University authorities. This public room--the Music Hall in George

Street--will contain, under severe pressure, from eighteen hundred to

nineteen hundred persons, and tickets to that extent were secured by

the students and members of the General Council. Curious stories are

told of the eagerness on every side manifested to hear Mr. Carlyle.

Country clergymen from beyond Aberdeen came into Edinburgh for the

sole purpose of hearing and seeing. Gentlemen came down from London

by train the night before, and returned to London by train the night

after.

"In a very few minutes after the doors were opened the large hall was

filled in every part, and when up the central passage the Principal,

the Lord Rector, the Members of the Senate, and other gentlemen

advanced towards the platform, the cheering was vociferous and hearty.

The Principal occupied the chair of course, the Lord Rector on his

right, the Lord Provost on his left. Every eye was fixed on the

Rector. To all appearance, as he sat, time and labour had dealt

tenderly with him. His face had not yet lost the country bronze which

he brought up with him from Dumfriesshire as a student fifty-six years

ago. His long residence in London had not touched his Annandale look,

nor had it--as we soon learned--touched his Annandale accent. His

countenance was striking, homely, sincere, truthful--the countenance

of a man on whom 'the burden of the unintelligible world' had weighed

more heavily than on most. His hair was yet almost dark; his moustache

and short beard were iron grey. His eyes were wide, melancholy,

sorrowful; and seemed as if they had been at times a-weary of the

sun. Altogether in his aspect there was something aboriginal, as of

a piece, of unhewn granite, which had never been polished to any

approved pattern, whose natural and original vitality had never

been tampered with. In a word, there seemed no passivity about Mr.

Carlyle--he was the diamond, and the world was his pane of glass; he

was a graving tool rather than a thing graven upon--a man to set his

mark on the world--a man on whom the world could not set _its_ mark.

And just as, glancing towards Fife a few minutes before, one could not

help thinking of his early connection with Edward Irving, so seeing

him sit beside the venerable Principal of the University, one could

not help thinking of his earliest connection with literature.

"Time brings men into the most unexpected relationships. When the

Principal was plain Mr. Brewster, editor of the Edinburgh Cyclopædia,

little dreaming that he should ever be Knight of Hanover and head

of the Northern Metropolitan University, Mr. Carlyle--just as little

dreaming that he should be the foremost man of letters of his day and

Lord Rector of the same University--was his contributor, writing for

said Cyclopædia biographies of Montesquieu and other notables. And so

it came about that after years of separation and of honourable labour,

the old editor and contributor were brought together again--in new

aspects.

"The proceedings began by the conferring of the degree of LL.D. on Mr.

Erskine of Linlathen--an old friend of Mr. Carlyle's--on Professors

Huxley, Tyndall, and Ramsay, and on Dr. Rae, the Arctic explorer. That

done, amid a tempest of cheering and hats enthusiastically waved, Mr.

Carlyle, slipping off his Rectorial robe--which must have been a very

shirt of Nessus to him--advanced to the table and began to speak in

low, wavering, melancholy tones, which were in accordance with

the melancholy eyes, and in the Annandale accent, with which his

playfellows must have been familiar long ago. So self-contained

was he, so impregnable to outward influences, that all his years

of Edinburgh and London life could not impair even in the slightest

degree, _that_.

"The opening sentences were lost in the applause. What need of quoting

a speech which by this time has been read by everybody? Appraise it as

you please, it was a thing _per se_. Just as, if you wish a purple dye

you must fish up the Murex; if you wish ivory you must go to the east;

so if you desire an address such as Edinburgh listened to the other

day, you must go to Chelsea for it. It may not be quite to your taste,

but, in any case, there is no other intellectual warehouse in which

that kind of article is kept in stock.

"The gratitude I owe to him is--or should be--equal to that of most.

He has been to me only a voice, sometimes sad, sometimes wrathful,

sometimes scornful; and when I saw him for the first time with the

eye of flesh stand up amongst us the other day, and heard him speak

kindly, brotherly, affectionate words--his first appearance of that

kind, I suppose, since he discoursed of Heroes and Hero Worship to the

London people--I am not ashamed to confess that I felt moved towards

him, as I do not think in any possible combination of circumstances I

could have felt moved towards any other living man."[A]

[Footnote A: _The Argosy_, May, 1866.]

The Edinburgh correspondent to a London paper thus describes what took

place:--

"A vast interest among the intelligent public has been excited by the

prospect of Mr. Thomas Carlyle's appearance to be installed as Lord

Rector of the University of Edinburgh. With the exception of the

delivery of his lectures on Heroes and Hero-worship, he has avoided

oratory; and to many of his admirers the present occasion seemed

likely to afford their only chance of ever seeing him in the flesh,

and hearing his living voice. The result has been, that the University

authorities have been beset by applications in number altogether

unprecedented--to nearly all of which they could only give the

reluctant answer, that admission for strangers was impossible. The

students who elect Mr. Carlyle received tickets, if they applied

within the specified time, and the members of the University

council, or graduates, obtained the residue according to priority of

application. Ladies' tickets to the number of one hundred and fifty

were issued, each professor obtaining four, and the remaining thirty

being placed at the disposal of Sir David Brewster, the Principal. And

the one hundred and fifty lucky ladies were conspicuous in the front

of the gallery to-day, having been admitted before the doors for

students and other males were open.

"The hour appointed for letting them in was kept precisely--it was

half-past one P.M., but an hour before it, despite occasional

showers of rain, a crowd had begun to gather at the front door of

the music-hall, and at the opening of the door it had gathered to

proportions sufficient to half fill the building, its capacity under

severe crushing being about two thousand.

"When the door was opened, they rushed in as crowds of young men

only can and dare rush, and up the double stairs they streamed like

a torrent; which torrent, however, policemen and check-gates soon

moderated. I chanced to fall into a lucky current of the crowd, and

got in amongst the first two or three hundred, and got forward to the

fourth seat from the platform, as good a place for seeing and hearing

as any.

"The proceedings of the day were fixed to commence at two P.M., and

the half-hour of waiting was filled up by the students in throwing

occasional volleys of peas, whistling _en masse_ various lively tunes,

and in clambering, like small escalading parties, on to and over the

platform to take advantage of the seats in the organ gallery behind.

For Edinburgh students, however, let me say that these proceedings

were singularly decorous. They did indulge in a little fun when

nothing else was doing, but they did not come for that alone. Any

student who wanted fun could have sold his ticket at a handsome

profit, for which better fun could be had elsewhere. I heard among the

crowd that some students had got so high a price as a guinea each for

their tickets, and I heard of others who had been offered no less

but had refused it. And I must say further, that they listened to Mr.

Carlyle's address with as much attention and reverence as they could

have bestowed on a prophet--only I daresay most prophets would have

elicited less applause and laughter.

"Shortly before two, the city magistrates and a few other personages

mounted the platform, and, with as much quietness as the fancy of the

students directed, took the seats which had been marked out for them

by large red pasteboard tickets. At two precisely the students in

the organ gallery started to the tops of the seats and began to cheer

vociferously, and almost instantly all the audience followed their

example. The procession was on its way through the hall, and in half

a minute Lord Provost Chambers, in his official robes, mounted the

platform stair; then Principal Sir David Brewster and Lord Rector

Carlyle, both in their gold-laced robes of office; then the Rev. Dr.

Lee, and the other professors, in their gowns; also the LL.D.'s to be,

in black gowns. Lord Neaves and Dr. Guthrie were there in an LL.D.'s

black gown and blue ribbons; Mr. Harvey, the President of the Royal

Academy, and Sir D. Baxter, Bart.--men conspicuous in their plain

clothes.

"Dr. Lee offered up a prayer of a minute and a half, at the 'Amen' of

which I could see Mr. Carlyle bow very low. Then the business of the

occasion commenced. Mr. Gibson--a tall, thin, pale-faced, beardless,

acute, composed-looking young gentleman, in an M.A.'s gown--introduced

Mr. Carlyle, 'the most distinguished son of the University,' to the

Principal, Sir David Brewster, as the Lord Rector elected by the

students. Sir David saluted him as such, thinking, perhaps, of the

time when, an unknown young man, Thomas Carlyle wrote articles for

Brewster's 'Cyclopædia,' and got Brewster's name to introduce to

public notice his translation of Legendre's 'Geometry.' Next Professor

Muirhead, for the time being the Dean of the Faculty of Laws in the

University, introduced various gentlemen to the Principal in order,

as persons whom the senate had thought worthy of the degree of LL.D.,

giving a dignified, but not always very happy, account of the merits

of each. There was Mr. Erskine, of Linlathen, Mr. Carlyle's host for

the time being, and often previously, an old friend of Irving and

Chalmers, himself the writer of various elegant and sincere religious

books, and one of the best and most amiable of men. If intelligent

goodness ever entitled any one to the degree of LL.D., he certainly

deserves it; and when I say this, I do not insinuate that on grounds

of pure intellect he is not well entitled to the honour. He is now, I

should think, nearer eighty than seventy years of age--a mild-looking,

full-eyed old man, with a face somewhat of the type of Lord Derby's.

There was Professor Huxley, young in years, dark, heavy-browed, alert

and resolute, but not moulded after any high ideal; and there was

Professor Tyndall, also young, lithe of limb, and nonchalant in

manner. When his name was called he sat as if he had no concern

in what was going on, and then rose with an easy smile, partly of

modesty, but in great measure of indifference.

"Dr. Rae, the Arctic explorer and first discoverer of the fate of Sir

John Franklin, who is an M.D. of Edinburgh, was now made LL.D. He is

of tall, wiry, energetic figure, slightly baldish, with greyish, curly

hair, keen, handsome face, high crown and sloping forehead, and his

bearing is that of a soldier--of a man who has both given and obeyed

commands, and been drilled to stand steady and upright. Carlyle

himself was offered the degree of LL.D., but he declined the honour,

laughing it off, in fact, in a letter, with such excuses as that he

had a brother a Dr. Carlyle (an M.D., also a man of genius, I insert

parenthetically, and known in literature as a translator of 'Dante'),

and that if two Dr. Carlyles should appear at Paradise, mistakes might

arise.

"After all the LL.D's had heard their merits enumerated, and had had

a black hood or wallet of some kind, with a blue ribbon conspicuous in

it, flung over their heads, Principal Brewster announced that the Lord

Rector would now deliver his address. Thereupon Mr. Carlyle rose at

once, shook himself out of his gold-laced rectorial gown, left it on

his chair, and stepped quietly to the table, and drawing his tall,

bony frame into a position of straight perpendicularity not possible

to one man in five hundred at seventy years of age, he began to speak

quietly and distinctly, but nervously. There was a slight flush on

his face, but he bore himself with composure and dignity, and in the

course of half an hour he was obviously beginning to feel at his ease,

so far at least as to have adequate command over the current of his

thought.

"He spoke on quite freely and easily, hardly ever repeated a word,

never looked at a note, and only once returned to finish up a topic

from which he had deviated. He apologised for not having come with

a written discourse. It was usual, and 'it would have been more

comfortable for me just at present,' but he had tried it, and could

not satisfy himself, and 'as the spoken word comes from the heart,' he

had resolved to try that method. What he said in words will be learned

otherwise than from me. I could not well describe it; but I do not

think I ever heard any address that I should be so unwilling to blot

from my memory. Not that there was much in it that cannot be found in

his writings, or inferred from them; but the manner of the man was a

key to the writings, and for naturalness and quiet power, I have never

seen anything to compare with it. He did not deal in rhetoric. He

talked--it was continuous, strong, quiet talk--like a patriarch about

to leave the world to the young lads who had chosen him and were just

entering the world. His voice is a soft, downy voice--not a tone in

it is of the shrill, fierce kind that one would expect it to be in

reading the Latter-day Pamphlets.

"There was not a trace of effort or of affectation, or even of

extravagance. Shrewd common sense there was in abundance. There was

the involved disrupted style also, but it looked so natural that

reflection was needed to recognise in it that very style which purists

find to be un-English and unintelligible. Over the angles of this

disrupted style rolled out a few cascades of humour--quite as if

by accident. He let them go, talking on in his soft, downy accents,

without a smile; occasionally for an instant looking very serious,

with his dark eyes beating like pulses, but generally looking merely

composed and kindly, and so, to speak, father-like. He concluded by

reciting his own translation of a poem of Goethe--

"'The future hides in it gladness and sorrow.'

And this he did in a style of melancholy grandeur not to be described,

but still less to be forgotten. It was then alone that the personality

of the philosopher and poet were revealed continuously in his manner

of utterance. The features of his face are familiar to all from his

portraits. But I do not think any portrait, unless, perhaps, Woolner's

medallion, gives full expression to the resolution that is visible

in his face. Besides, they all make him look sadder and older than he

appears. Although he be threescore and ten, his hair is still abundant

and tolerably black, and there is considerable colour in his cheek.

Not a man of his age on that platform to-day looked so young, and he

had done more work than any ten on it."

The correspondent of the _Pall Mall Gazette_ gives some interesting

particulars:--