Here has come into the country, three or four months ago, a
_History of Frederick,_ infinitely the wittiest book that ever
was written,--a book that one would think the English people
would rise up in mass and thank the author for, by cordial
acclamation, and signify, by crowning him with oakleaves, their
joy that such a head existed among them, and sympathizing and
much-reading America would make a new treaty or send a Minister
Extraordinary to offer congratulation of honoring delight to
England, in acknowledgment of this donation,--a book holding so
many memorable and heroic facts, working directly on practice;
with new heroes, things unvoiced before;--the German Plutarch
(now that we have exhausted the Greek and Roman and British
Plutarchs), with a range, too, of thought and wisdom so large and
so elastic, not so much applying as inosculating to every need
and sensibility of man, that we do not read a stereotype page,
rather we see the eyes of the writer looking into ours, mark his
behavior, humming, chuckling, with under-tones and trumpet-tones
and shrugs, and long-commanding glances, stereoscoping every
figure that passes, and every hill, river, road, hummock, and
pebble in the long perspective. With its wonderful new system of
mnemonics, whereby great and insignificant men are ineffaceably
ticketed and marked and modeled in memory by what they were, had,
and did; and withal a book that is a Judgment Day, for its moral
verdict on the men and nations and manners of modern times.
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* In the first edition, this extract was printed from the
original Diary; it is now printed according to the copy
sent abroad.
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And this book makes no noise; I have hardly seen a notice of it
in any newspaper or journal, and you would think there was no
such book. I am not aware that Mr. Buchanan has sent a special
messenger to Great Cheyne Row, Chelsea, or that Mr. Dallas has
been instructed to assure Mr. Carlyle of his distinguished
consideration. But the secret wits and hearts of men take note
of it, not the less surely. They have said nothing lately in
praise of the air, or of fire, or of the blessing of love, and
yet, I suppose, they are sensible of these, and not less of this
book, which is like these.