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 has 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.'