quite behind; and feels only that there is _nothing sacred,_
then, but the _Speech of Man_ to believing Men! This, come what
will, was, is, and forever must be _sacred;_ and will one day,
doubtless, anew environ itself with fit modes; with solemnities
that are _not_ mummeries. Meanwhile, however, is it not
pitiable? For though Teufelsdrockh exclaims, "Pulpit! canst thou
not make a pulpit by simply _inverting the nearest tub?_" yet,
alas! he does not sufficiently reflect that it is still only a
tub, that the most inspired utterance will come from _it,_
inconceivable, misconceivable, to the million; questionable (not
of _ascertained_ significance) even to the few. Pity us
therefore; and with your just shake of the head join a
sympathetic, even a hopeful smile. Since I saw you I have been
trying, am still trying, other methods, and shall surely get
nearer the truth, as I honestly strive for it. Meanwhile, I know
no method of much consequence, except that of _believing,_ of
being _sincere:_ from Homer and the Bible down to the poorest
Burns's Song, I find no other Art that promises to be perennial.

---------
* In his Diary, July 26, 1834, Carlyle writes--"In the midst of
innumerable discouragements, all men indifferent or finding fault,
let me mention two small circumstances that are comfortable.
The first is a letter from some nameless Irishman in Cork
to another here, (Fraser read it to me without names,) actually
containing a _true_ and one of the friendliest possible recognitions
of me. One mortal, then, says I am _not_ utterly wrong.
Blessings on him for it! The second is a letter I got today
from Emerson, of Boston in America; sincere, not baseless,
of most exaggerated estimation. Precious is man to man."