tongue; he does not shriek in the streets, but he bows his head. He has
found no answer--he no more than the feeblest of us, and yet in his
inmost soul there is a shrine, and he worships.

Carlyle is the champion of morals, ethics, law--call it what you like--
of that which says we must not always do a thing because it is pleasant.
There are two great ethical parties in the world, and, in the main, but
two. One of them asserts the claims of the senses. Its doctrine is
seductive because it is so right. It is necessary that we should in a
measure believe it, in order that life may be sweet. But nature has
heavily weighted the scale in its favour; its acceptance requires no
effort. It is easily perverted and becomes a snare. In our day nearly
all genius has gone over to it, and preaching it is rather superfluous.
The other party affirms what has been the soul of all religions worth
having, that it is by repression and self-negation that men and States
live.

It has been said that Carlyle is great because he is graphic, and he is
supposed to be summed up in "mere picturesqueness," the silliest of
verdicts. A man may be graphic in two ways. He may deal with his
subject from the outside, and by dint of using strong language may
"graphically" describe an execution or a drunken row in the streets.
But he may be graphic by ability to penetrate into essence, and to
express it in words which are worthy of it. What higher virtue than
this can we imagine in poet, artist, or prophet?

Like all great men, Carlyle is infinitely tender. That was what struck
me as I sat and looked in his eyes, and the best portraits in some
degree confirm me. It is not worth while here to produce passages from
his books to prove my point, but I could easily do so, specially from