him, is like giving the preference to Birket Foster over Salvator
Rosa. But if it is not Macaulay, who is it to be? Mr. Hepworth Dixon
or Mr. Froude? Of Bishop Stubbs and Professor Freeman it behoves every
ignoramus to speak with respect. Horny-handed sons of toil, they are
worthy of their wage. Carlyle has somewhere struck a distinction
between the historical artist and the historical artizan. The bishop
and the professor are historical artizans; artists they are not--and
the great historian is a great artist.

England boasts two such artists. Edward Gibbon and Thomas Carlyle. The
elder historian may be compared to one of the great Alpine roadways--
sublime in its conception, heroic in its execution, superb in its
magnificent uniformity of good workmanship. The younger resembles one
of his native streams, pent in at times between huge rocks, and
tormented into foam, and then effecting its escape down some
precipice, and spreading into cool expanses below; but however varied
may be its fortunes--however startling its changes--always in motion,
always in harmony with the scene around. Is it gloomy? It is with the
gloom of the thunder-cloud. Is it bright? It is with the radiance of
the sun.

It is with some consternation that I approach the subject of Carlyle's
politics. One handles them as does an inspector of police a parcel
reported to contain dynamite. The Latter-Day Pamphlets might not
unfitly be labelled 'Dangerous Explosives.'

In this matter of politics there were two Carlyles; and, as generally
happens in such cases, his last state was worse than his first. Up to
1843, he not unfairly might be called a Liberal--of uncertain vote it
may be--a man difficult to work with, and impatient of discipline, but