which can nicely discern where the novelist ended and the statesman
began in Benjamin Disraeli.

Happily, no such difficulty is now before us. Thomas Carlyle was a
writer of books, and he was nothing else. Beneath this judgment he
would have winced, but have remained silent, for the facts are so.

Little men sometimes, though not perhaps so often as is taken for
granted, complain of their destiny, and think they have been hardly
treated, in that they have been allowed to remain so undeniably small;
but great men, with hardly an exception, nauseate their greatness, for
not being of the particular sort they most fancy. The poet Gray was
passionately fond, so his biographers tell us, of military history;
but he took no Quebec. General Wolfe took Quebec, and whilst he was
taking it, recorded the fact that he would sooner have written Gray's
'Elegy'; and so Carlyle--who panted for action, who hated eloquence,
whose heroes were Cromwell and Wellington, Arkwright and the 'rugged
Brindley,' who beheld with pride and no ignoble envy the bridge at
Auldgarth his mason-father had helped to build half a century before,
and then exclaimed, 'A noble craft, that of a mason; a good building
will last longer than most books--than one book in a million'; who
despised men of letters, and abhorred the 'reading public'; whose
gospel was Silence and Action--spent his life in talking and writing;
and his legacy to the world is thirty-four volumes octavo.

There is a familiar melancholy in this; but the critic has no need to
grow sentimental. We must have men of thought as well as men of
action: poets as much as generals; authors no less than artizans;
libraries at least as much as militia; and therefore we may accept and
proceed critically to examine Carlyle's thirty-four volumes, remaining