the Student” is an accomplished fact; a great writer sends his silent but eternal voice into the world; at first it glides unseen, but it gathers force as it glides, till it descends an overwhelming avalanche on the strongholds of tyranny. The great poets produce a revolution, the revolution they cause produces another band of heroic hearts who sing the songs of freedom and cheer the masses on to greater and more enduring triumphs. It was said of old, let who will frame the laws of a land, give to me the making of the songs; the first trains, the other fires—one forms the citizens, the other the hero and the patriot; the first teaches prudence, the other unselfish virtue; the first regulates, the other creates; in a word, the poet is the patriot, the critic, the legislator; we do not undervalue legislation, we only wish to impress that it is distinct from the poet and the philosopher's work. The one is valor, the other discipline; one concentrates and tutors the soul into self; the other expands and carries it beyond. It is easy to trace the progress of freedom by the steps of literature; the tone of this day's teaching will be visible on the morrow. Seneca uttered a truth weighty beyond the usual course of his thoughts when he said, “To-day is the scholar of yesterday.” Let us not, therefore, forget this cheering fact; it might almost resolve itself into an algebraic form, that if the masses who were educated by their parents and clergy of the last generation, have achieved the vast revolutions which so loudly speak the advance of man, what may we not predicate from the children of the present age, when every author of note is a republican or radical? There is not a man of genius now but who belongs to that class. In England we may instance, in proof of our assertion, Carlyle, Dickens, Talfourd, Southwood Smith, Tennyson, Browning, Horne, Heraud, Thackeray, &c. In America they also write under the banner of liberalism. The writings of the authors of to-day are the “Mene, meme, tekel, upharsin" on the walls of every palace, and the tyrant trembles as did Belshazzar of old, as he reads the inevitable sentence. What was the exception thirty years ago, is now the rule; then a liberal author was hunted down as a wild beast, the scorn and dread of the aristocratic, the moneyed, and even of the middle classes. Every ministry thought it a bounden duty to prosecute, imprison, or transport. Now all is changed, and the result in twenty years hence will be the overthrow of every despotism in the world. Who can hesitate to admit that the author is the grand civilizer, the patriot, the true hero, the mental athlete; his voice is the trumpet march to victory; his song invites all to the struggle, and cheers them in the conflict, and his verse preserves and sanctifies them if they fall. He is the pillar of fire by night, the column of mist by day. He leads human nature to the promised land, and refreshes the fainting multitudes, during their wearisome progress, with waters in the wilderness. Every living heart, like the rock, owns the magic of his wand, and responds to its touch. Nature appears to the poets of our day, as she did in ancient times to the prophets. We have thought it necessary to introduce Mr. Carlyle with these remarks, for he is pre-eminently one of the great teachers of the age; he is less of the mere author than any of his contemporaries; his object is to aid the development of his fellow-creatures, to urge them to cast aside the slavery of cant, and to “stand forth men, and not suits of clothes, with patent digesters placed inside them.” It is somewhat to be regretted that his manner is deficient in that simplicity which renders the doctrines clear to the masses, but a little study soon enables the disciple to master the cypher of his style. It has sometimes occurred to us that the author of “Sartor Resartus” has somewhat over Germanised his mind as well as his manner; we all know how a writer is tempted to transfer the style of his favorite author into his own, more especially when being, in another language, the trace of imitation is destroyed or neutralized, and to this “hero worship” of Jean Paul Richter, perhaps, is attributable the peculiarities of Mr. Carlyle's prose. Whilethis perversity, no doubt, interferes with his popularity in one direction, we have a strong suspicion it adds to it in another, for the charm of singularity is potent, and we have heard men of considerable eminence declare that Carlyle would lose half his attraction if * he wrote in the common method; doubtless the worth of a thing is proportionable to the toil we have to achieve its possession, and there is a sort of half compliment implied to the reader where there is a difficulty or an obscurity in its expression. The probability is, judging from the simplicity and clearness of the greatest author of ancient and modern times, that an involved style is an evident confession of inability to complete the mental creation. Some have not scrupled to avow boldly their belief, that in proportion as the thought is confused and imperfect, the expression is obscure and tortuous; there can be no doubt that a vast difference exists between the originality of a great writer, and the mannerism of a pretender; certainly it is natural to suppose that an author, who has truths for the million, would put them into dress best contemplated to achieve that object. On the other hand, it must be conceded it not unfrequently occurs that when a poet and original thinker appears, he brings with the bold thought a new phraseology, which is part and parcel of himself. Thomas Carlyle was born in Annandale, and is the son of a respectable farmer, who was an elder in the Secession Church. In his youth he went to Edinburgh, where he became intimate with the celebrated Edward Irving, for whom he cherished, to the last hour of his life, the greatest regard and admiration. When Irving died in his darkened sunset, how general was the censure and scorn of the low-minded mob | Carlyle came out like a man, a real fiery-hearted man, and in Fraser's Magazine pronounced an oration over the grave of his departed friend. No flinching in this noble tribute to a great intellect and a fine heart who had gone down to the tomb; here also he rebukes the world with a severe dignity worthy an apostle. His intimacy with Irving is a point he is very fond of alluding to, and he never names him without some tribute to that profound and gifted man. During his stay in Edinburgh, where he studied, he had many privations to endure, but his great heart went toiling on, supporting himself by teaching, and working for the booksellers. This is, how+ ever, a very common case with Scottish students, and there is scarcely a Scotchman of any eminence who has not at some time during his novitiate supported himself by drudgery. He soon grew attached to German literature, and commenced a correspondence with Goethe, which continued with little intermission till the great poet's death. When he left Edinburgh he became a teacher at Aberdeen, where he remained some time. Here in this gloom of soul he laid the foundation of that severity, almost amounting to bitterness, which renders him one of the most emphatic wria ters of the age. You may always be sure Carlyle is in earnest; no indifference; he is at once in the thick of the fight, whatever the subject of battle, and the mailed fist of his argumentation is heard far off resounding. He has on this very account a sort of half admiration of men, whose principles he detests. Give him earnestness and he will forgive much. We may offer as an instance + Nicholas of Russia. He has repeatedly said that he was perhaps the only man in Europe: what he wishes to do, he does; what he thinks, he says; at all events, through all hazards, he is the uncompromising; as he truly said, “He is no sham; friend or foe you can depend on the autocrat.” Truly, (as Carlyle says,) it is something now a days to know there is such a man. There is too much in our times of the smooth whiskerless acquaintance, who associate with you when the sky is fair, but who sneak off when danger or storm comes. The timidity of such oily insincerities is as bad as the basest premeditated treachery—the results are the same. What

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matters it to us if we fall by the withdrawing of the chair or by a blow from the chair wielded by the false friend's arm: in fact, the blow is the best of the two. We can guard against the one, or wrest it from his grasp, but the other sets foresight at defiance; it produces also the worst possible moral effect; it spreads suspicion through the human ranks, and we therefore maintain, with the true hearted author of “Hero Worship,” that one act of treachery (or timidity in defending a cause, or a friend) does more to degrade human nature than ten murders. Shakspere's

“ There's a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough hew them as we may,”

is applicable to Carlyle's sentences: let them be read in the true, the divine spirit, and his “rough hewn” periods become perfectly shaped, and convey their full meaning to the mind. Many critics have said that Carlyle's language is German: this is an evident mistake; his style is German in its outer form, but the words are eminently Saxon; they have a force, and individuality quite refreshing after the inanities of Addison; of the latter's far trumpeted classical style it may truly be said, it was a worthy companion to that singular compound of “verse and water,” which was nicknamed poetry, much about the same time. Tickell and Blackmore are in verse what Addison is in prose, writers of smooth and elegant commonplace. Mr. Carlyle has resided for many years in the vicinity of London. His house is situated in the far-famed Cheyne Row, Chelsea, and looks immediately on the Thames. There, with his amiable wife, he has set up his tent, seldom visiting, but always glad to have a friend or so at his tea-table. His conversation is the most peculiar of any man of the day. This affords us an opportunity of glancing at the colloquial peculi

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