of Science which our united Mankind, in a wide Universe of Nescience, has acquired, why is not this with all diligence, imparted to all?"

V.

THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.

CARLYLE, as we have said, took up his permanent residence in London in the spring of 1834. For the ensuing three years he furnished few contributions to reviews and magazines, being mainly engaged upon his "History of the French Revolution." A considerable portion of this had been prepared, ready for the printers, when the manuscript was accidentally burnt up. In one of his table-talks he thus characteristically narrated the circumstances to Milburn :

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BURNING OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION."

"A sad story enough, Sir; and one that always makes me shudder to think of. I had finished the second volume of the book called 'The French Revolution, a History'; and as it lay in manuscript, a friend desired that he might have the reading of it; and it was committed to his care. He professed himself greatly delighted with the perusal, and confided it to a friend of his own, who had some curiosity to see it as well. This person sat up, as he said, perusing it far into the wee hours of the morning; and at length recollecting himself, surprised at the flight of time, laid the manuscript carelessly upon

the library table, and hied to bed. There it lay, a loose heap of rubbish, fit only for the waste-paper basket or for the grate. So Betty, the houseinaid, thought when she came to light the library fire in the morning. Looking round for something suitable for her purpose, and finding nothing better than it, she thrust it into the grate, and applying the match, up the chimney, with a sparkle and roar, went 'The French Revolution': thus ending in smoke and soot, as the great transaction itself did, more than a half century ago.

"At first they forbore to tell me the evil tidings; but at length I heard the dismal story, and I was as a man staggered by a heavy blow. Ah, Sir, it's terrible when you have been struggling for months and years with dim confusion and wild anarchy; when all about you is weltering Chaos and unbroken darkness; and you have at length gained some victory, and built a highway that will bear the pressure of your own foot, and perhaps the feet of generations yet to come; and the morning has dawned, and you can see some way at least into the realm of Limbo-suddenly to find that you are in the centre of pitchy darkness, in the whirl of commingling elements, and that Chaos has come again.

"I was as a man beside myself, for there was scarcely a page of manuscript left. I sat down at the table and strove to collect my thoughts and to commence the work again. I filled page after page, but ran the pen over every line as the page was finished. Thus was it, Sir, for many a weary day, until at length, as I sat by the window, half-hearted and dejected, my eye wandered along over acres of roofs, I saw a man standing upon a scaffold engaged in building a wall-the wall of a house. With his trowel he'd lay a great splash of mortar upon

the last layer, and then brick after brick would be deposited upon this, striking each with the butt of his trowel, as if to give it his benediction and farewell; and all the while singing or whistling as blithe as a lark. And in my spleen I said within myself, 'Poor fool! how canst thou be so merry under such a bile-spotted atmosphere as this, and everything rushing into the regions of the inane?'

"And then I bethought me, and I said to myself, 'Poor fool thou, rather, that sittest here by the window whining and complaining! What if thy house of cards falls? Is the Universe wrecked for that? The man yonder builds a house that shall be a home perhaps for generations. Men will be born in it, wedded in it, and buried from it; and the voice of weeping and of mirth shall be heard within its walls; and mayhap true Valor, Prudence, and Faith shall be nursed by its hearth-stone. Man! symbol of Eternity imprisoned into Time! it is not thy works, which are all mortal, infinitely little, and the greatest no greater than the least, but only the spirit thou workest in which can have worth or continuance! Up then at thy work, and be cheerful!'

"So I arose and washed my face and felt that my head was anointed, and gave myself to relaxation-to what they call 'light literature.' I read nothing but novels for weeks. I was surrounded by heaps of rubbish and chaff. I read all the novels of that person who was once a Captain in the Royal Navy-and an extraordinary ornament he must have been to it: the man that wrote stories about Dogs that had their tails cut off, and about people in Search of their Fathers; and it seemed to me that of all the extraordinary dunces that had figured upon this planet he must certainly bear the palm

from every one save the readers of his books. And thus refreshed I took heart of grace again, applied me to my work, and in course of time 'The French Revolution' got finished; as all things must, sooner or later."

"The French Revolution" is not so much a connected history of the Revolution as a series of pictures from that history. They are painted with wonderful vigor. We may call Carlyle the Turner of the pen, or Turner the Carlyle of the pencil. The works of both are marvels, not only of genius, but of labor. We are told that Turner fairly dashed his colors upon the canvas, and we have no doubt that Carlyle dashed his sentences upon the paper. But to learn to dash the right colors in the right places required long and patient study of the forms of waves and clouds, and innumerable effects of light and shade. To be able to compose the word-pictures of history, Carlyle had to wade through morasses of dull books, and swamps of duller pamphlets and journals: to wade through them, not merely to walk dry-shod around them as Scott did in getting up his "Life of Napoleon."

It has been said that from Carlyle's history alone no man of fair intelligence can gain a clear and connected view of the French Revolution. This is partially true, just as it is partially true that from the pictorial "Gallery of the Rhine" one cannot gain a view of that river as clear and connected as he might from a topographical map,

upon which every winding and reach should be laid down upon a mathematical scale: the altitude of every cliff, the height of every tower, and the population of every town, given in plain figures. Both classes of works have their value, and both are better than either.

From "The French Revolution" we must content ourselves with quoting a few of the brilliant word-pictures, which can be most easily detached from the context. As has been before said, Carlyle holds that there are long ages the history of which is "too confused for narrative," and may be best "presented in the way of epitome and distilled essence." Here is his epitome and distilled essence of long centuries of French history.

OBSCURE AGES IN FRENCH HISTORY.

"Sovereigns die and Sovereignties: how all dies and is for a time only; is a Time-phantasm, yet reckons itself real! The Merovingian Kings, slowly wending on their bullock-carts through the streets of Paris, with their long hair flowing, have all wended slowly on-into Eternity. Charlemagne sleeps at Salzburg, with truncheon grounded; only Fable expecting that he will awaken. Charles the Hammer, Pepin Row-legged, where is their voice of command? Rollo and his shaggy Northmen cover not the Seine with ships; but have sailed off on a longer voyage. The hair of Towhead (Tête d'étoupes) now needs no combing; Iron-cutter (Taillefer) cannot cut a cobweb; shrill Frédegonde, shrill Brunhilda, have had out their hot life-scold, and lie silent, their hot life、