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approaching the subject with Miss Conisbrough, “Could nothing be done through these drawI used what delicacy I could. I told her that I | ings?” suggested Aglionby. “Could you not tell should never enjoy a moment's pleasure in possess- Delphine that some one had seen them who ading that of which they were unjustly deprived — mired them exceedingly." which I never shall. I reminded her of her “I see what you mean," said Randulf, with a promise; she flatly told me she recalled it. smile. “She has great schemes for working, and Well- " (he stood before Randulf, and there selling her pictures, and helping them, and so on. were tones of passion in his voice) “I humbled But I have a better plan than that. I must work myself before Miss Conisbrough, I entreated her my father round to it, and then I must get her to to think again, to use her influence with her see it. She shall work as much as she pleases and mother, to meet me half-way, and help me to have as many lessons as she likes—when she is repair the injustice. I was refused-with distress my wife." it is true—but most unequivocally. Nor would Aglionby started again, flushing deeply. Ranshe release me until I had promised not to urge dulf's words set his whole being into a fever. the matter on Mrs. Conisbrough, who, I surmise, “That is your plan ?'' said he in a low voice. would be less stern about it. Miss Conisbrough “That is my plan, which no one but you knows. is relentless and strong. She was not content However long I have to wait, she shall be my with that. She not only had a horror of my wife.money, but even of me, it appears. She made I wish you good speed in your courtship, but me promise not to seek them out or visit them. I fear your success won't accomplish my wishes in By dint of hard pleading I was allowed to accom- | the matter." pany them home, and be formally introduced to “Miss Conisbrough must have some reason for her sisters—no more. That is to be the end of the strange course she has taken,” said Randulf. it. I tell you, because I know you can under- “Do you think we are justified in trying to disstand it. For the rest of the world I care noth- cover that reason, or are we bound not to inquire ing. People may call me grasping and heartless into it?". if they choose. They may picture me enjoying There was a long pause. Then Aglionby said my plunder, while Mrs. Conisbrough and her darkly : daughters are wearing out their lives in-do you “I have promised." wonder that I cannot bear to think of it?" he “But I have not." added passionately.

Bernard shook his head. “I don't believe, “No, I don't. It is the most extraordinary whatever it may be, that any.one but Miss Conisthing I ever heard."

brough is cognizant of it." “You think so? I am glad you agree with “Well, let me use my good offices for you, if me. Tell me-for I vow I am so bewildered by ever I have a chance. If ever I know them well it all that I hardly know whether I am in my enough to be taken into their confidence, I shall senses or out of them—tell me if there was any- | use my influence on your side-may I?”. thing strange in my proposal to share my inherit- •• You will earn my everlasting gratitude if you ance with them-anything unnatural ?".

do. And if it turns out that they do want help“The very reverse, I should say.”

that my cousin Delphine has to work for money, “Or in my going to Miss Conisbrough about you will let me know. Remember," he added it, rather than to her mother?"

jealously, “it is my right and duty, as their kins“No, indeed !"

man, to see that they are not distressed." • It never struck me beforehand that I was “Yes, I know, and I shall not forget you.'' contemplating doing anything strange or wrong. Randulf, when his guest had gone, soliloquized Yet Miss Conisbrough made me feel myself very silently: wrong. She would have it so, and I own that “That fellow is heart and soul on my side. He there is something about her, her nature and doesn't know himself whither he is drifting. I'd character are so truly noble, that I could not but like to take the odds with any one, that he never submit. But I submit under protest."

marries that little dressed-up doll whose likeness I am glad you have told me,” said Randulf. he is now carrying about with him." “Now all my doubts about you have vanished.”

(To be continued.)

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LITERARY WORK OF THOMAS CARLYLE.

By ROSALIE A. COLLINS.

CARLYLE's works mas lack of a better name,

most dramatic wo

CARLYLE's works may be divided into histories, I will speak of very few of Carlyle's works in critiques, and what, for lack of a better name, I detail. His histories are rightly considered the shall call Jeremiads. The first division includes most dramatic works of the kind in any language; his “Life of Cromwell," " French Revolution,” the only historian I can now think of who at all “Life of Schiller," "Life of John Sterling," approaches him in the ability to give this vivid, “ History of Norway Kings,” and “Life of Fred. effulgent glow of life to his scenes is our own erick the Great," not to mention the “Reminis Motley. His “Rise of the Dutch Republic" has cences." His critiques embrace an almost ex somewhat of the highly pictorial style which in a haustless list of subjects, prominent among which great degree characterized Carlyle's “French are “ Diderot,” “Goethe," “Novalis," “ Jean Revolution.” Every touch of Carlyle's is an illuPaul Richter,” “Mme. de Stäel,” “ Voltaire,"minated point, and we feel that we have been in “ German Literature," "Burns," and “Hero and the very midst of that terrific explosion of hostile Hero-Worship," perhaps the best-known of all forces which resulted in that direful chaos “when his works. Of his Jeremiads, “Past and Present," all the stars of heaven were gone out." It is not “ Chartism," “Sartor Resartus" (sternly sad at my purpose, however, to do more than merely heart despite its grim jesting), and “Latter-Day allude to this mighty work in which the philosoPamphlets'' may be specially mentioned. I leave phy of the French Revolution is once forever out of view his various translations from the French explained. I must barely mention also his postand German, among which one is surprised to find humous work which has produced a decided a translation of “Legendre's Geometry.” The sensation, but will, of course, add nothing to his translations from the German doubtless had de | literary faine. He jotted down, as memory sugcided influence in forming Carlyle's peculiar style. gested them, these various reminiscences of his One notices many Germanisms in his characteris relatives and friends, never supposing that in that tic works, the unique form of the genitive case crude, disjointed form they would go to publicabeing an instance in point, he rarely using our tion. I am grateful to Mr. Froude, nevertheless, plain English possessive. Thus we do not read for having published them, because it is encouragof “his face" or “her beauty,” but “the face of ing to see how tiresomely geniuses can scribble him," “the beauty of her." While speaking of when they once condescend to write for themthese peculiarities, I may as well mention others selves and not for eternity. So we must blamewhich characterize Carlyle's style. He never and thank-Mr. Froude as well as Mr. Carlyle hesitates at the regular form of the superlative when we read such sentences as these: “Old degree, however awkward the result; “imperish- Esther judged it more polite to leave her old ablest,” “ beautifullest," and “indefatigablest,” riding-habit to the parish, ah! me !” “I found, all have a kind of " linked sweetness long drawn when I went to Edinburgh, Glasgow, and other out" which charms his ear, if no other. He has places, that it was not or by no means so percepti"dittoes" ad nauseam, and frequently confronts bly was.” “Self-delusion or half-knowledge could one with such startling words as vestural, delira- not get existed in his presence.” “Of the chiltion, visualised, complected, etc., not to mention 'dren I recollect nothing that was not auroralhis odd combinations as “to insure one of misap- , matutinal." prehension," "snow-and-rose-bloom- maiden," To my shame, I must confess that my first “cunning enough significance," and so on. I opinions of Carlyle were far from complimentary. know of no other author who has so extensive a About the first work of his that ever fell into my vocabulary, except the divine Shakspeare, and I hands was that on “Chartism,” after reading cannot help regretting that one who was so richly which I thought of its author what some one once furnished with language should occasionally ex- said of Coleridge: “Excellent? Yes, very, if press himself so awkwardly.

you let him start from no premises and come to no conclusion." " Sartor Resartus" and “Char- he was already before the public in the beautiful tism” remained sealed books to me until after I life of him written by Archdeacon Hare. Carlyle had read some of his less obscure works, which felt that Mr. Hare had unintentionally thrown did not need to have their explanations explained only a half light on the picture of their friend. to my obtuse understanding. Now I rank myself He was willing that Sterling should be forgotten, among Carlyle's most ardent admirers, and as it but not willing he should be misremembered, was his Life of John Sterling which first com- hence this inimitable biography of a noble and pletely won my own heart, it is that which I beautiful human soul. Can we not see Sterling prefer now to review and that which I most con- as, “armed with his little outfit of heroisms and fidently recommend to all those who have not yet aspirations," he steps into line, ready to do what the good fortune to feel themselves en rapport sovereignty and guidance he can in his day and with the magnificent genius of our author. It is generation ? We plunge with him into the tumy ideal biography, and I write it first on the list multuous vortex of Radicalism; with him we try of those which completely satisfy my heart and “all manner of sublimely illuminated places.” place me in such vivid contact with their subjects Later we see “the sun of English priesthood rising that it seems as if a new and precious friendship over the waste ruins and extinct volcanoes of his were added to my blessings. The list is short, Radicalism, with promise of new blessedness and indeed, including only “ John Sterling,” Mrs. healing on its wings.” Sterling as curate, “rushGaskell's “ Charlotte Brönte,” Archdeacon Hare's ing like a host to victory; playing and pulsing “Memorials of a Quiet Life,” Mrs. Kingsley's like sunshine or soft lightning; busy at all hours Life of her husband, and Fanny Kemble's to perform his part in abundant and superabundant “Records of a Girlhood." Some one has said measure"—surely there was never a more radiant that Tennyson's “In Memoriam" and Carlyle's picture. Alas for the Church, that Sterling soon “John Sterling'' are the two monuments of the saw this sun of the Euglish priesthood going down nineteenth-century friendship, and so they are, in his sky, a delusion and disappointment. Happy with this difference: Tennyson's polished and for us could we have retained such an Ithuriel in gilded and artistic piece of work is a sepulchre so our ranks, one who had “an eye to discern the exact, glittering, and obtrusive, that one inevitably divineness of heaven's splendors and lightnings; turns from it doubting the sincerity of the mourner the insatiable wish to revel in their godlike who could so publish the bitterness of his grief to radiance, and a heart, too, to front the scathing the world. A woe which can never forget the terrors of them, which is the first condition of metre and the rhyme may be very graceful, but it conquering an abiding place there.” He had is not apt to be very deep. Elegant as it all is, what Carlyle considers a truly pious soul, one Tennyson's elaborate wailings for Arthur Hallam devoutly submissive to the will of the Supreme in can never stir the depths of sympathy as did the all things, “the highest and sole-essential form one heartfelt cry of that Hebrew poet who, before which religion can assume in man, and without the great tragedy of his life, forgets his poetry, which all religious forms are a mockery and deluand cries in anguished and touching prose, “Oh, sion." Absalom! my son, my son! would God I had | Later still, we watch Sterling as a husband, a died for thee !” The same sad sincerity of grief | father, a son, and friend. We read his beautiful and earnestness of love glorify the little book that letters; we sit opposite him as he writes his Carlyle has written about his friend; it is no favorite poetry whenever his constant and increaspainted and gilded monument like that of Tenny-ing illness allows him a painless hour. We hear son, but is hewed with reverent hands out of the him in argument, dashing into our midst like a very granite of friendship.

troop of Cossacks, and scattering weak forces right Carlyle did not approve of biographies. “It and left. We could almost adore the transcenis best and happiest,” he says, “ to return silently dently hopeful creature as he looks over his unwith one's small, sorely-foiled bit of work to the manageable, dislocated, and devastated world, and Supreme Silences, who alone can judge of him yet sees it glistening in fairest sunshine. Nothing and it.” Feeling thus, he would have left “ John more tender was ever written than these beautiful Sterling' in happy obscurity had it not been that words describing Sterling a short while before his death: “ Sterling's face still; the same that we other hand could have done? The sympathy had long known, but painted now as on the azure which thrills through every word, even the words of eternity, serene, victorious, divinely sad; the of censure; the ready genius which has transfigdust and extraneous disfigurements imprinted on ured that poor life picture, spreading even athwart it by the world now washed away forever." its dark clouds the bright arch of the rainbow

Not the least attractive feature of this book is these are things that I have no power to describe. the fact that it presents Carlyle himself in an The criticism on Voltaire is essentially a masteraltogether more lovable form than anything else piece. Never before had this man had simple justhat has ever been written about him. It is grati tice done him. His cohorts of admirers had writfying to see our gloomy iconoclast thoroughly ten lives without number, many of which might enjoying an entirely human friendship. Their better have been called the apotheosis of Voltaire; differences of opinion were many; but in their his defamers, looking at him always with the intercourse, with Sterling's revivifying influence chancel-rail between them, have been more than to encourage him, I have no doubt that Carlyle ready to make a warning auto-da-of him and blossomed out into more tenderness and hopeful- | his writings, and to paint him almost as the archness than he ever showed to any other creature. fiend himself. Not so Carlyle. He looks at Even he could not help turning his sunny side Voltaire as a man, and as a brother-man he does toward this radiant young son of the morning. him justice, a justice in whose fierce, white light What the friendship was to Sterling himself is best we see Voltaire, a shrunken figure, indeed, but told in his brief letter of farewell to Carlyle, still not less than human. He shows that it was written a few weeks before his death :

quite impossible such a thorough child of that age “My Dear CARLYLE: For the first time in could be in any true sense a great or deep thinker, many months it seems possible to send you a few for what was the age itself but one of superficial words, merely, however, for Remembrance and polish, mockery, selfishness, and skepticism ? He Farewell. On higher subjects there is nothing to frankly reminds us, though, that we yet owe to Volsay. I tread the common road into the great taire one debt of gratitude, for it was he who dealt darkness without any thought of fear and with the death-blow to superstition, which “now lies very much of hope. Certainty, indeed, I have cowering in its lair ; its last agonies may endure none. With regard to you and me I cannot for centuries, perhaps, but it carries the iron in begin to write; having nothing for it but to keep its soul and cannot vex the earth any more." shut the lid of those secrets with all the iron | These, and all his other criticisms, show Carlyle weights that are in my power. Toward me it is to be a discriminating, sympathetic, and thorstill more true than toward England, that no man oughly just judge. A man with such a consuming has been and done like you. Heaven bless you! | spirit of earnestness is not apt to slur over any If I can lend a hand when there, that shall not be part of his work, or be satisfied with anything wanting.”

short of his very best efforts. Indeed, next to the Of the second division of Carlyle's works, his varied and profound genius of this author, it is his criticisms, I have little or nothing new to say, criti great earnestness which most impresses the candid cising a critic being a work of supererogation for reader. I am aware, of course, that Mr. Henry which I have neither the ability nor inclination. He James, in a recent “ Atlantic Monthly," has inbrought to this department of his work what few formed the world that Carlyle was simply a great critics have to bring,-a clear, penetrating glance comedian, caring nothing for sincerity, truth, and into the beauty or deformity of every life and mind. work, except as convenient subjects to write and He sees straight down into the heart, and if, in its rant about. Mr. James complacently announces darkest corners, unknown to ourselves or others, himself as one of Carlyle's intimate friends, there is one unworthy motive lurking, he hunts it strange, by the way, how many intimate friends to its gloomy hiding-place and drags it cowering have come to light since the poor man's death, to the light. Of all his critiques that I have read, as one who thoroughly understood and respected perhaps the two on Burns and Voltaire pleased me him. And this base caricature is the outcome of most. What can I say of the tender touch of that his devotion! It is a veritable Brutus-stab, it hand which sketched for us Robert Burns as no seems to me, for certainly, if Carlyle were not in earnest, he was the most contemptible of men. A heights for which we common mortals sigh, the huge sham, spending a life-time in the effort to heights bathed forever in the fair sunlight of peace, upset and explode all other shams, and conscious freshened forever by the glad breezes of heaven. all the time of his own duplicity, is a monster not He was one of the few in this generation who have even deserving Mr. James's admiration. Carlyle reached the very peaks of intellectual life, the bare was desperately in earnest; his sincerity and his peaks which invade the misty cloudland itself. The gloom are alike unquestionably all-pervading in sunbeams seek humbler eminences; the rainbow the remaining department of his work which we itself spreads its bright arch beneath those lofty are now to consider. By this class of his writings summits, which are cloud-capped, storm-swept, he is usually judged, and it is this which has given | lightning-blasted. Upon such a towering peak him his individual and peculiar position in litera- stood Carlyle, looking down toward us pigmies ture. I am convinced, though, that his most patiently toiling far beneath him ; looking down honorable and lasting laurels have been won on with withering contempt and pity upon us, because other fields, and rather regret that, after consider we knew no better than to be happy and glad in ing him as a critic and an historian, my work is our sunlight and bow of promise. We look up to still incomplete. There is yet another path in him ; inevitably we must look up. His elevation which we must follow him. About fifty years ago is too great for us to dare to sympathize; but this modern Jeremiah first lifted up his voice in strange to say, pigmies though we are, we do dare wailing for the sins of his people, a voice heart- to pity the giant who has climbed so far above us piercing in its pathos, appalling in its hopelessness. that he has even passed the heights of repose and It awoke dismal echoes in many a thoughtful heart : hope. A Goliath, indeed, he may be, but never like an elegy of tears, it arrested, for the moment, more a child of light, which is a happier though at least, the astonished and indignant notice even humbler title. These are the feelings with which of that large class of people who may aptly be one lays down “Past and Present” or “Lattertermed the ephemera of life. Their place in the Day Pamphlets." world is like that of the evanescent foam above Carlyle has been aptly termed the iconoclast of the great, busy, restless heart of the ocean. To the nineteenth century. It is interesting to watch day they toss and froth and sparkle perhaps, to- him, hitting straight out from the shoulder every morrow they are not, and there is no added moan time, and ruthlessly knocking images right and in the great waves of society to show where they | left. It does seem that he is either hopelessly have gone down. Like the surging of the billows behind what we are pleased to call the spirit of beneath this foam was the influence of that mighty our age, or else about a thousand years ahead of mind which now, at last, knows what “the doubt. | it. It is amusing to see how many of our pet ful prospects of this painted dust" may be. From theories are ground to atoms by his vigorous the first, Carlyle felt himself the one real man look- blows. When once he has found what he coning with clear, sad eyes upon the real problems of siders a truth, he rushes impetuously forward with life, which the rest of us phantoms, as he calls us, it, never pausing to see whether the crowd be peep at through the holes in our masks, or touch huzzaing at his back or not. Usually the crowd but with phantom lances. A desolate isolation, is doing exactly the reverse, but it does not disindeed, to be the one philosopher in this mam- concert him. It is certainly not advisable that I moth masquerade. Ah! well; he had never been should do more than merely mention a few of his one of the ephemera. Perhaps if he had, he would peculiar views, all of which one may readily find have known that even among them there is a little elaborately presented in the works I have named. more eager questioning of Fate, a little more bitter Carlyle altogether disapproves of the non-interferdisappointment at its sphinx-like silence, than he ence theory of government, believes in the oneever imputed to them. It is something to be a man power, and particularly admired the Czar of giant among pigmies, certainly, but to be a Giant Russia as a consistent exponent of that idea. He Despair is an appalling and mournful destiny. An objects to the freedom of the press, and declares intolerable gloom, a hopeless, overwhelming sad- the first step toward reforming Parliament should ness of heart, enthralled this man, who was never be to turn out the ubiquitous reporters. He was king over himself. He had passed far beyond the a staunch advocate of slavery, and I have an idea

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