THOMAS CARLTLE. 397 



come him, but he chose to lie down among his own, in 

 the humble burial-ground of Ecclefechan, where many 

 a reverent pilgrim of the future will look upon his grave. 

 Since his death we have had misjudgment and misap- 

 prehension manifold regarding him and his; but these 

 are essentially evanescent, and I therefore pass them by 

 with a simple comparison to mark their value. In 

 Switzerland I live in the immediate presence of a 

 mountain, noble alike in form and mass. A bucket or 

 two of water, whipped into a cloud, can obscure, if not 

 efface, that lordly peak. You would almost say that 

 no peak could be there. But the cloud passes away, and 

 the mountain, in its solid grandeur, remains. Thus, 

 when all temporary dust is laid, will stand out, erect 

 and clear, the massive figure of Carlyle. 



It now becomes my duty to unveil and present to 

 the British public, and to the strangers without our gates 

 who can appreciate greatness, the statue of a great man. 

 Might I append to these brief remarks the expression of 

 a wish, personal perhaps in its warmth, but more than 

 personal in its aim, that somewhere upon the Thames 

 Embankment could be raised a companion memorial 

 to a man who loved our hero, and was by him beloved 

 to the end? I refer to the loftiest, purest, and most 

 penetrating spirit that has ever shone in American lit- 

 erature to Ealph Waldo Emerson, the life-long friend 

 of Thomas Carlyle. 



