280 A SUNDAY IN CHEYNE ROW. 



loosening up from the bottom, the shock of rude, 

 scornful, merciless power. There are ten thousand 

 agencies and instrumentalities titillating the surface, 

 smoothing, pulverizing, and vulgarizing the top. 

 Chief of these is the gigantic, ubiquitous newspaper 

 press, without character, and without conscience ; 

 then the lyceum, the pulpit, the novel, the club all 

 cultivating the superficies, and helping make life shal- 

 low and monotonous. How deep does the leading 

 editorial go, or the review article, or the Sunday ser- 

 mon ? But such a force as Carlyle disturbs our com- 

 placency. Opinion is shocked, but it is deepened. 

 The moral and intellectual resources of all men have 

 been added to. But the literal fulfillment and verifi- 

 cation of his prophecies, shall we insist upon that? 

 Is not a prophet his own proof, the same as a poet ? 

 Must we summon witnesses and go into the justice- 

 court of fact ? The only questions to be asked are : 

 Was he an inspired man ? was his an authoritative 

 voice ? did he touch bottom ? was he sincere ? was 

 he grounded and rooted in character ? It is not the 

 stamp on the coin that gives it its value, though on 

 the bank-note it is. Carlyle's words were not prom- 

 ises, but performances ; they are good now if ever. 

 To test him by his political opinions is like testing 

 Shakespeare by his fidelity to historical fact in his 

 plays, or judging Lucretius by his philosophy, or 

 Milton or Dante by their theology. Carlyle was just 

 as distinctively an imaginative writer as were any of 

 these men, and his case is to be tried on the same 



