would come to a stand at the first paragraph in Carlyle; and be disposed to ask, as we have heard asked-" Is the man serious? What does he mean? As well undertake to read Greek." Nor is his quaint diction, as has been often asserted, the chief obstacle to his universal popularity. Carlyle taxes the mind. beyond any other living writer in the English language; and the mass of readers are either unable or unwilling, to meet this demand upon their mental powers. He is preeminently figurative in his expressions; and his figures, or illustrations as they may be more properly termed, are for the most part drawn from sources with which the common reader is not familiar. The force and beauty of whole pages may be lost, if the reader happens to be ignorant of some classical allusion, some character in ancient mythology, or the technical phrase of some art or science. Every subject he touches-and it would be difficult to name the subject he has not touched-he views from a position which nobody else ever took; and right or wrong, the view he gives is new. Dictionaries will not always help the reader to the meaning of his words; and nothing short of their etymology will lead him to see the significance of many which constantly occur. Though there are few sentences which can not be parsed on the Lindley Murray system, yet the rules of grammar will be of little avail in understanding our author. He defies all rules, and takes licenses in the use of language, which the rigid critic would not allow the poet. For these reasons Carlyle can never have, nor does he wish to have, the popularity which the mere storyteller so often acquires. He does not write for such fame, nor for the profit of writing; nor does he write to amuse intellectual men in their seasons of relaxation from severe study few studies will be found

to demand more intense application, than the reading of some pieces which he has written. And yet the readers of Carlyle have greatly multiplied. Notwithstanding the difficulties they meet with, many can understand him sufficiently to compensate them for their labor.

The Past and Present, from the subject upon which it treats-though it is perhaps the most idiomatic of all Carlyle's works-will be more extensively circulated than any other. We wish it might; for a louder note of warning, since the Hebrew prophets, has not been sounded in the ears of a guilty nation. And while it can have but quite a general application to any circumstances among ourselves, it contains much that ought to interest and profit us.

We have placed the titles of two of Mr. Carlyle's works at the head of this article, not so much with the design of reviewing them, as to ascertain his views of the social and civil relation man holds to his fellow man, particularly that of gov ernors to the governed.

It is not difficult to know Mr. Carlyle's political position in his own country; but there is no ground for assigning him a fixed place in the politics of our own. He does not class well in any thing. The withs of sects and parties he snapped sometime since, and in vain will any party Philistines attempt to bind him. He has written so much upon so many subjects, and expressed himself in so bold and independent a manner, that any one may find sentences which may seem to favor any opinion in philosophy, politics, or religion. He is not careful to define or to guard his position; yet he has a position of his own upon every important subject, and he is generally consistent with himself. Upon many subjects he agrees with many individuals; but with no individual sect or party. In respect to the natural

goodness of the heart, he may, in general terms, be called a Unitarian; in philosophy, a transcendentalist, but not properly of any phase of this philosophy found in New England. At home, it is quite evident from the book before us, he is "in the opposition"-to many things, but to call him whig or democrat, in relation to ourselves, is placing him out of his true position. Much less should he be quoted as giving countenance to sentiments hostile to civil government, or designedly disruptive of the strict est bonds of law. There is we apprehend, no anarchic or revolutionary element in his character. And while he heartily wishes us success in our republican institutions, and believes that we shall, all circumstances considered, live more comfortably in democratic than in any other political garments, he is far from desiring to transfer our attire to European society. Neither has Carlyle the least faith in the absolute equality of mankind. Yet no voice is louder in the condemnation of oppression, injustice, and wrong. None louder in favor of changes for relieving suffering, enlightening ignorance, soothing the wretched, and in all wise ways for meliorating the condition of man. To use his own language, in speaking of others, Carlyle is not for demolishing, but for upbuilding. But how build without first tearing down? This is a question that must be fairly answered; for if we can give our author's answer to this, we shall have made some progress in our main inquiry.

Generally, when there have been grievous wrongs to be redressed, foul blots upon the body politic to be removed, reformers have aimed to destroy the whole frame of the state, deeming this an indispensable preliminary step to the erection of a new edifice. For how, say they, can we build upon a sandy foundation, or with rotten materials?

New cloth in old garments will neither look nor wear well.' Now this kind of reasoning in the mind of Carlyle contains a fallacy. Very rarely will it apply; never, till measures of reform long and faithfully tried, utterly fail, and death is to be preferred to life in the existing state of things. Here is the fal lacy-a structure of wood and mor tar is not, in the sense the above illustration implies, like the edifice of civil society. The materials of the two are not subjected to the same laws; and the risk in total demolition in the two cases is far from being the same. The new political edifice, after the old is destroyed, must be built of human materials, by no means as pliant to the hand of the builder as wood and stone. When the carpenter has scored his timber, and put it together, it will stay without first having to acquire the habit of staying. In the other case, from the ridge to the cellar-from the king to the lowest subject-there is no such inertia in the materials of the building; not the least part of it, from any necessity of nature, continues where it is placed; and most likely, not a single part will be willing to continue there, but, wrig gling itself out, will let the whole building down. And the crash will be greater at every new attempt at reconstruction. The history of the constitutions which the Abbé Sieyes framed for the French people during their revolution, under which nobody would live,' is an example.

Yet the work of reconstruction must go on forms both civil and social, owing to the progress in all directions which every thing is constantly making, become dead, or useless, or worse, and must be thrown off. Every thing is in the process of change; nothing remains what it has been; not even the matter of our own bodies. But nature in all her changes is gradual and silent. Carlyle would have us

learn wisdom from her. There is for certain animals what is called their moulting season; and though at the identical moment of parting with the old horn or skin, there may be a momentary twinge, yet nature has already provided them with a new covering, fitting, easy and comely.' This illustration, often met with in his writings, will aid us in ascertaining the manner he would have the necessary changes in civil society brought to pass. Let time do the work of destruction; and when laws and institutions become oppressive and unjust; or when the circumstances of the people demand new laws, let those whose business it is, see to it, that the work is timely and righteously done. If those who are anointed to govern, and who swear to govern equitably, will attend in season to this their chief duty, fearful convulsions will be avoided. All parts of the social body may not be ready for the change at the same time; the old garments may stick fast in some spots, and considerable pain be experienced in throwing them off, yet the general health of the system demands that the change should take place.

The great mass of people in European countries have remained quiet, till cruelly galled by those parts of their old civil suits, that had ceased to fit the body. They have readily yielded the fleece to the shearer, in return for even tolerable pasturage. Rulers, shepRulers, shep herds, have only to see that the government does not become too oppressive, the pasture too barren, in order to continue governing and fleecing. But neglect, too long neglect, such that every one feels sore and hungry, and begins talking with his galled and hungry neighbor about the cause of all this suffering is like the letting out of water; dams, dykes, all barriers, religious, social, constitutional, may be swept away.

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A revolution in the old European societies is extremely difficult. Every thing is against it. The general ignorance and inertia of the mass of the people, the difficulty of efficient combination, the risk of gaining any valuable end, the extreme danger of losing what they already possess, and above all, the strength of old habits, and the comparative ease of remaining as they are all seem to forbid any attempt at change. Yet let their condition become insupportable" -let old habits be broken up by necessity, and the general brain once set fermenting with inquiries into the reason of things,' and these masses assume a fearful strength and energy. The question then becomes one of mights, and all rights and reasons must be merged in this-which is the strongest ? The guilt of reducing the relations between the governing and the governed to this extremity, Carlyle lays to the charge of the governors. They should have prevented it. They are placed over the people as heaven's vicegerents, wisely, justly, and benevolently to govern them, and in all ways to care for them. Their task, though not an easy one, when heroically performed, is noble and godlike; and within the bosom of every son of Adam, the lowest, the meanest, God has placed the principle of loyalty, of reverence, which will always show itself in the presence of such nobleness. People most passionately love their righteous rulers; and often, so strong is this passion, they will reverently bow before the faintest similitude, the most distant approximation to a righteous ruler. They are willing to pay for being governed; they always have paid the roundest price-often all they could get by the severest toil. They will live, and most cheerfully die, if need be, for their rulers and country. While they believe their rulers care for them, respect them,

and see that they have work, and some kind of wages for their work, sufficient at least to keep them from suffering, they will prove loyal subjects. They will even take pride in the splendor and sumptuousness of their nobility. But there is a pitch beyond which human en durance ceases. No mortal, with whatever noble qualities nature has endowed him of loyalty, or any form of "hero-worship," however low he may be sunk in ignorance, can be patient and docile with an empty stomach. When it comes to this want, or nearly approximates to this; when man's condition is one of positive suffering, he will begin to look into the matter. He then takes quite different views of his governors. He begins to contrast their sumptuous living, their ease, their pleasures, with his own nakedness and starvation, with his toil and wretchedness. He begins to inquire into first principles-for to a certain extent, the veriest slave can inquire for the reason of things -he asks, "Why is this? Is there not enough for all? And if I obey the law and work hard, have I not a right to live? This earth was given to man, and honesty and industry have a right to a comfortable place in it. Something is wrong somewhere." All men, when their condition becomes insupportable, can go thus far in reasoning upon first principles. Most Europeans can push their inquiries much farther. But how can they obtain redress? They have not money, nor knowledge, nor constitutional authority. One resource is open to them. They have strength. And most fearful will it be for the upper, earthly powers, when the millions of a nation betake themselves to this resource. Fearful also for the nation, for these millions can do nothing but destroy. They know not what they want; but only what they are determined they will not bear.

For reasons already stated, Carlyle believes no people will come to this extremity, till driven by long and grievous oppression on the part of their rulers. Then they will! The laws of gravitation are not surer to bring an unsupported body to the earth, than nature's laws in man to bring down every throne and altar which are not supported by at least some approximation to right and justice.

This truth is continually brought to view in vivid lightning flashes throughout these two books. Carlyle believes the time for change and for reconstruction in many things, has come in England. Some of the laws and forms of social and civil life are too grievous to be borne much longer. Wrong, unjust, they weigh so heavily upon the governed millions, that they should not, can not, will not, be endured. Already from workshop, cotton mill, and the dark coal mine, the toil-worn and starving English worker is forced to think upon the cause of his suffering, and instinc tively to look to his natural source of help.

The Past and Present is to notify his brethren of the upper governing class of this fact, and to warn and entreat them to set themselves seasonably to rectifying the evil. They, and they only, must do it; awful will it be for them and for England, if the work is left to other hands.

Before considering Carlyle's opinions upon the state of England, we wish to glance with him at the French Revolution. His history of that revolution, is a series of the most vivid pictures of events in that frightful catastrophe. What scenes for France, for the world, for the universe, were crowded into those few years of time! And men the actors; beings like ourselves! Human nature in all its aspects can here be seen; all the most hidden strata of it turned up to the full gaze of the world. And this too,

not among Carib or Snake Indians, Hottentots or Tartars; but in one of the most refined, polite, and ed. ucated nations of Christendom! But these were the death-throes of an old, the birth-pangs of a new era; the viaticum and the christening committed to strange hands. The pit, the twenty five millions from the pit of France, had jumped upon the stage; all bands were burst asunder; tragedy and comedy enact themselves in the strangest alternations.

The special inquiry before us now is, Why was this? What in the civil and social relations of this people led to this frightful event? Historians are pretty well agreed in their views of the remote and proximate causes. Some lay more stress upon one thing, some upon another. Carlyle, looking through the unequal taxation, the clashings between the new and the old nobilities, the state of the clergy, the dearth of grain, the Encyclopedists, the harlotry of the Court, the weak ness of Lewis XVI, sees, as including all these, a whole nation habited in forms which she had outgrown; which exceedingly galled every limb and spot of the entire body. The reason why the nation was so susceptible to this or the other influence, was her universally diseased state. There was no soundness in her. Every political, moral, and social nerve had become morbidly sensitive. Or to return to the significant figure of our author, France had lived for centuries in her feudal garments, which now in no way fitted her. For a long time she had been outgrowing them, and now at the slightest touch they burst open and fall off. And, alas! there were no new, well formed, and fitting garments in readiness. Her rulers, (tailors, he sometimes calls them,) temporal and spiritual guides of all descriptions, had neglected their work. France was goyerned and guided only by the

momentum received from past ages. This force had now expended itself; gradually indeed, yet at its entire cessation, the change is felt through the whole nation. France looks up to her constitutional authorities for direction. There are her king and nobility, and soon her Notables. She looks to them inquiringly"How? Whither?" The answer comes, "Go on as you have done!" Like beasts of burden too heavy laden, all France begins rearing and flouncing. All this came of neglect; of the sheerest injustice and oppression on the part of those whose duty it was rightly and righteously to govern and guide the people. Nearly all the land of France was owned by the church and state aristocracy; the hard laboring and half starving millions of the nation paid all they possibly could pay, for the support of their governors; and yet all this was inadequate to satisfy their demands. Battening in the ail de bœuf, or in their one hundred thousand chateaux scattered through the kingdom; intriguing, idling, or hunting, but never governing, or in any sense caring for the people, except that they punctually pay the rents, the nobility of France had lost not only the reverence, but the respect of the nation. The hereditary representatives of the old feudal lords, they possessed neither the chivalry, ability, justice, nor benevolence of their ancestors. They inherited only their wealth and privileges; and these they used as the ancient barons would have scorned to use them. Their position was the more offensive and despicable in the eyes of the nation, from the fact, that the nation itself had so changed. France had become densely peopled; commerce had enriched thousands of the middling classes, and quickened the springs of industry throughout the land; the printing press had done its wonderful works, enlightening myriads, and by some faint