"WHO is this Thomas Carlyle ?" recently asked a friend of ours, taking his Past and Present from the table, and carelessly glancing over its pages. An important question, truly, at this epoch, and one which we confess we can but imperfectly answer. We have heard it said that he is one "who lives in quite an humble way in the suburbs of London. He was not born to titles, men have conferred on him no patent of nobility, nor is he rich in houses or lands or gold. His sole wealth and honor lie in possessions of quite another kind-those of the mind!" For ourselves, we have known him only-in earlier times, that is to say, some ten or fifteen years since-as the contributor of sundry powerful articles to Fraser's, the Edinburgh, and Blackwood's Magazine, among which, in passing, we especially notice the article on Burns, the noblest tribute which has yet been paid to the genius of the unfortunate, but gifted poet. In these earlier essays of our author, characterized by a manly, vigorous style, and fine critical acumen, we observe nothing otherwise specially remarkable; but in good old Saxon phrase, he was content to utter the truthful thoughts of an earnest heart, in such manner as none could gainsay or mistake. But of late, "Cesar has grown ambitious." The stout and welltried armor with which nature and the English language had arrayed him, does not satisfy his aspiring genius, but with the march of fame be must needs assume a more striking-shall we say more chaste and effective panoply? Being an original thinker, he must of course adopt an original style in which to convey his ideas, one which should clearly distinguish him from the ignobile vulgus, and most indubitably establish his claims to be considered "the lion" of English Literature. Accordingly we have known Thomas Carlyle in later times as the author of certain mysterious "voices," "utterances," and " Prophetic Articulations," the exact purport of which has not in all cases been clear to our comprehension. It is with no little mortification, however, that we feel constrained to make this admission, since, by all the admirers of Carlyle, who possess the "Inner Consciousness"-" the vision and the faculty divine"- -we are liable to be considered and termed " consummate blockheads," shallow-brained ninnies, with other appellations of a like nature, which, however clear the evidence to one's own mind, or to others, of their being correctly applied, are, notwithstanding, to the truly modest man, (like ourselves,) not less painful, than man of genius, clear and logical reasoner, &c. The first manifest indications of idiosyncracy in our author's genius, we observed some seven or eight years since in his Sartor Resartus. We well remember with what boyish curiosity (we were younger then than we are now) we first followed the worthy Herr Teufelsdrockle in his subtle disquisitions on the philosophy of Clothes; wondering, meanwhile, whether he of Weissnichto was in fact a veritable personage, as he professed himself to be, or only one of our author's Phantasms, or "Outward Appearances," which, in his later works, he is so fond of introducing to the notice of the reader. Be this as it may, however, we most cordially recommend Sartor Resartus to the candid attention of the student and man of letters, as the most analytical and learned investigation of the Philosophy of Clothes now extant. In this deeply important science, the learned Professor is perfectly at home. In a most masterly manner does he discuss the nature and use of Clothes, clearly pointing out their importance and necessity to mankind, as at present organized; nay, he has even gone deeper than this, and stripping man of his "three ply" of broadcloth, has subjected him to the rigid examination of a critical analysis, or, in his own chaste and elegant language, has shown him "the forked, straddling animal he actually is." Next came his History (?) of the French Revolution, a truly noteworthy book, and one of which many things might be said, but of which, for the present, we are silent. Some three years later appeared sundry lectures on Heroes, Hero-Worship, and the Heroic in history-also, in many respects, a book of much note, and developing to the world more fully than had before been done, certain views of the editor on important subjects. Herein are we clearly informed of the estimation in which our author holds certain men who have acted distinguished parts in the great drama of life-no unimportant circumstance; and what is still more important, from some obscure hints and incidental remarks dropped at random throughout these pages, are we enabled to form some definite opinion of the religion of the man; definite, we say, though, perhaps, a mistaken one. If so, we think our author himself is justly accountable, for that one who professedly writes on morals and faith, who believes "that a man's religion is the chief fact concerning him," should state his own belief in terms so indefinite and unintelligible as to be misunderstood-such an one is, of all others, most inexcusable. The Past and the Present is the latest production from our author's prolific intellectual warehouse-in style and spirit resembling the last three named works; but of this more anon. It is in such capacity that we have known Thomas Carlyle in late years as an author-an author of rare industry, ingenuity, and power. Ingenuity, forsooth! let not that man be accused of lacking ingenuity, who can twist and torture language into as many Protean shapes as we find in Carlyle's later writings. Such words, too, as he has invented-shade of the departed Webster! From thy Olympian heights look down in pity on us poor benighted mortals, and issue some celestial supplement to thy ponderous quartos, that we may, by any means, obtain some dim insight into this distracted, cloudy "imbroglio" of Carlylism. A powerful writer, too, is our author, as we easily gather fromt he effects which he produces. Perhaps the writings of no other man, of the present time, have been more read and studied by the intellectual and thinking part of community, or received with more universal favor. Nay, has he not here among ourselves his Dials, his Emersons, his Alcotts, in some sort, too, his Brownsons, who are treading carefully in his steps, and teaching his doctrine, even in the very style and language of their illustrious predecessor? Decidedly the richest and most irresistibly ludicrous specimens of literature we have met with in these degenerate times, are the efforts of certain youthful tyros, who possess not a tithe of the intellectual power of Carlyle, endeavoring to imitate him in his style and subject matter. A more felicitous illustration of the fable of the frog and the ox, related by Horace, we have seldom seen. To endeavor to criticise the style of Carlyle, would be a most absurd and fruitless waste of time. It has been remarked, with justness, perhaps, that he is above all criticism. By what method will you proceed to criticise the style of a man who sets completely at defiance all the rules of grammar, logic, or rhetoric; who, regardless of all usage, ancient or modern, adopts a style sui generis, both unnatural and inimitable? Unnatural, we say, for we think none will contend that the original and fantastic style in which he has chosen to convey his ideas the past few years, can be the natural outflowing of his thoughts. Possessing an almost boundless command of language, he has left its legitimate use, to play upon words, to dazzle by flights of his genius, or astonish by his curious and inimitable arrangement of words and sentences. Whether this style be best adapted to gain the ends the author has in view, remains to be seen. We have carefully read several times the later works of Carlyle, and cannot say, as of some other authors, that each re-perusal has been attended with increased pleasure. We attribute this, is great part at least, to the nature of the subjects on which he generally treats, and the spirit and style in which his ideas are uttered. The successful writer, who arrests the attention of his readers, to a greater or less extent carries their sympathies along with him. If a complaining or fault-finding spirit breathes through his pages, a corresponding influence will be felt on the mind of the reader. Such a spirit we think more peculiarly characterizes Carlyle than any other modern writer. His last work, especially, breathes an everlasting Plorare and Miserere; indicating a mind ill at ease with itself or others. True, indeed, we should not wish or expect to find an earnest heart speaking of such momentous subjects in a playful mood. But after all, to use our author's own language, "when a man is miserable, what does it most become him to do? To complain of this man or that, of this thing or that? To fill the world and street with lamentation, objurgation? Not so at all: the reverse of so." In the comparisons which in almost every chapter he draws between past ages in English history and the present, it is always greatly to the disadvantage of the latter. To say nothing of the truth or error of this, we think its effect is anything but salutary on the reader. We agree with the sentiment of Channing, as expressed in one of his finest poems, that "To call past ages better than what now And then, too, one does at length grow weary of hearing perpetual changes rung on Dilettantisms, Fanaticisms, Inner Consciousness, The Great Fact of Existence, with a long list of etceteras, some of which, we should judge from the connection in which they are used, have no very definite signification, even in the author's own mind. Nor does the peculiar style of Carlyle's writings especially increase the pleasure of a re-perusal. A style evidently forced, affected, and unnatural, although it may at first secure the attention by its novelty, must finally disgust, or at least displease the reader of refined taste. For a single perusal of a single volume, it affords a pleasant and exciting amusement to be borne along in the chariot of this modern Aminidab, with Phaeton whip. The attention of the most listless reader cannot but be arrested with the numberless elisions, semibreves, crotchets, interrogations, and exclamations which crowd every page; but he at length begins to feel his patience weary in attempting to keep pace with the author. In our western country we have sometimes traveled in good old-fashioned wagons without springs, over bridges made of logs, placed near each other and projecting some inches above the general surface. Some of these, in swampy tracts, are a mile or so in extent, and are excellent for awakening the attention of the traveler to the beauties of the surrounding scenery, but ! Many of Carlyle's admirers, however, strenuously defend the characteristics which we censure, as being a powerful stimulus to thought— the true object of reading. It may be that this will be its natural effect, but the argument to our minds, at least, is a novel one. We have here a new theory of writing, one which is to produce an effect, not less surprising than the invention of printing itself. The means of attaining the great end of writing has hitherto been misunderstood. Campbell, Blair, and Whately, who have given us instruction and rules in the art of writing, were but ignorant, silly dupes, who knew nothing of the philosophy of mind, or the true province of the science which they taught. Clearness, simplicity, and precision are utterly eschewed by the Carlyle school, and considered only as vulgar and unimportant qualifications, entirely beneath the consideration of the true genius, who aspires to reach the spiritual and infinite, the Divine Idea in the nature of man. Here, too, we see that Shakspeare, Milton, Addison, and the old English classic writers, knew nothing of the nature of mind, or the most effective method of employing language. Their style of writing was not calculated to waken thought in the mind, and consequently they have failed of attaining the true end of writing, and can by no means be considered men of genius, or worthy the gratitude of mankind. Indeed, it is wonderful by what obliquity of mental vision mankind have so long continued to admire such plain common sense writers. They were content to use language adapted to the comprehension of all capacities, terms whose signification was easily understood, with a clear, simple, straight-forward style, which, while not unworthy the attention of the most powerful intellects, was even such "that the wayfaring man, though a fool, need not err therein." Mistaken souls! But to return-for in our discursive remarks we had well nigh forgotten the purpose for which we sat down to pen this article-a brief notice of the Past and Present. We observe the work appears under the auspices of Mr. Emerson, one of the Transcendal friends' of whom Mr. Carlyle speaks in the course of his work, his most ardent admirer, and who has re-echoed his sentiments on this side of the Atlantic, if with less power and effect, certainly with not less zeal and diligence. A similar favor for Emerson was performed by Mr. Carlyle, in England, not long since, who stood god-father to an edition of Emerson's works there issued. A peculiar sympathy and brotherly affinity seems to exist between these two minds, very pleasing to witness. If our Transcendal friend' has been zealously active in disseminating the opinions of the most profound original thinker in the old world,' he has the satisfaction of knowing that his labors have been highly appreciated and fully reciprocated by his Transatlantic brother. We remember having seen an article in one of the English Quarterlies, from the pen of Mr. Carlyle, in which he takes occasion to congratulate his readers that even in this Money-God-worshiping nation, there is yet one redeeming spirit, not entirely the slave of Mammon, Cant, Atheism, &c., but with far-seeing vision and trusting faith, is struggling, with manful earnestness, to bring back the soul to this soulless nation. "Tickle me Toby and I'll tickle thee." The object of the editor in the present work seems to have been to contrast the past state of England with the present, to paint in glowing colors, with a master hand, the wretched condition into which distracted England has fallen, and soundly belabor both rulers and ruled for being found and continuing in this condition. The first thought which naturally strikes the reader as he lays down the work, is the unfair contrast which he has presented between the Past and Present, and the limited extent to which the parallel he has drawn between them holds true. Drawing aside the curtains which hide from our view the dim shadows of our ancestors' deeds, he looks far back-some six hundred years—into antiquity, and finds there cer |