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eyes, and which, by microscopic aid, will inform you that the original had wrinkles on his cheeks, and black specks on his nose. Neither are they the laborious working of the Dutch artist; sacrificing effect to detail, and forgetting all spiritual expression in catching the tie of the cravat, or the frayed edge of a buttonhole. A few bold, free, and masterly touches, and the work is done. His colors are laid on broadly, and with unerring strength of hand. He works with the pallet-knife more than with the pencil. He knows how to seize those points which go to make up the true expression, and fixes them distinctly on the canvas. The purblind individual who pokes his nose against the surface can see only a blurred and indistinct mass, but he who can stand in the artist's point of view, discerns at once the living and speaking likeness. To drop the figure, already wire-drawn, it is his thorough appreciation of character that enables CARLYLE to present it so strikingly. This faculty, again, arises from his large and genial sympathies. He enters into the whole position of his hero, be he who he may, so entirely and so warmly, that he can understand what to colder and more distant observers is obscure. His abounding Christian charity forbids him to assume or admit an evil motive for action when a good one will explain the events better, or as well. His freedom from prejudice, his absolute independence of the idols of the tribe and of the den, enable him to do justice where others do the reverse. He judges men as a spirit might, in an even balance, but with the tearful eye of gentlest pity. He has a keen relish for the humorous and generally makes the most of it. Whatever good there is in a man,-be it the smallest wheat-grain amid heaps of chaff, or, what is infinitely worse, of poisonous weeds and rubbish -he is almost sure to find it. He loves to dwell on the better side of a character; a part which most biographers slight, except professed eulogists, and they show us it alone. We never rise from one of his sketches, without loving the subject of it more heartily than we had done before. We never knew how lovable the Great Bear of English literature really was until we read CARLYLE's article on JOHNSON in his Miscellanies. BURNS has been a sweeter and dearer name to us than ever, since the perusal of that most admirable of reviews, in the same collection. So with MIRABEAU, and DANTON, and CAMILLE DESMOULINS in the French Revolution. JOHN KNOX is a sour Presbyterian ascetic to most minds, yet how genial a glow rests in the Hero Worship on the character of him "who never feared the face of man." So with CROMWELL, belied and filth-bespattered as he has been, by courtly writers, beyond all men. We feel drawn towards him. Our spirits yearn for and to his, in his hard-fought battles in the inner man, and amid the turmoil of a wicked, godless people. In his youth carried out into the moral wilderness of a debauched cen

tury to be tempted of the devil, and doing grimmest battle with him until he fled,-in later years struggling with himself and with untoward circumstances,-forced upon a wider field of action without his own consent,-clogged with feeble and worthless associates,-afflicted with froward and idly-babbling counsellors, the whole weight of English government and English social order resting at last upon his shoulders only, the selfcontaining giant strides on, looking for support only from above. Never before has that greatest shoot of the sturdy and hardgrained Saxon oak been depicted, as justice demanded should be done. It is in such heroic characters that CARLYLE particularly delights. He will depict none but the sons of Anak. He never hates, but for little men in great places he feels unbounded contempt. This is the secret of the manner in which he always ridicules and contemns ROBESPIERRE, the only man in the Revolution to whom we conceive that he has not done justice. RoBESPIERRE was a wiser, better, and greater man, than CARLYLE has believed, but he has depicted him in accordance with his honest conviction concerning him. Yet even here, it is not utter condemnation. At the last he reminds us that the man could not be altogether void of good whose brother would voluntarily die for him, and whose household companions mourned him with a grief deep and sincere. His loving spirit could not leave the picture without one softest touch, and he follows the doomed with a devout prayer for mercy on him and on us. It is the same spirit that shows itself so beautifully in STERNE and RICHTER, and others of the truly great.

Much of the prevalent confusion about CARLYLE's literary importance and distinction arises from the fact that he is of no school-belongs to no sect or party. His mind seems to be free as air. He swears by no master, but is as eclectic as the humming-bird, to whom no floral sweet comes amiss. His reading would appear to have beenfomnivorous. Hence he has passed over the barriers of education and prejudice, and learned of the good and wise of all ages and countries. Very much, perhaps most of it, has been German, and this has undoubtedly had much influence on his way of thinking. Indeed it could not be otherwise. The really profound thought and research of modern times has been German, and among that wonderful people we find the most advanced moral and intellectual philosophy. That CARLYLE has profited by their labors is to his credit. His development has been like theirs. We think we see in the intellectual man a rational scepticism, and in the moral a large and earnest faith. No man is more careful in sifting facts, or more cautious in admitting scientific deductions, yet none has a more open sense to the great truths of morality and religion. He has no patience with the philosophy that is satisfied with words, and

thinks a phenomena explained by naming it. The grotesque doctrines of Sartor Resartus are the result of deep reflection, and are true at bottom. They indicate no reverence for the established, simply because it is established, but the reverse. The man who can look through the purple drapery of the royal throne, and recognize only "a stuffed arm-chair," has made as much progress in modern Europe, as JOHN KNOX had in his day when he could see in their image of the Virgin nothing but a "painted bredd," which he for one would not kiss. There is much of this deep-seated radicalism in him. He would seem to be a radical by constitution. His sympathies are with the race, and not with this house or that party. His great heart goes out to meet the poorest, meanest son of Adam, and to find on him the name and superscription of a greater than all the Cæsars. He sees the wrong and unrighteousness of modern social and political arrangements, and he has the faith to hope for better. He may not have adopted any particular governmental formula or social system, which he can recommend. He believes that these things grow naturally, and in the required shape, when the hearts of men are made right to receive them. Nevertheless, he is in all things a liberalist, and in regard to social science, a radical, a democrat, and with or without his knowledge, not without a trace of the sans-culotte. Therefore it is that our affections draw to him so warmly. We would fain "make a long arm," and shake hands in spirit with him, imploring a thousand blessings on his head, and bidding him God-speed.

Par Fabien

Le Robespierre de M. de Lamartine. Lettre d'un Septuagenaire a l'auteur de l'histoire des Girondins. Pillet. Paris, Renouard, 1848, pp. 41.

The author of this pamphlet could not have better characterized his work, or more surely sealed its condemnation, than by the selection of the title he has chosen to apply to himself. The septuagenarian of to-day was the boy and youth of the revolutionary times, and will probably retain the violent and exaggerated views of their events which he then held. We know how dreadfully vehement, abusive and mendacious the contemporaneous history of that period is. Its statements must be received with an extreme caution. One might almost as well try to write the history of the United States from the partisan newspapers of 1840. Those opposed to the Revolution and its leaders have represented them in a light so outrageously horrible as to

be incredible at first sight. In their constant shrieking for all mankind to look upon their unequalled wrongs, real and fancied, they fell into phrases and modes of expression they have never been able to abandon. The same thing has happened with many here and in England. They take the established name of the Revolution to be "Horrors," and the fixed meaning of ROBESPIERBE to be all that is vile and sanguinary. These good people remind us of the story that is told of a parrot on board an English man-of-war, who had the misfortune to witness a hard-fought engagement. Poll was forgotten during the contest, but was afterwards found with eyes more widely-expanded and countenance more grave than ever. The sailors could draw from him none of his wonted phrases. All his loud cachinnations and funny tricks were over. Like Henry the First, "he never smiled again." The cannonade had evidently astonished him beyond recovery, and all that could ever be drawn from him was a melancholy, guttural boom-boom. M. PILLET is very much in the same condition. He reiterates the old notions about ROBESPIERRE, and revives the old stories. Some of these are altogether false, some are mainly true, but all are exaggerated. They are what were once generally held, and M. LAMARTINE is therefore familiar with them. He has, doubtless, given them all due weight in making up his estimate, and M. PILLET's little book is therefore labor lost. We do not entirely coincide with LAMARTINE'S conception of ROBESPIERRE character. There is too much couleur de rose about it. Still less, however, can we sympathize with our Septuagenarian's. We trust to be able to present an extended view of this singular individual, such as he seems to us, at no very distant period.

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