Upon the whole, and for our purposes, this man's name certainly
belongs on the list with the just-specified, first-class moral
physicians of our current era--and with Emerson and two or three
others--though his prescription is drastic, and perhaps destructive,
while theirs is assimilating, normal and tonic. Feudal at the core,
and mental offspring and radiation of feudalism as are his books, they
afford ever-valuable lessons and affinities to democratic America.
Nations or individuals, we surely learn deepest from unlikeness, from
a sincere opponent, from the light thrown even scornfully on dangerous
spots and liabilities. (Michel Angelo invoked heaven's special
protection against his friends and affectionate flatterers; palpable
foes he could manage for himself.) In many particulars Carlyle was
indeed, as Froude terms him, one of those far-off Hebraic utterers,
a new Micah or Habbakuk. His words at times bubble forth with abysmic
inspiration. Always precious, such men; as precious now as any time.
His rude, rasping, taunting, contradictory tones--what ones are
more wanted amid the supple, polish'd, money--worshipping,
Jesus-and-Judas-equalizing, suffrage-sovereignty echoes of current
America? He has lit up our Nineteenth century with the light of a
powerful, penetrating, and perfectly honest intellect of the first
class, turn'd on British and European politics, social life,
literature, and representative personages--thoroughly dissatisfied
with all, and mercilessly exposing the illness of all.
Pages:
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302