e.

But, whatever people may say, when Carlyle
speaks the world is quite ready to listen.

Who is Thomas Carlyle?

He is a Scotchman, a philosopher, an essayist,
an historian, a biographer, and an octogenarian.

What has he done to be so famous?

He has written twenty books. But you might
live to be an octogenarian yourself without meeting
twenty persons who would have read them all. It
would not be a hard matter, though, to find those
who have read one of his books twenty times;
perhaps this very green-covered book with "Sartor
Resartus" on the back.

What does it mean, and what is it all about?

It means "The Tailor Re-tailored," and Carlyle
says it is a book about clothes. But you need not
look for fashion-plates; there are none there. You
will hear nothing about new costumes; for this
book is full of Carryle's own thoughts, clothed in
such words that you will surely enjoy the book.

Hear how he tells us that nothing that we do is
really "of no matter," as we so often think:

"I say, there is not a red Indian hunting by
Lake Winnepeg can quarrel with his squaw but the
whole world must smart for it: will not the price
of beaver rise?"

You think it would not make much difference if
the price of beaver should rise? Let us look at
the matter. First, Mr. B. Woods, the trader, must
pay a larger price for his beaver, and therefore
must sell for more to the firm of Bylow & Selhi.
These shrewd gentlemen do not intend to lose on
their purchase, so they pay a less sum to Mr.
Maycup, the manufacturer. This reduction in his
income causes Mr. Maycup to curtail family expenses.
So his subscription to ST. NICHOLAS is
discontinued, and the youthful Maycups are overwhelmed
with grief, because of that unfortunate
quarrel which raised the price of beaver.

But why should the price change because of that?

Really, Mr. Carlyle should answer you. Perhaps
the Indian in his quarrel forgets to set his traps, or
the whole neighborhood may become so interested
in the little affair that beavers are forgotten.

"Were it not miraculous could I stretch forth
my hand and clutch the sun? Yet thou seest me
daily stretch forth my hand and clutch many a
thing and swing it hither and thither. Art thou a
grown baby, then, to fancy that the miracle lies in
miles of distance, or in pounds avoirdupois of
weight; and not to see that the true miracle lies
in this, that I can stretch forth my hand at all?"

What is it that Carlyle