ustration; but most to his style.

In the early days of his unpopularity this style used to be abused with
heat or dismissed with scorn as mere falsetto, copied to a great extent
from Richter. It is certain that in Carlyle's very earliest works there
is small trace of it; and that he writes in a fashion not very
startlingly different from that of any well-read and well-taught author
of his time. And it is certain also that it was after his special
addiction to German studies that the new manner appeared. Yet it is very
far indeed from being copied from any single model, or even from any
single language; and a great deal that is in it is not German at all.
Something may even be traced to our own more fantastic writers in the
seventeenth century, such as Sir Thomas Urquhart in Scotland and Sir
Roger L'Estrange in England; much to a Scottish fervour and quaintness
blending itself with and utilising a wider range of reading than had
been usual with Scotsmen; most to the idiosyncrasy of the individual.

Carlyle's style is not seldom spoken of as compact of tricks and
manners; and no doubt these are present in it. Yet a narrow inspection
will show that its effect is by no means due so much in reality as in
appearance to the retaining of capital letters, the violent breaches and
aposiopeses, the omission of pronouns and colourless parts of speech
generally, the coining of new words, and the introduction of unusual
forms. These things are often there, but they are not always; and even
when they are, there is something else much more important, much more
characteristic, but also much harder to put the finger on. There is in
Carlyle's fiercer and more serious passages a fiery glow of enthusiasm
or indignation, in his lighter ones a quaint felicity of unexpected
humour, in his expositions a vividness of presentment, in his arguments
a sledge-hammer force, all of which are not to be found together
anywhere else, and none of which is to be found anywhere in quite the
same form. And despite the savagery, both of his indignation and his
laughter, there is no greater master of tenderness. Wherever he is at
home, and he seldom wanders far from it, the weapon of Carlyle is like
none other,--it is the very sword of Goliath.

And this sword pierces to the joints and marrow as no other of the
second division of our authors of the nineteenth century proper pierces,
with the exception of that of Tennyson in verse. It is possible to
disagree