ory. Stranger
Tory, in my opinion, has not been fallen in with in these later
generations." Again a few weeks later (February 11): "The people are
beginning to discover that I am not a Tory. Ah, no! but one of the
deepest, though perhaps the quietest, of all the Radicals now extant in
the world--a thing productive of small comfort to several persons. They
have said, and they will say, and let them say."

His final course of lectures now confronted him, and these he entitled
_Heroes and Hero Worship_. He tells his mother (May 26, 1840): 'The
lecturing business went off with sufficient _eclat_. The course was
generally judged, and I rather join therein myself, to be the bad _best_
I have yet given. On the last day--Friday last--I went to speak of
Cromwell with a head _full of air_; you know that wretched physical
feeling; I had been concerned with drugs, had awakened at five, etc. It
is absolute martyrdom. My tongue would hardly wag at all when I got
done. Yet the good people sate breathless, or broke out into all kinds
of testimonies of goodwill.... In a word, we got right handsomely
through.' That was Carlyle's last appearance as a public lecturer. He
was now the observed of all observers in London society; but he was
weary of lionising and junketings. 'What,' he notes in his journal on
June 15, 1840, 'are lords coming to call on one and fill one's head with
whims? They ask you to go among champagne, bright glitter,
semi-poisonous excitements which you do not like even for the moment,
and you are sick for a week after. As old Tom White said of whisky,
"Keep it--Deevil a ever I'se better than when there's no a drop on't i'
my weam." So say I of dinner popularity, lords and lionism--Keep it;
give it to those that like it.'

Carlyle was much refreshed at this period by visits from Tennyson. Here
is what he says of the poet: 'A fine, large-featured, dim-eyed,
bronze-coloured, shaggy-headed man is Alfred; dusty, smoky, free and
easy, who swims outwardly and inwardly with great composure in an
inarticulate element of tranquil chaos and tobacco smoke. Great now and
then when he does emerge--a most restful, brotherly, solid-hearted man.'

In a note to his brother John on September 11, 1840, he says: 'I have
again some notions towards writing a book--let us see what comes of
that. It is the one use of living, for me. Enough to-day.' The book he
had in view was _Cromwell_. Journalising on the day after Christmas he
laments--'O