ct, prominent forehead. But the depth, the expression, the
far inner play of it--who could transfer that even to the eloquent canvas,
far less to this very _in_-eloquent paper? It is not brightness, it is not
flash, it is not power even--something beyond all these. The expression is,
so to speak, heavy laden--as if be-tokening untold burdens of thought, and
long, long fiery struggles, resolutely endured--endured until they had been
in some practical manner overcome; to adopt his own fond epithet, and it
comes nearest to the thing, his is the heroic eye, but of a hero who has
done hard battle against Paynim hosts. This is no dream of mine--I have
often heard this peculiarity remarked. The whole form and expression of
the face remind me of Dante--it wants the classic element, and the mature
and matchless harmony which distinguish the countenance of the great
Florentine; but something in the cast and in the look, especially the
heavy laden, but dauntless eye, is very much alike. But he speaks to me.
The tongue has the _sough_ of Annandale--an echo of the Solway, with its
compliments to old Father Thames. A keen, sharp, ringing voice, in the
genuine Border key, but tranquil and sedate withal--neighborly and frank,
and always in unison with what is uttered. Thus does the presence of
Thomas Carlyle rise before me--a 'true man' in all his bearings and in all
his sayings. And in this same guise do I seem to hear from him all those
'Latter Day Pamphlets.' Even such in his conversation--he sees the very
thing he speaks of; it breathes and moves palpable to him, and hence his
words form a picture. When you come from him, the impression is like
having seen a great brilliant panorama; every thing had been made visible
and naked to your sight. But more and better far than that; you bear home
with you an indelible feeling of love for the man--deep at the heart, long
as life. No man has ever inspired more of this personal affection. Not to
love Carlyle when you know him is something unnatural, as if one should
say they did not love the breeze that fans their cheek, or the vine-tree
which has refreshed them both with its leafy shade and its exuberant
juices. He abounds, himself, in love and in good works. His life, not only
as a 'writer of books,' but as a man among his fellows, has been a
continued shower of benefits. The young men, more especially, to whom he
has been the good Samaritan, pouring oil upon their wounds, and binding up
thei