immediately by the news of the sudden death of his wife. He wrote one or two minor articles, such as _Shooting Niagara_, and left the vivid and interesting, but frequently uncharitable, _Reminiscences_. With such exceptions, he lived henceforth, till his death on the 5th of February, 1881, the quiet, retired life of a man whose work was done. This man, so long neglected, was during a considerable part of his life, and especially in the years between the publication of the _Frederick the Great_ and his death, the greatest literary force in England. The reasons which ultimately secured for him this power are in part just the reasons which so long stood in the way of his advancement. He was eminently original in his matter, and perhaps even more in his style. But there is always some difficulty in appraising the value of originality; and the difficulty is all the greater when the originality is defiant and even borders on eccentricity. To a great extent Carlyle's early struggles were necessary because no party, creed or faction could attach him to itself or claim him as its champion. Every party in turn found it possible to assent to his negations, yet each in turn had to disapprove of what he affirmed. In politics, how could such an explosive force work in harmony with orthodox Toryism? He was constantly ridiculing and denouncing a mere fox-hunting and partridge-shooting aristocracy. 'Si monumentum quaeris, fimetum adspice.' On the other hand, if the Radicals thought they had his sympathy, they soon found that the gulf between him and them was even wider, if possible, than that which separated him from their opponents. It was the disclosure of this gulf which led to the breach with their best man, and one of his best friends, Mill. They believed almost wholly in the machinery of government, and he believed in it not at all. They were economists, and he denounced economics as a mere pretended science. They believed in government by majorities, and he considered it 'the most absurd superstition which had ever bewitched the human imagination--at least, outside Africa.' Again, he would admit no accepted theological creed, and was consequently looked on askance by the accredited leaders of religion. Anything like superstition he abominated. Newman, he thought, had 'not the intellect of a moderate-sized rabbit.' On the other hand, he had no sympathy with the liberal party of the Church of England. He condemned the writers of _Essays and Reviews_. He respected Thirlwall, but wished him anywhere but where he was. 'There goes Stanley,' said he of a man whom he personally liked, 'boring holes in the bottom of the Church of England.' He thought Arnold of Rugby fortunate in being taken away before he was forced to choose between an honest abandonment of an untenable position and a trifling with his own conscience. He liked best the clergymen who could still honestly and literally and without misgiving