Three of the wisest men that can be got are met to consider what is the function which transcends all others in importance to build up the young generation, which shall be free from all that perilous stuff that has been weighing us down and clogging every step, and which is the only thing we can hope to go on with if we would leave the world a little better, and not the worse of our having been in it for those who are to follow. The man who is the eldest of the three says to Goethe, "You give by nature to the well-formed children you bring into the world a great many precious gifts, and very frequently these are best of all developed by nature herself, with a very slight assistance where assistance is seen to be wise and profitable, and forbearance very often on the part of the overlooker of the process of education; but there is one thing that no child brings into the world with it, and without which all other things are of no use." Wilhelm, who is there beside him, says, "What is that?" "All who enter the world want it," says the eldest; "perhaps you yourself." Wilhelm says, "Well, tell me what it is." "It is," says the eldest, "reverence—Ehrfurcht—Reverence! Honour done to those who are grander and better than you, without fear; distinct from fear." Ehrfurcht—"the soul of all religion that ever has been among men, or ever will be." And he goes into practicality. He practically distinguishes the kinds of religion that are in the world, and he makes out three reverences. The boys are all trained to go through certain gesticulations, to lay their hands on their breast and look up to heaven, and they give their three reverences. The first and simplest is that of reverence for what is above us. It is the soul of all the Pagan religions; there is nothing better in man than that. Then there is reverence for what is around us or about us—reverence for our equals, and to which he attributes an immense power in the culture of man. The third is reverence for what is beneath us—to learn to recognise in pain, sorrow, and contradiction, even in those things, odious as they are to flesh and blood—to learn that there lies in these a priceless blessing. And he defines that as being the soul of the Christian religion—the highest of all religions; a height, as Goethe says—and that is very true, even to the letter, as I consider—a height to which the human species was fated and enabled to attain, and from which, having once attained it, it can never retrograde. It cannot descend down below that permanently, Goethe's idea is.

Often one thinks it was good to have a faith of that kind—that always, even in the most degraded, sunken, and unbelieving times, he calculates there will be found some few souls who will recognise what that meant; and that the world, having once received it, there is no fear of its retrograding. He goes on then to tell us the way in which they seek to teach boys, in the sciences particularly, whatever the boy is fit for. Wilhelm left his own boy there, expecting they would make him a Master of Arts, or something of that kind; and when he came back for him he saw a thundering cloud of dust coming over the plain, of which he could make nothing. It turned out to be a tempest of wild horses, managed by young lads who had a turn for hunting with their grooms. His own son was among them, and he found that the breaking of colts was the thing he was most suited for. (Laughter.) This is what Goethe calls Art, which I should not make clear to you by any definition unless it is clear already. (A laugh.) I would not attempt to define it as music, painting, and poetry, and so on; it is in quite a higher sense than the common one, and in which, I am afraid, most of our painters, poets, and music men would not pass muster. (A laugh.) He considers that the highest pitch to which human culture can go; and he watches with great industry how it is to be brought about with men who have a turn for it.

Very wise and beautiful it is. It gives one an idea that something greatly better is possible for man in the world. I confess it seems to me it is a shadow of what will come, unless the world is to come to a conclusion that is perfectly frightful; some kind of scheme of education like that, presided over by the wisest and most sacred men that can be got in the world, and watching from a distance—a training in practicality at every turn; no speech in it except that speech that is to be followed by action, for that ought to be the rule as nearly as possible among them. For rarely should men speak at all unless it is to say that thing that is to be done; and let him go and do his part in it, and to say no more about it. I should say there is nothing in the world you can conceive so difficult, prima facie, as that of getting a set of men gathered together—rough, rude, and ignorant people—gather them together, promise them a shilling a day, rank them up, give them very severe and sharp drill, and by bullying and drill—for the word "drill" seems as if it meant the treatment that would force them to learn—they learn what it is necessary to learn; and there is the man, a piece of an animated machine, a wonder of wonders to look at. He will go and obey one man, and walk into the cannon's mouth for him, and do anything whatever that is commanded of him by his general officer. And I believe all manner of things in this way could be done if there were anything like the same attention bestowed. Very many things could be regimented and organized into the mute system of education that Goethe evidently adumbrates there. But I believe, when people look into it, it will be found that they will not be very long in trying to make some efforts in that direction; for the saving of human labour, and the avoidance of human misery, would be uncountable if it were set about and begun even in part.

Alas! it is painful to think how very far away it is—any fulfilment of such things; for I need not hide from you, young gentlemen—and that is one of the last things I am going to tell you—that you have got into a very troublous epoch of the world; and I don't think you will find it improve the footing you have, though you have many advantages which we had not. You have careers open to you, by public examinations and so on, which is a thing much to be approved, and which we hope to see perfected more and more. All that was entirely unknown in my time, and you have many things to recognise as advantages. But you will find the ways of the world more anarchical than ever, I think. As far as I have noticed, revolution has come upon us. We have got into the age of revolutions. All kinds of things are coming to be subjected to fire, as it were; hotter and hotter the wind rises around everything.

Curious to say, now in Oxford and other places that used to seem to live at anchor in the stream of time, regardless of all changes, they are getting into the highest humour of mutation, and all sorts of new ideas are getting afloat. It is evident that whatever is not made of asbestos will have to be burnt in this world. It will not stand the heat it is getting exposed to. And in saying that, it is but saying in other words that we are in an epoch of anarchy—anarchy plus the constable. (Laughter.) There is nobody that picks one's pocket without some policeman being ready to take him up. (Renewed laughter.) But in every other thing he is the son, not of Kosmos, but of Chaos. He is a disobedient, and reckless, and altogether a waste kind of object—commonplace man in these epochs; and the wiser kind of man—the select, of whom I hope you will be part—has more and more a set time to it to look forward, and will require to move with double wisdom; and will find, in short, that the crooked things that he has to pull straight in his own life, or round about, wherever he may be, are manifold, and will task all his strength wherever he may go.

But why should I complain of that either?—for that is a thing a man is born to in all epochs. He is born to expend every particle of strength that God Almighty has given him, in doing the work he finds he is fit for—to stand it out to the last breath of life, and do his best. We are called upon to do that; and the reward we all get—which we are perfectly sure of if we have merited it—is that we have got the work done, or, at least, that we have tried to do the work; for that is a great blessing in itself; and I should say there is not very much more reward than that going in this world. If the man gets meat and clothes, what matters it whether he have L10,000, or L10,000,000, or L70 a-year. He can get meat and clothes for that; and he will find very little difference intrinsically, if he is a wise man.

I warmly second the advice of the wisest of men—"Don't be ambitious; don't be at all too desirous to success; be loyal and modest." Cut down the proud towering thoughts that you get into you, or see they be pure as well as high. There is a nobler ambition than the gaining of all California would be, or the getting of all the suffrages that are on the planet just now. (Loud and prolonged cheers.)

Finally, gentlemen, I have one advice to give you, which is practically of very great importance, though a very humble one.

I have no doubt you will have among you people ardently bent to consider life cheap, for the purpose of getting forward in what they are aiming at of high; and you are to consider throughout, much more than is done at present, that health is a thing to be attended to continually—that you are to regard that as the very highest of all temporal things for you. (Applause.) There is no kind of achievement you could make in the world that is equal to perfect health. What are nuggets and millions? The French financier said, "Alas! why is there no sleep to be sold?" Sleep was not in the market at any quotation. (Laughter and applause.)

It is a curious thing that I remarked long ago, and have often turned in my head, that the old word for "holy" in the German language—heilig—also means "healthy." And so Heil-bronn means "holy-well," or "healthy-well." We have in the Scotch "hale;" and, I suppose our English word "whole"—with a "w"—all of one piece, without any hole in it—is the same word. I find that you could not get any better definition of what "holy" really is than "healthy—completely healthy." Mens sana in corpore sano. (Applause.)

A man with his intellect a clear, plain, geometric mirror, brilliantly sensitive of all objects and impressions around it, and imagining all things in their correct proportions—not twisted up into convex or concave, and distorting everything, so that he cannot see the truth of the matter without endless groping and manipulation—healthy, clear, and free, and all round about him. We never can attain that at all. In fact, the operations we have got into are destructive of it. You cannot, if you are going to do any decisive intellectual operation—if you are going to write a book—at least, I never could—without getting decidedly made ill by it, and really you must if it is your business—and you must follow out what you are at—and it sometimes is at the expense of health. Only remember at all times to get back as fast as possible out of it into health, and regard the real equilibrium as the centre of things. You should always look at the heilig, which means holy, and holy means healthy.

Well, that old etymology—what a lesson it is against certain gloomy, austere, ascetic people, that have gone about as if this world were all a dismal-prison house! It has, indeed, got all the ugly things in it that I have been alluding to; but there is an eternal sky over it, and the blessed sunshine, verdure of spring, and rich autumn, and all that in it, too. Piety does not mean that a man should make a sour face about things, and refuse to enjoy in moderation what his Maker has given. Neither do you find it to have been so with old Knox. If you look into him you will find a beautiful Scotch humour in him, as well as the grimmest and sternest truth when necessary, and a great deal of laughter. We find really some of the sunniest glimpses of things come out of Knox that I have seen in any man; for instance, in his "History of the Reformation," which is a book I hope every one of you will read—a glorious book.

On the whole, I would bid you stand up to your work, whatever it may be, and not be afraid of it—not in sorrows or contradiction to yield, but pushing on towards the goal. And don't suppose that people are hostile to you in the world. You will rarely find anybody designedly doing you ill. You may feel often as if the whole world is obstructing you, more or less; but you will find that to be because the world is travelling in a different way from you, and rushing on in its own path. Each man has only an extremely good-will to himself—which he has a right to have—and is moving on towards his object. Keep out of literature as a general rule, I should say also. (Laughter.) If you find many people who are hard and indifferent to you in a world that you consider to be unhospitable and cruel—as often, indeed, happens to a tender-hearted, stirring young creature—you will also find there are noble hearts who will look kindly on you, and their help will be precious to you beyond price. You will get good and evil as you go on, and have the success that has been appointed to you.

I will wind up with a small bit of verse that is from Goethe also, and has often gone through my mind. To me it has the tone of a modern psalm in it in some measure. It is sweet and clear. The clearest of sceptical men had not anything like so clear a mind as that man had—freer from cant and misdirected notion of any kind than any man in these ages has been This is what the poet says:—

The Future hides in it Gladness and sorrow: We press still thorow; Nought that abides in it Daunting us—Onward!

And solemn before us, Veiled, the dark Portal, Goal of all mortal. Stars silent rest o'er us— Graves under us, silent.

While earnest thou gazest Comes boding of terror, Come phantasm and error; Perplexes the bravest With doubt and misgiving.

But heard are the voices, Heard are the Sages, The Worlds and the Ages: "Choose well: your choice is Brief, and yet endless."

Here eyes do regard you In Eternity's stillness; Here is all fulness, Ye brave, to reward you. Work, and despair not.[A]

[Footnote A: Originally published in Carlyle's "Past and Present," (Lond. 1843,) p. 318, and introduced there by the following words:—

"My candid readers, we will march out of this Third Book with a rhythmic word of Goethe's on our tongue; a word which perhaps has already sung itself, in dark hours and in bright, through many a heart. To me, finding it devout yet wholly credible and veritable, full of piety yet free of cant; to me joyfully finding much in it, and joyfully missing so much in it, this little snatch of music, by the greatest German man, sounds like a stanza in the grand Road Song and Marching Song of our great Teutonic kindred,—wending, wending, valiant and victorious, through the undiscovered Deeps of Time!"]

One last word. Wir heissen euch hoffen—we bid you be of hope. Adieu for this time.



THE MORAL PHILOSOPHY CHAIR IN EDINBURGH UNIVERSITY.

The following is a letter addressed by Mr. Carlyle to Dr. Hutchison Stirling, late one of the candidates for the Chair of Moral Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh:—

"Chelsea, 16th June, 1868.

"DEAR STIRLING,—

"You well know how reluctant I have been to interfere at all in the election now close on us, and that in stating, as bound, what my own clear knowledge of your qualities was, I have strictly held by that, and abstained from more. But the news I now have from Edinburgh is of such a complexion, so dubious, and so surprising to me; and I now find I shall privately have so much regret in a certain event—which seems to be reckoned possible, and to depend on one gentleman of the seven—that, to secure my own conscience in the matter, a few plainer words seem needful. To whatever I have said of you already, therefore, I now volunteer to add, that I think you not only the one man in Britain capable of bringing Metaphysical Philosophy, in the ultimate, German or European, and highest actual form of it, distinctly home to the understanding of British men who wish to understand it, but that I notice in you farther, on the moral side, a sound strength of intellectual discernment, a noble valour and reverence of mind, which seems to me to mark you out as the man capable of doing us the highest service in Ethical science too: that of restoring, or decisively beginning to restore, the doctrine of morals to what I must ever reckon its one true and everlasting basis (namely, the divine or supra-sensual one), and thus of victoriously reconciling and rendering identical the latest dictates of modern science with the earliest dawnings of wisdom among the race of men.

"This is truly my opinion, and how important to me, not for the sake of Edinburgh University alone, but of the whole world for ages to come, I need not say to you! I have not the honour of any personal acquaintance with Mr. Adam Black, late member for Edinburgh, but for fifty years back have known him, in the distance, and by current and credible report, as a man of solid sense, independence, probity, and public spirit; and if, in your better knowledge of the circumstances, you judge it suitable to read this note to him—to him, or indeed to any other person—you are perfectly at liberty to do so.

"Yours sincerely always,

"T. CARLYLE."



FAREWELL LETTER TO THE STUDENTS.

Mr. Carlyle, ex-Lord Rector of the University of Edinburgh, being asked before the expiration of his term of office, to deliver a valedictory address to the students, he sent the following letter to Mr. Robertson, Vice-President of the Committee for his election:—

"Chelsea, December 6, 1868.

"DEAR SIR,—

"I much regret that a valedictory speech from me, in present circumstances, is a thing I must not think of. Be pleased to advise the young gentlemen who were so friendly towards me that I have already sent them, in silence, but with emotions deep enough, perhaps too deep, my loving farewell, and that ingratitude or want of regard is by no means among the causes that keep me absent. With a fine youthful enthusiasm, beautiful to look upon, they bestowed on me that bit of honour, loyally all they had; and it has now, for reasons one and another, become touchingly memorable to me—touchingly, and even grandly and tragically—never to be forgotten for the remainder of my life. Bid them, in my name, if they still love me, fight the good fight, and quit themselves like men in the warfare to which they are as if conscript and consecrated, and which lies ahead. Tell them to consult the eternal oracles (not yet inaudible, nor ever to become so, when worthily inquired of); and to disregard, nearly altogether, in comparison, the temporary noises, menacings, and deliriums. May they love wisdom, as wisdom, if she is to yield her treasures, must be loved, piously, valiantly, humbly, beyond life itself, or the prizes of life, with all one's heart and all one's soul. In that case (I will say again), and not in any other case, it shall be well with them.

"Adieu, my young friends, a long adieu, yours with great sincerity,

"T. CARLYLE"



BEQUEST BY MR. CARLYLE.

At a meeting of the Senatus Academicus of Edinburgh University, a few weeks after his decease, a deed of mortification by Thomas Carlyle in favour of that body, for the foundation of ten Bursaries in the Faculty of Arts, was read. The document opens as follows:—

"I, Thomas Carlyle, residing at Chelsea, presently Rector in the University of Edinburgh, from the love, favour and affection which I bear to that University, and from my interest in the advancement of education in my native Scotland, as elsewhere, for these and for other more peculiar reasons, which also I wish to record, do intend, and am now in the act of making to the said University, a bequest, as underwritten, of the estate of Craigenputtoch, which is now my property. Craigenputtoch lies at the head of the parish of Dunscore, in Nithsdale, Dumfriesshire. The extent is of about 1,800 acres; rental at present, on lease of nineteen years, is L250; the annual worth, with the improvements now in progress, is probably L300. Craigenputtoch was for many generations the patrimony of a family named Welsh, the eldest son usually a 'John Welsh,' in series going back, think some, to the famous John Welsh, son-in-law of the reformer Knox. The last male heir of the family was John Welsh, Esq., surgeon, Haddington. His one child and heiress was my late dear, magnanimous, much-loving, and, to me, inestimable wife, in memory of whom, and of her constant nobleness and piety towards him and towards me, I am now—she having been the last of her kindred—about to bequeath to Edinburgh University with whatever piety is in me this Craigenputtoch, which was theirs and hers, on the terms, and for the purposes, and under the conditions underwritten. Therefore I do mortify and dispose to and in favour of the said University of Edinburgh, for the foundation and endowment of ten equal Bursaries, to be called the 'John Welsh Bursaries,' in the said University, heritably and irredeemably, all and whole the lands of Upper Craigenputtoch. The said estate is not to be sold, but to be kept and administered as land, the net annual revenue of it to be divided into ten equal Bursaries, to be called, as aforesaid, the 'John Welsh Bursaries.' The Senatus Academicus shall bestow them on the ten applicants entering the University who, on strict and thorough examination and open competitive trial by examiners whom the Senatus will appoint for that end, are judged to show the best attainment of actual proficiency and the best likelihood of more in the department or faculty called of arts, as taught there. Examiners to be actual professors in said faculty, the fittest whom the Senatus can select, with fit assessors or coadjutors and witnesses, if the Senatus see good, and always the report of the said examiners to be minuted and signed, and to govern the appointments made, and to be recorded therewith. More specially I appoint that five of the 'John Welsh Bursaries' shall be given for the best proficiency in mathematics—I would rather say 'in mathesis,' if that were a thing to be judged of from competition—but practically above all in pure geometry, such being perennial, the symptom not only of steady application, but of a clear, methodic intellect, and offering in all epochs good promise for all manner of arts and pursuits. The other five Bursaries I appoint to depend (for the present and indefinitely onwards) on proficiency in classical learning, that is to say, in knowledge of Latin, Greek, and English, all of these, or any two of them. This also gives good promise of a young mind, but as I do not feel certain that it gives perennially or will perennially be thought in universities to give the best promise, I am willing that the Senatus of the University, in case of a change of its opinion on this point hereafter in the course of generations, shall bestow these latter five Bursaries on what it does then consider the most excellent proficiency in matters classical, or the best proof of a classical mind, which directs its own highest effort towards teaching and diffusing in the new generations that will come. The Bursaries to be open to free competition of all who come to study in Edinburgh University, and who have never been of any other University, the competition to be held on or directly before or after their first matriculation there. Bursaries to be always given on solemnly strict and faithful trial to the worthiest, or if (what in justice can never happen, though it illustrates my intention) the claims of two were absolutely equal, and could not be settled by further trial, preference is to fall in favour of the more unrecommended and unfriended under penalties graver than I, or any highest mortal, can pretend to impose, but which I can never doubt—as the law of eternal justice, inexorably valid, whether noticed or unnoticed, pervades all corners of space and of time—are very sure to be punctually exacted if incurred. This is to be the perpetual rule for the Senatus in deciding."

After stating some other conditions, the document thus concludes:

"And so may a little trace of help to the young heroic soul struggling for what is highest spring from this poor arrangement and bequest. May it run for ever, if it can, as a thread of pure water from the Scottish rocks, trickling into its little basin by the thirsty wayside for those to whom it veritably belongs. Amen. Such is my bequest to Edinburgh University. In witness whereof these presents, written upon this and the two preceding pages by James Steven Burns, clerk to John Cook, writer to the signet, are subscribed by me at Chelsea, the 20th day of June, 1867, before these witnesses: John Forster, barrister-at-law, man of letters, etc., residing at Palace-gate House, Kensington, London; and James Anthony Froude, man of letters, residing at No. 5, Onslow Gardens, Brompton, London.

"(Signed) T. CARLYLE.

"JOHN FORSTER,} "J.A. FROUDE, } Witnesses.



INDEX.

Abelard, 134. Aitken, Mary, 117. Allingham, Mrs., her sketch of Carlyle, 121. Annan, Academy, 9. Anspach's History of Newfoundland, 13. Arnold, Thomas, visits the field of Naseby with Carlyle, 63, 64.

Baillie, Joanna, her Metrical Legends, 13. Bentley, Richard, the last of English scholars, 162. Black, Adam, 191. Boehm, Mr., his medallion and statue of Carlyle, 116, 120, 121. Braidwood Testimonial, 85, 86. Brewster, Sir David, his Edinburgh Encyclopaedia, 10, 11; writes a Preface to Carlyle's Translation of Legendre, 13; presides at Carlyle's installation as Rector of Edinburgh University, 90, 93, 96. Buchanan, George, 47. Buller, Charles, Carlyle becomes tutor to, 15; his death, 74; Carlyle's tribute to, 75-80. Burns, Robert, 67.

Cameron, Mrs., her photograph of Carlyle, 120. Carlyle, Jane Welsh, Goethe's verses to, 20; described by Margaret Fuller, 68, 69; death of, 109; funeral, 110; inscription on her tombstone, 111. Carlyle, Thomas, birth and parentage, 8; early studies, 9; school-mastering, 9-10; first attempts in literature, 10-14; Buller tutorship, 15; German translations, 15-17; his marriage, 17; life at Craigenputtoch, 17-18; removes to London, 25; his affection for Leigh Hunt, 26; letter to Major Richardson, 40; his Lectures, 45; advice to a young man, 54; defence of Mazzini, 59; visit to Rugby, 63; his letter to Sir William Napier, 81; the Edinburgh Rectorship and Address, 87-109; death of his wife, 109; on the Jamaica insurrection, 112; latest writings, 115; medal and address, 116; closing years of life, 117; his Reminiscences, 118; portraits of, 119. Carlyle, John A., his Translation of Dante, 98; death of, 117. Chelsea, old memories of, 25; Carlyle fixes his residence there, 25, 26. Collins's Peerage, 152. Craigenputtoch, 17; description of by Carlyle, in a letter to Goethe, 18. Cromwell, Oliver, Letters and Speeches, 68; his Protectorate, 145 Cunningham, Allan, on old age, 44:

Demosthenes, 166. De Quincey, Thomas, his critique on Wilhelm Meister, 16 D'Orsay, Count, his Portrait of Carlyle, 119. Dumfries, 18.

Emerson, Ralph Waldo, his visit to Carlyle at Craigenputtoch, 21; his Essays introduced to the English public by Carlyle, 52; Margaret Fuller's letter to him, 64. Eyre, Edward John, Carlyle's defence of, 112.

Ferguson's Roman History, 140. Fichte, 37. Forster, John, 200. Fraser's Magazine, 20, 22, 115, 119. Frederick the Great, History of, 81, 87. French Revolution, History of the, 38. Froude, James Anthony, 118, 200. Fuller, Margaret, her Letter to Emerson describing Carlyle's conversation, 65-73.

German Romance, 16. Gibbon, 23. Goethe, his Faust, 13; his Wilhelm Meister translated by Carlyle, 15; Carlyle's letters to him, 18; writes an Introduction to the German translation of Carlyle's Life of Schiller, 20; his verses to Mrs. Carlyle, ib.; Wilhelm Meister's Travels, 170-171; Verses by him, quoted, 186, 187. Grant, James, quoted, 46, 48-52.

Hannay, James, on Carlyle, 47. Heyne, his Tibullus and Virgil, 162-163. Hoffmann, Carlyle's translation from, 16. Horne, R.H., quoted, 27, 28. Houghton, Lord, breakfast party at his house, 38. Hunt, Leigh, invited by Carlyle to visit him in Dumfriesshire. 26; settles at Chelsea, ib.; characteristic anecdote, 27; leaves Chelsea, 28; Carlyle's eulogium on, 29; Carlyle's opinion of his Autobiography, 33; quoted, 35, 46.

Ireland, Carlyle's papers on, 74. Irving, Edward, 10, 40.

Jeffrey, Lord, his critique on Wilhelm Meister, 16; Carlyle's Reminiscences of, 119. Johnson, Samuel, advice as to reading, 55.

Kirkcaldy, 10. Knox, John, an ancestor of Carlyle's wife, 17, 196; grim humour of, 47; the portraits of, 115; belongs to the select of the earth, 142-143; his History of the Reformation, 184-185.

Lally, at Pondicherry, 84. La Motte Fouque, Carlyle's Translations from, 16. Landor, Walter Savage, 23, 38. Latter-Day Pamphlets, 80. Laurence, Samuel, his portrait of Carlyle, 119. Legendre's Geometry, translated by Carlyle, 13, 14. Leslie, Sir John, 9. Lewes, George Henry, 66. London Magazine, The, 15, 16. Louis Philippe, 74.

Machiavelli on Democracy, 107, 146. Maclise, Daniel, 119. Mazzini, his articles on Carlyle, 58; Carlyle's defence of his character, 59; remonstrates vainly with Carlyle, 69. Milnes, R. M., see Houghton, Lord. Mirabeau, 23. Moore, Thomas, meets Carlyle at a breakfast party, 38. Musaeus, Carlyle's translations from, 17.

Napier, Sir William, his History of the Administration of Scinde 81; Carlyle's letter to him, 81-85. Necker, Carlyle's biography of him, quoted, 11. Nero, death of, 22. Newfoundland, Carlyle's account of, quoted, 12.

Ossoli, see Fuller.

Past and Present, 53; quoted, 187-188. Paul et Virginie, 44. Petrarch and Laura, 67. Phocion, 167.

Quincey, see De Quincey.

Richardson, David Lester, his Literary Leaves, 40; Carlyle's letter to him, 40-44. Richter, Jean Paul, 17. Robinson, Henry Crabb, 38, 39. Rous, Sir Francis, 148. Rousseau, at St. Pierre, 19; his Confessions, 23. Ruskin, John, his praise of Boehm's statue of Carlyle, 116, 121. Rugby School, 63, 64.

Sartor Resartus, 36, 37. Schiller, Friedrich, Carlyle's life of him, 15; Supplement to, 115. Shakespeare, 67. Smith, Alexander, his account of the delivery of Carlyle's Address at Edinburgh, 87-92. Socrates, disparaged by Carlyle, 23. Sophocles, the tragedies of, 141. Sterling, John, 37, 38; death of, 62; Carlyle's life of him, 81. Stirling, Dr., Carlyle's letter to, 189-191.

Tennyson, why he wrote in verse, 67. Teufelsdroeckh, 36, 68. Thackeray, W.M., his verses on the death of Charles Buller, 15, 74-75. Tieck, 17. Turveydrop senior, on Polished Deportment, 49.

University of Edinburgh, 125.

Watts, G.F., his portrait of Carlyle, 120. Welsh family, 17. Whistler, J.A., his portrait of Carlyle, 120.

Youth, the golden season of life, 130.

Zoilus, 19.

THE END.