and success have been executed by Messrs. Elliott and Fry, and by Watkins.  The late Mrs. Cameron also produced a photograph of him in her peculiar style, but it was not so successful as her fine portrait of Tennyson.  An oil-painting by Mr. Watts, exhibited some fifteen years ago, and now also forming part of the Forster Collection at South Kensington, is remarkable for its weird wildness; but it gave great displeasure to the old philosopher himself!  More lately we have a remarkable portrait by Mr. Whistler, who seized the tout ensemble of his illustrious sitter’s character and costume in a very effective manner.  The terra cotta statue by Mr. Boehm, exhibited at the Royal Academy in 1875, has received such merited meed of enthusiastic praise from Mr. Ruskin that it needs no added praise of ours.  It has been excellently photographed from two points of view by Mr. Hedderly, of Riley Street, Chelsea.

One of the best and happiest of the many likenesses of Mr. Carlyle that appeared during the last decade of his life was a sketch by Mrs. Allingham—­a picture as well as a portrait—­representing the venerable philosopher in a long and picturesque dressing-gown, seated on a chair and poring over a folio, in the garden at the back of the quaint old house at Chelsea, which will henceforth, as long as it stands, be associated with his memory.  Beside him on the grass lies a long clay pipe (a churchwarden) which he has been smoking in the sweet morning air.  So that altogether, as far as pictorial, graphic, and photographic art can go, the features, form, and bodily semblance of Carlyle will be as well known to future generations as they are to our own.

* * * * *

The impression of his brilliant and eloquent talk, though it will perhaps remain, for at least half a century to come, more or less vivid to some of those of the new generation who were privileged to hear it, will, of course, gradually fade away.  But it seems hardly probable that the rich legacy of his long roll of writings—­historical, biographical, critical—­can be regarded as other than a permanent one, in which each succeeding generation will find fresh delight and instruction.  The series of vivid pictures he has left behind in his “French Revolution,” in his “Cromwell,” in his “Frederick,” can hardly become obsolete or cease to be attractive; nor is such power of word-painting likely soon to be equalled or ever to be surpassed.  The salt of humour that savours nearly all he wrote (that lambent humour that lightens and plays over the grimmest and sternest of his pages) will also serve to keep his writings fresh and readable.  Many of his dicta and opinions will doubtless be more and more called in question, especially in those of his works which are more directly of a didactic than a narrative character, and in regard to subjects which he was by habit, by mental constitution, and by that prejudice from which the greatest can never wholly free themselves, incapable of judging broadly or soundly,—­such, for instance, as the scope and functions of painting and the fine arts generally, the value of modern poetry, or the working of Constitutional and Parliamentary institutions.