quite behind; and feels only that there is nothing sacred, then, but the Speech of Man to believing Men!  This, come what will, was, is, and forever must be sacred; and will one day, doubtless, anew environ itself with fit modes; with solemnities that are not mummeries.  Meanwhile, however, is it not pitiable?  For though Teufelsdrockh exclaims, “Pulpit! canst thou not make a pulpit by simply inverting the nearest tub?” yet, alas! he does not sufficiently reflect that it is still only a tub, that the most inspired utterance will come from it, inconceivable, misconceivable, to the million; questionable (not of ascertained significance) even to the few.  Pity us therefore; and with your just shake of the head join a sympathetic, even a hopeful smile.  Since I saw you I have been trying, am still trying, other methods, and shall surely get nearer the truth, as I honestly strive for it.  Meanwhile, I know no method of much consequence, except that of believing, of being sincere: from Homer and the Bible down to the poorest Burns’s Song, I find no other Art that promises to be perennial.

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* In his Diary, July 26, 1834, Carlyle writes—­“In the midst of
innumerable discouragements, all men indifferent or finding fault,
let me mention two small circumstances that are comfortable. 
The first is a letter from some nameless Irishman in Cork
to another here, (Fraser read it to me without names,) actually
containing a true and one of the friendliest possible recognitions
of me.   One mortal, then, says I am not utterly wrong. 
Blessings on him for it!   The second is a letter I got today
from Emerson, of Boston in America;  sincere, not baseless,
of most exaggerated estimation.   Precious is man to man.” 
Fifteen years later, in his Reminiscences of My Irish
Journey, he enters, under date of July 16, 1849:   “Near eleven
o’clock [at night] announces himself ‘Father O’Shea’! (who I
thought had been dead);  to my astonishment enter a little
gray-haired, intelligent-and-bred-looking man, with much
gesticulation, boundless loyal welcome, red with dinner and some
wine, engages that we are to meet tomorrow,—­and again with
explosions of welcomes goes his way.   This Father O’Shea, some
fifteen years ago, had been, with Emerson of America, one of the
two sons of Adam who encouraged poor bookseller Fraser, and
didn’t discourage him, to go on with Teufelsdrockh.   I had often
remembered him since;  had not long before re-inquired his
name, but understood somehow that he was dead—­and now.”
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But now quitting theoretics, let me explain what you long to know, how it is that I date from London.  Yes, my friend, it is even so:  Craigenputtock now stands solitary in the wilderness, with none but an old woman and foolish grouse-destroyers in it; and we for the last ten weeks, after a fierce universal disruption, are here with our household gods.