But, whatever people may say, when Carlyle speaks the world is quite ready to listen.

Who is Thomas Carlyle?

He is a Scotchman, a philosopher, an essayist,
an historian, a biographer, and an octogenarian.

What has he done to be so famous?

He has written twenty books.  But you might live to be an octogenarian yourself without meeting twenty persons who would have read them all.  It would not be a hard matter, though, to find those who have read one of his books twenty times; perhaps this very green-covered book with “Sartor Resartus” on the back.

What does it mean, and what is it all about?

It means “The Tailor Re-tailored,” and Carlyle says it is a book about clothes.  But you need not look for fashion-plates; there are none there.  You will hear nothing about new costumes; for this book is full of Carryle’s own thoughts, clothed in such words that you will surely enjoy the book.

Hear how he tells us that nothing that we do is really “of no matter,” as we so often think: 

“I say, there is not a red Indian hunting by Lake Winnepeg can quarrel with his squaw but the whole world must smart for it:  will not the price of beaver rise?”

You think it would not make much difference if the price of beaver should rise?  Let us look at the matter.  First, Mr. B. Woods, the trader, must pay a larger price for his beaver, and therefore must sell for more to the firm of Bylow & Selhi.  These shrewd gentlemen do not intend to lose on their purchase, so they pay a less sum to Mr. Maycup, the manufacturer.  This reduction in his income causes Mr. Maycup to curtail family expenses.  So his subscription to ST. NICHOLAS is discontinued, and the youthful Maycups are overwhelmed with grief, because of that unfortunate quarrel which raised the price of beaver.

But why should the price change because of that?

Really, Mr. Carlyle should answer you.  Perhaps the Indian in his quarrel forgets to set his traps, or the whole neighborhood may become so interested in the little affair that beavers are forgotten.

“Were it not miraculous could I stretch forth my hand and clutch the sun?  Yet thou seest me daily stretch forth my hand and clutch many a thing and swing it hither and thither.  Art thou a grown baby, then, to fancy that the miracle lies in miles of distance, or in pounds avoirdupois of weight; and not to see that the true miracle lies in this, that I can stretch forth my hand at all?”

What is it that Carlyle thinks so wonderful?  See how quietly my hand rests on this table.  Why should it move any more than the table on which it rests?  Is not Carlyle right when he calls every movement of my hand a wonder?  You never thought of it before?  That is as Carlyle says:  “We do not look around a little and see what is passing under our very eyes.”

It was this great old man whose hand brushed the clinging mud from a crust of bread, and placed it on the curbstone, for some dog or pigeon, saying, “My mother taught me never to waste anything.”