rote from
Dumfries, urging Leigh Hunt to 'come hither and see us when you want
to rusticate a month. Is that for ever impossible?' The philosopher
afterwards came to live in the next street to his correspondent, in
Chelsea, and proved to be one of Leigh Hunt's kindest, most faithful,
and most considerate friends."[A]

[Footnote A: From "The Correspondence of Leigh Hunt," edited by his
eldest son. London: Smith, Elder and Co. 1862. Vol. 1., p. 321.]

Mr. Horne tells a story very characteristic of both men. Soon after
the publication of "Heroes and Hero Worship," they were at a small
party, when a conversation was started between these two concerning
the heroism of man. "Leigh Hunt had said something about the islands
of the blest, or El Dorado, or the Millennium, and was flowing on his
bright and hopeful way, when Carlyle dropped some heavy tree-trunk
across Hunt's pleasant stream, and banked it up with philosophical
doubts and objections at every interval of the speaker's joyous
progress. But the unmitigated Hunt never ceased his overflowing
anticipations, nor the saturnine Carlyle his infinite demurs to those
finite flourishings. The listeners laughed and applauded by turns; and
had now fairly pitted them against each other, as the philosopher of
hopefulness and of the unhopeful. The contest continued with all that
ready wit and philosophy, that mixture of pleasantry and profundity,
that extensive knowledge of books and character, with their ready
application in argument or illustration, and that perfect ease and
good nature which distinguish both of these men. The opponents were so
well matched that it was quite clear the contest would never come to
an end. But the night was far advanced, and the party broke up. They
all sallied forth, and leaving the close room, the candles and the
arguments behind them, suddenly found themselves in presence of a most
brilliant starlight night. They all looked up. 'Now,' thought Hunt,
'Carlyle's done for! he can have no answer to that!' 'There,' shouted
Hunt, 'look up there, look at that glorious harmony, that sings with
infinite voices an eternal song of Hope in the soul of man.' Carlyle
looked up. They all remained silent to hear what he would say. They
began to think he was silenced at last--he was a mortal man. But out
of that silence came a few low-toned words, in a broad Scotch accent.
And who on earth could have anticipated what the voice said? 'Eh! it's
a sad sight!' Hunt s