and thy body, like thy soul, was not to
know freedom. Yet toil on, toil on; _thou_ art in thy duty, be
out of it who may: thou toilest for the altogether indispensable,
for daily bread.

"A second man I honour, and still more highly: him who is seen
toiling for the spiritually indispensable; not daily bread, but
the bread of life. Is not he too in his duty; endeavouring towards
inward harmony; revealing this, by act or by word, through all his
outward endeavours, be they high or low? Highest of all, when his
outward and his inward endeavour are one: when we can name him
artist; not earthly craftsman only, but inspired thinker, who with
heaven-made implement conquers heaven for us! If the poor and
humble toil that we have food, must not the high and glorious toil
for him in return, that he have light, have guidance, freedom,
immortality? These two, in all their degrees, I honour; all else
is chaff and dust, which let the wind blow whither it listeth.

"Unspeakably touching is it, however, when I find both dignities
united; and he that must toil outwardly for the lowest of man's
wants, is also toiling inwardly for the highest. Sublimer in this
world know I nothing than a peasant saint, could such now anywhere
be met with. Such a one will take thee back to Nazareth itself;
thou wilt see the splendour of heaven spring forth from the
humblest depths of earth, like a light shining in great darkness."

_Sartor Resartus_ has long taken its place among the greatest prose
works of the nineteenth century, and it is a strange commentary on this
mandate to us all to "produce, produce!" to find that for eleven years
Carlyle could find no publisher who would give it in book form to the
world!

It is a solemn reflection to think that there may be many books of
eloquence and splendour that have never seen the light of publicity.
Publishers concern themselves less with what is finely written than with
what will best sell; and in their defence it may be acceded that some of
the masterpieces of literature have at their first appearance before the
world fallen dead from the press.

The first edition of FitzGerald's _Omar Khayyam_, issued at one
shilling, was totally unrecognised, and copies of it might have been
bought for twopence in the trays and boxes of trash on the pavement
outside old bookshops!

But if once a work is published, time will w