ck is a work of transcendent industry, it
did not add to Carlyle's popularity, which had been undermined by his
bitter attacks on society in his various pamphlets. At this period he
was still looked up to with reverence as a great intellectual giant; but
that love for him which had been felt by those who were aroused to
honest thinking by his earlier writings had passed away. A new
generation looked upon him as an embittered and surly old man. His
services were not forgotten, but he was no longer a favorite,--no longer
an inspiring guide. His writings continued to stimulate thought, but
were no longer regarded as sound. Commonplace people never did like him,
probably because they never understood him. His admirers were among the
young, the enthusiastic, the hopeful, the inquiring; and when their
veneration passed away, there were few left to uphold his real greatness
and noble character. One might suppose that Carlyle would have been
unhappy to alienate so many persons, especially old admirers. In fact, I
apprehend that he cared little for anybody's admiration or flattery. He
lived in an atmosphere so infinitely above small and envious and
detracting people that he was practically independent of human
sympathies. Had he been doomed to live with commonplace persons, he
might have sought to conciliate them; but he really lived in another
sphere,--not perhaps higher than theirs, but eternally distinct,--in the
sphere of abstract truth. To him most people were either babblers or
bores. What did he care for their envious shafts, or even for their
honest disapprobation!

Hence, the last days of this great man were not his best days, although
he was not without honor. He was made Lord Rector of the University of
Edinburgh, and delivered a fine address on the occasion; and later,
Disraeli, when prime minister, offered him knighthood, with the Grand
Cross of the Order of the Bath and a pension, which he declined. The
author of the "Sartor Resartus" did not care for titles. He preferred to
remain simply Thomas Carlyle.

While Carlyle was in the midst of honors in Edinburgh, his wife, who had
long been in poor health, suddenly died, April 21, 1866. This affliction
was a terrible blow to Carlyle, from which he never recovered. It filled
out his measure of sorrow, deep and sad, and hard to be borne. His
letters after this are full of pathos and plaintive sadness. He could
not get resigned to his loss, for his wife had been more and