d Emerson. She had, long
before, drawn her portrait of him in one of her letters descriptive of
London and its worthies. The candid criticism of both is full of
interest, and may here be contrasted. Margaret says:--

"I approached him with more reverence after a little experience of
England and Scotland had taught me to appreciate the strength and height
of that wall of shams and conventions which he, more than any other man,
or thousand men,--indeed, he almost alone,--has begun to throw down. He
has torn off the veils from hideous facts; he has burnt away foolish
illusions; he has touched the rocks, and they have given forth musical
answer. Little more was wanting to begin to construct the city; but that
little was wanting, and the work of construction is left to those that
come after him. Nay, all attempts of the kind he is the readiest to
deride, fearing new shams worse than the old, unable to trust the
general action of a thought, and finding no heroic man, no natural king,
to represent it and challenge his confidence."

How significant is this phrase,--"unable to trust the general action of
a thought." This saving faith in the power of just thought Carlyle, the
thinker, had not.

With a reverence, then, not blind, but discriminating, Margaret
approached this luminous mind, and saw and heard its possessor thus:--

"Accustomed to the infinite wit and exuberant richness of his writings,
his talk is still an amazement and a splendor scarcely to be faced with
steady eyes. He does not converse, only harangues. It is the usual
misfortune of such marked men that they cannot allow other minds room to
breathe and show themselves in their atmosphere, and thus miss the
refreshment and instruction which the greatest never cease to need from
the experience of the humblest.... Carlyle, indeed, is arrogant and
overbearing, but in his arrogance there is no littleness or self-love:
it is the heroic arrogance of some old Scandinavian conqueror; it is his
nature, and the untamable impulse that has given him power to crush the
dragons.

"For the higher kinds of poetry he has no sense, and his talk on that
subject is delightfully and gorgeously absurd.... He puts out his chin
sometimes till it looks like the beak of a bird; and his eyes flash
bright, instinctive meanings, like Jove's bird. Yet he is not calm and
grand enough for the eagle: he is more like the falcon, and yet not of
gentle blood enough for that either.... I cannot s