n literature, which were 'excellent in themselves, and delivered
with strange impressiveness,' and L135 went into his purse.

In the summer the _French Revolution_ appeared. The sale at first was
slow, almost nothing, for it was not 'subscribed for' among the
booksellers. Alluding to the criticisms which appeared, Carlyle said:
'Some condemn me, as is very natural, for affectation; others are
hearty, even passionate, in their estimation; on the whole, it strikes
me as not unlikely that the book may take some hold of the English
people, and do them and itself a little good.' He was right. Other
historians have described the Revolution: Carlyle reproduces the
Revolution. He approaches history like a dramatist. Give him, as in the
French Revolution, a weird, tragic, awe-inspiring theme, and he will
utilise his characters, scenes, and circumstances in artistic
subordination to the central idea. Carlyle might be called a subjective
dramatist--that is to say, his own spirit, thoughts, and reflections get
so mixed up with the history that it is difficult to imagine the one
without the other. Every now and then the dramatist interrupts the
tragedy to interject his own reflections; in the history the Carlylean
philosophy plays the part of a Greek chorus. As an example of Carlyle's
genius for a dramatic situation, take his opening of the great drama
with the death scene of Louis XV. Who does not feel, in reading that
scene, as if the Furies were not far off? who does not detect in the
grotesque jostling of the comedy and tragedy of life premonitions of the
coming storm?

'But figure his thought, when Death is now clutching at his own
heart-strings; unlooked for, inexorable! Yes, poor Louis, Death has
found thee. No palace walls or lifeguards, gorgeous tapestries or gilt
buckram of stiffest ceremonial could keep him out; but he is here, here
at thy very life-breath, and will extinguish it. Thou, whose whole
existence hitherto was a chimera and scenic show, at length becomest a
reality; sumptuous Versailles bursts asunder, like a dream, into void
Immensity: Time is done, and all the scaffolding of Time falls wrecked
with hideous clangour round thy soul: the pale Kingdoms yawn open; there
must thou enter, naked, all unking'd, and await what is appointed
thee!... There are nods and sagacious glances, go-betweens, silk
dowagers mysteriously gliding, with smiles for this constellation, sighs
for that: there is tremor, of hope or despe