because I
have no known public, am alone under the heavens, speaking into
friendly or unfriendly space; add only, that I will not defend
such attitude, that I call it questionable, tentative, and only
the best that I, in these mad times, could conveniently hit upon.
For you are to know, my view is that now at last we have lived to
see all manner of Poetics and Rhetorics and Sermonics, and one
may say generally all manner of _Pulpits_ for addressing mankind
from, as good as broken and abolished: alas, yes! if you have
any earnest meaning which demands to be not only listened to, but
_believed_ and _done,_ you cannot (at least I cannot) utter it
_there,_ but the sound sticks in my throat, as when a solemnity
were _felt_ to have become a mummery; and so one leaves the
pasteboard coulisses, and three unities, and Blair's Lectures,
quite behind; and feels only that there is _nothing sacred,_
then, but the _Speech of Man_ to believing Men! This, come what
will, was, is, and forever must be _sacred;_ and will one day,
doubtless, anew environ itself with fit modes; with solemnities
that are _not_ mummeries. Meanwhile, however, is it not
pitiable? For though Teufelsdrockh exclaims, "Pulpit! canst thou
not make a pulpit by simply _inverting the nearest tub?_" yet,
alas! he does not sufficiently reflect that it is still only a
tub, that the most inspired utterance will come from _it,_
inconceivable, misconceivable, to the million; questionable (not
of _ascertained_ significance) even to the few. Pity us
therefore; and with your just shake of the head join a
sympathetic, even a hopeful smile. Since I saw you I have been
trying, am still trying, other methods, and shall surely get
nearer the truth, as I honestly strive for it. Meanwhile, I know
no method of much consequence, except that of _believing,_ of
being _sincere:_ from Homer and the Bible down to the poorest
Burns's Song, I find no other Art that promises to be perennial.

---------
* In his Diary, July 26, 1834, Carlyle writes--"In the midst of
innumerable discouragements, all men indifferent or finding fault,
let me mention two small circumstances that are comfortable.
The first is a letter from some nameless Irishman in Cork
to another here, (Fraser read it to me without names,) actually
containing a _true_ and one of the friendliest possible recognitions
of me. One mortal, then, says I am _not_ utterly wrong.
Blessings on him for it! The second is a