house in the
upper part of Dumfriesshire. Here, however, far from society, save that,
of the "great dumb monsters of mountains," he wearied out his very heart.
A ludicrous story is told of Lord Jeffrey visiting him in this
out-of-the-way region, when they were unapprized of his coming--had nothing
in the house fit for the palate of the critic, and had, in dire haste and
pother, to send off for the wherewithal to a market town about fifteen
miles off. Here, too, as we may see hereafter, Emerson, on his way home
from Italy, dropped in like a spirit, spent precisely twenty-four hours,
and then "forth uprose that lone, wayfaring man," to return to his native
woods. He has, for several years of late, resided in Chelsea, London,
where he lives in a plain, simple fashion; occasionally, but seldom,
appearing at the splendid soirees of Lady Blessington, but listened to,
when he goes, as an oracle; receiving, at his tea-table, visitors from
every part of the world; forming an amicable centre for men of the most
opposite opinions and professions, Poets and Preachers, Pantheists and
Puritans, Tennysons and Scotts, Cavanaighs and Erskines, Sterlings and
Robertsons, smoking his perpetual pipe, and pouring out, in copious
stream, his rich and quaint philosophy. His appearance is fine, without
being ostentatiously singular--his hair dark--his brow marked, though
neither very broad nor very lofty--his cheek tinged with a healthy red--his
eye, the truest index of his genius, flashing out, at times, a wild and
mystic fire from its dark and quiet surface. He is above the middle size,
stoops slightly, dresses carefully, but without any approach to foppery.
His address, somewhat high and distant at first, softens into simplicity
and cordial kindness. His conversation is abundant, inartificial, flowing
on, and warbling as it flows, more practical than you would expect from
the cast of his writings--picturesque and graphic in a high measure--full of
the results of extensive and minute observation--often terribly direct and
strong, garnished with French and German phrase, rendered racy by the
accompaniment of the purest Annandale accent, and coming to its climaxes,
ever and anon, in long, deep, chest-shaking bursts of laughter.

Altogether, in an age of singularities, Thomas Carlyle stands peculiarly
alone. Generally known, and warmly appreciated, he has of late
become--popular, in the strict sense, he is not, and may never be. His
works may nev