er climb the family library, nor his name become a household
word; but while the Thomsons and the Campbells shed their gentle genius,
like light, into the hall and the hovel--the shop of the artisan and the
sheiling of the shepherd, Carlyle, like the Landors and Lambs of this age,
and the Brownes and Burtons of a past, will exert a more limited but
profounder power--cast a dimmer but more gorgeous radiance--attract fewer
but more devoted admirers, and obtain an equal, and perhaps more enviable
immortality.

To the foregoing sketch of CARLYLE, which is from the eloquent critical
description of Gilfillan, we append the following, which is from a letter
recently published in the Dumfries and Galloway Courier. The writer, after
remarking at some length upon the "Latter Day Pamphlets," which are
Carlyle's latest productions, proceeds to give this graphic and
interesting sketch of his personal appearance and conversation:

"Passing from the political phase of these productions (the 'Latter Day
Pamphlets'), which is not my vocation to discuss, I found for myself one
very peculiar charm in the perusal of them--they seemed such perfect
transcripts of the conversation of Thomas Carlyle. With something more of
set continuity--of composition--but essentially the same thing, the Latter
Day Pamphlets' are in their own way a 'Boswell's Life' of Carlyle. As I
read and read, I was gradually transported from my club-room, with its
newspaper-clad tables, and my dozing fellow-loungers, only kept half awake
by periodical titillations of snuff, and carried in spirit to the grave
and quiet sanctum in Chelsea, where Carlyle dispenses wisdom and
hospitality with equally unstinted hand. The long, tall, spare figure is
before me--wiry, though, and elastic, and quite capable of taking a long,
tough spell through the moors of Ecclefechan, or elsewhere--stretched at
careless, homely ease in his elbow-chair, yet ever with strong natural
motions and starts, as the inward spirit stirs. The face, too, is before
me--long and thin, with a certain tinge of paleness, but no sickness or
attenuation, form muscular and vigorously marked, and not wanting some
glow of former rustic color--pensive, almost solemn, yet open, and cordial,
and tender, very tender. The eye, as generally happens, is the chief
outward index of the soul--an eye is not easy to describe, but _felt_ ever
after one has looked thereon and therein. It is dark and full, shadowed
over by a compa