ance with his own general views. Plato and Aristotle, Euclid and Archimedes, Demosthenes and Isocrates-or, to come nearer home, Kepler and Newton, Leibnitz and Des Cartes, Sir Humphrey Davy and Baron Cuvier-each of whom, whether ancient or modern, we are prone to believe, were as truly "Great Men" as Knox or Rousseau-can be referred to neither of the classes here laid down, with the intention, as we are left to suppose, of including one type of every "development" which "circumstance" gives to human greatness. Whether Raffaelle, Michael Angelo, Thorwalsden, Mozart, and Beethoven, might not with some little show of propriety be referred to the general class of Poets, may admit of a doubt-of which doubt we willingly give Mr. Carlyle the benefit, though he seldom or never, it is true, evinces the slightest appreciation of their merits, or those of the particular class to which they belong; but of the other great names, which we have mentioned, either from neglect or design, he manifests no recog

nition whatever.

Plato, we think, was quite as much a hero as Robert Burns; Leibnitz probably understood the "Divine Significance of Life" no less than Johnson; and we believe there are more respects than one in which Aristotle was superior to John Knox. Why this sedulous exclusion from the pale of genuine greatness of every thing that belongs to the higher walks of Spiritual Philosophy; this apparent contempt of the Orator, the Mathematician, and the Man of Science? Was there no intellect displayed in these pursuits? And how came such pursuits ever to have an existence, and to engross the attention of minds of the highest order? We are not demanding that this whole subject should have been exhausted in six lectures. But we do charge upon our author that, both

here and elsewhere, he studiously underrates certain kinds of intellectual effort, and, by blindly contemning one half that the human mind has achieved, has himself acquired a one-sided and distorted mental character, which he is too anxious to propagate.

Mr. Carlyle's original purpose, in these lectures, evidently, was to entertain his auditors with a few hours' pleasant discourse on certain leading minds that have arisen since the beginning of the Christian era. In meditating the subject, his plan seems to have enlarged; for the first time in his life, perhaps, it occurred to him that all greatness was essentially of the same order, diversely modified by position and circumstance, which modifications he could reduce to six; for each of which one or more exemplars from the individuals already in his mind-completing the group by adding two or three not before contemplated in his plan-would afford an interesting and, viewed in this light, novel subject for an evening lecture. The chief subject of the first discourse, we conjecture, was an afterthought, and taken up only to give symmetry and completeness to a scheme hastily adopted, for reasons less commendable than a deliberate conviction of the truth of all the tenets that lie at its foundation.

The effort to be original is fatal to some persons, like Mr. Carlyle, highly gifted by nature, and fitted by intellectual culture for exalted and enduring efforts in literature. In the present instance, our author could not fail to elicit much entertainment from the topics of his discourse, and we can easily credit what, with a slight appearance of vanity, he says at the conclusion of the course: "The accomplished and distinguished, the beautiful, the wise, something of what is best in England, have listened patiently to my rude words."

CHAPTER I.

In the heart of the vast artery which serves to connect the fashionable regions of the West End of London with the busy marts and crowded thoroughfares of the city;-about midway between the spot where stood the thriving and pleasant village of Charing, in those olden days when St. Martin's in the Fields justified its now inappropriate designation, and the site where the old gate of Temple Bar, once presenting its venerable front, pleasantly decked out with the grisly heads of traitors, to the traveller who sought entry into the great metropolis, still rears its time-worn head, though no longer adorned with these agreeable and cheerful appendages; and in the immediate vicinity of that stately palace, which, once the home of royalty, is now the head-quarters of royalty's best friend, taxation, and thus provides the means for those gorgeous pageants which were, in former days, held within its courtly halls;-is a street but little known to fame, and presenting but few features likely to attract the attention of the stranger, who treads the busy avenue of the Strand. To say the truth, Catherine street is a rather dingy, dirty, and disagreeable thoroughfare; and, like many human beings in the great world around us, owes the trifling notice which it may sometimes receive, rather to the accident of its position, than to its own intrinsic merits, which are little enough to justify the most exuberant humility. At the foot of Catherine street stands.Šomerset House; at its other extremity, Old Drury, once the temple of the English drama, presents it tempting portals to the stranger, and the head of the Bard of Avon, smiling upon him from above the portico, carries back his mind to the golden ages of English poetry-the period

VOL. III. NO. IV. NEW SERIES.

when the drama, hitherto an insignificant and humble bud, burst at once under the hand of the great master into the glowing beauty of full development, and attained, as it were in a moment, the bloom of perfect ripeness and maturity. There are, it is true, some saddening associations which crowd upon the mind of the thoughtful observer who stands before this time-honored fane. The bills upon the walls of Old Drury which herald the perfections of some foreign dancer, and proclaim the high attractions of some transcendent ballet, are but sorry commentaries upon the bust which still rears its head above the doors; and, while these indications of a declining taste press unpleasantly upon his mind, the eye of the traveller wandering down the street, and resting upon the new towers of Somerset House, recalls painfully to his memory those palmy days when English kings and nobles preferred the dulcet strains of English poetry to the contortions of Mazurkas or Cracoviennes, and when the avenue from the palace to the theatre was trodden often by courtly footsteps.

Certain it is that no aristocratic feet awaken the echoes of Catherine street now-groups of dirty newsboys assemble in the afternoon before the doors of the newspaper offices within its limits, and vie with each other in most unmusical competition; as the shades of evening close around, the female vampires, who throng the miserable purlieus of the Strand, may be seen issuing from their lairs in courts and alleys, and passing through it, their haggard faces strangely and sadly contrasting with the flaunting finery which decks their forms, to pursue the fearful traffick of their hideous calling; and in the dead hour of the night the silent echoes are ever and anon awakened by the yells of some drunken wretch, whom the myrmi

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doms of justice are dragging to the wholesome and sobering discipline of the watchhouse; but that is all. No coronetted equipages disturb the repose of its pavements; luxurious wealth has taken flight to the exclusive regions of the West End, and abandoned to its twin brother, drunken poverty, the sole dominion of this, its ancient home.

The stranger whose curiosity leads him to wander through this most unattractive thoroughfare, can scarcely fail to observe on the door of a small and unostentatious house within its precincts, the words, "Office of general information and agenoy;" presenting themselves in attractive yet unobtrusive characters to his contemplation; opening to his mind, if his faculties be sharpened by need, interminable prospects of lucrative appointments, waiting only for the acceptance of fortunate candidates; or, if he be gifted with the said organ of curiosity, presenting to his imagination visions of vast stores of information on all imaginable subjects, sufficient to decide, with oracular precision, questions the most intricate and profound. If he be in either of these predicaments -and who is there that is beyond the influence of either curiosity or need ?-it is ten to one that he pushes open the door, which swings with convenient ease upon its hinges, and treads the modest staircase which invites his ascent, and in another moment he will find himself ushered into the stately presence of the high-priest and presiding genius of this temple of necessity.

Mr. Lestrocque is a gentleman, "whom not to know argues one's self unknown." A competitor for fame in many varied fields, he has gone far to falsify the old adage, by succeeding in all that he has undertaken, and shining with equal brilliance in each of the spheres which he has illumined. Stroll into the shops of booksellers, and you will find his works upon their counters; glance at the columns of newspapers, and you will peruse with delight his sparkling essays; wander into the play-house, and you will be charmed with the sprightly wit of his farces, and roar with laughter at the irresistible facetiousness of his burlesques; journey to the sunny regions of the far-off East, and those whose memory stretches back some fifteen

years ago, will charm you with innumerable anecdotes, illustrative of his good qualities as an author, an actor, and a bon vivant.

It must not be imagined from this that Mr. Lestrocque is declining into the vale of years; far from it. Those quick, dark eyes, sparkling with mirth and good humor, belong not to old age; that open forehead, although time has denuded it of the locks which once crowned it, and tinged those which yet remain with grey, is yet innocent of wrinkles; that wellmade form and smiling countenance, albeit they bear some marks which betoken that their owner has lived "not wisely, but too well," yet retain all the indications of ripe and mellow manhood, and sparkle with the joyous hilarity of faculties yet unimpaired and undecayed.

It was a bright afternoon in the merry month of June. The few swallows who, evidently impaired in their intellects, persisted in preferring the eaves of Catharine street to the free air of the open country, twittered gaily as they put forth their heads from their nests to inhale the genial breath of summer; and from the newly watered streets arose a cool and refreshing exhalation, albeit the bed from whence it was wafted was defiled with many unsavory contributions. The sun was at its fiercest heat; weary pedestrians sought with avidity the shady side of thoroughfares; and the dogs, running about with protruded tongues and panting breath, suggested to the timid passer-by unpleasant visions of hydrophobia, and its wonted accompaniments of feather beds and summary suffocation. The dark bosom of the murky Thames gave back a bright reflection of the orb of day; and the passengers in the penny steamers, driven to distraction, between the scorching heat of the sun's rays and the pleasant combination of heat and steam and decomposed oil, which greeted them from the engine-room, sighed for the termination of their voyaging, and mentally resolved to venture upon such aquatic pleasuring no more.

Even the ardor of business seemed to have yielded to the enervating influence of the temperature. For a full hour no candidate had presented himself, eager to secure lucrative employment; no stranger had penetrated the sanctuary, to propound