have specially invited

elf would be popular were hewriting now for the first time - not because of his freedom,but because the public taste has altered. No present age canpredict immortality for the works of its day; yet to say thatwhat is intrinsically good is good for all time is but atruism . The misfortune is that much of the best inliterature shares the fate of the best of ancient monumentsand noble cities; the cumulative rubbish of ages buries theirsplendours, till we know not where to find them. The day maycome when the most valuable service of the man of letterswill be to unearth the lost treasures and display them,rather than add his grain of dust to the ever-increasingmiddens.
Is Carlyle forgotten yet, I wonder? How much did mycontemporaries owe to him in their youth? How readily wefollowed a leader so sure of himself, so certain of his ownevangel. What an aid to strength to be assured that the truehero is the morally strong man. One does not criticise whatone loves; one didn't look too closely into the doctrinethat, might is right, for somehow he managed to persuade usthat right makes the might - that the strong man is the manwho, for the most part, does act rightly. He is not over-patient with human frailty, to be sure, and is apt, asHerbert Spencer found, to fling about his scorn ratherrecklessly. One fancies sometimes that he has more respectfor a genuine bad man than for a sham good one. In fact, his'Eternal Verities' come pretty much to the same as Darwin's'Law of the advancement of all organic bodies'; 'let thestrong live, and the weakest die.' He had no objection toseeing 'the young cuckoo ejecting its foster-brothers, orants making slaves.' But he atones for all this by hishatred of cant and hypocrisy. It is for his manliness thatwe love him, for his honesty, for his indifference to anymortal's approval save that of Thomas Carlyle. He convincesus that right thinking is good, but that right doing is muchbetter. And so it is that he does honour to men of actionlike his beloved Oliver, and Fritz, - neither of themparagons of wisdom or of goodness, but men of doughty deeds.
Just about this time I narrowly missed a longed-for chance ofmeeting this hero of my PENATES. Lady Ashburton - Carlyle'sLady Ashburton - knowing my admiration, kindly invited me toThe Grange, while he was there. The house was full - mainlyof ministers or ex-ministers, - Cornewall Lewis, Sir CharlesWood, Sir James Graham, Albany Fonblanque, Mr. Ellice, andCharles Buller - Carlyle's only pupil; but the great manhimself had left an hour before I got there . I often , but never to make his acquaintance. Of course, Iknew nothing of his special friendship for Lady Ashburton,which we are told was not altogether shared by Mrs. Carlyle;but I well remember the interest which Lady Ashburton seemedto take in his praise, how my enthusiasm seemed to pleaseher, and how Carlyle and his works were topics she was nevertired of discussing.
The South Western line to Alresford was not then made, and Ihad to post part of the way from London to The Grange. Mychaise companion was a man very well known in 'Society'; andthough not remarkably popular, was not altogetherundistinguished, as the following little tale will attest.
Frederick Byng, one of the Torrington branch of the Byngs,was chiefly famous for his sobriquet 'The Poodle'; this heowed to no special merit of his own, but simply to theaccident of his thick curly head of hair. Some, who spokefeelingly of the man, used to declare that he had fulfilledthe promises of his youth. What happened to him then mayperhaps justify the opinion .