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Maurice Carlyle had perjured himself, had never loved the woman who went with him to the altar, and the affection that had stirred my heart one hour before, was now as dead as the Pharaohs hidden for centuries under the pyramids.
Her throat was working, the muscles of her mouth began to twitch, and a convulsive sob, or what sounded like it, broke from her. Mr. Carlyle turned his head hastily. "Barbara! are you ill? What is it?" On it came, passion, temper, wrongs, and nervousness, all boiling over together. She shrieked, she sobbed, she was in strong hysterics. Mr.
It contained the best writing, the deepest thought, the most vivid portraiture, devoted to men and things English, over a continuous period, until the works of Carlyle and Macaulay. The significance of these men's work may be estimated by the ignorance even of scholars and tolerant thinkers.
For no act can have might before it is done: if there is no right, it cannot rationally be done at all. Bernard Shaw and Mr. Rudyard Kipling. Kipling also carries on from Carlyle the concentration on the purely Hebraic parts of the Bible. The fallacy of this whole philosophy is that if God is indeed present at a modern battle, He may be present not as on Gilboa but Golgotha.
Barbara heard her this time, and sprang away from her husband. Mr. Carlyle turned round at the movement, and saw Madame Vine. She came forward, her lips ashy, her voice subdued. Six months now had she been at East Lynne, and had hitherto escaped detection.
As often with Carlyle, there may be more than one interpretation of his inverted commas at "gentleman" as regards Voltaire, to whom he certainly would not have allotted the word in its best sense. The phrase about Chaos and the Evil Genius is Carlyle shut up in narrow space like the other genius or genie in the Arabian Nights. The "awful jangle of bells" speaks his horror of any invading sound.
She must go home to her children, she urged; she could not remain longer away from them; and she urged it at length with tears. "Nay, Isabel," said Mr. Carlyle; "if you are so much in earnest as this, you shall certainly go back with me." Then she was like a child let loose from school.
The greatest prosemen not novelists of the generation now closing, Carlyle and Macaulay, were indeed both considerable critics. But the shadow of death in the one case, the "shadow of Frederick" in the other, had cut short their critical careers: and presumptuous as the statement may seem, it may be questioned whether either had been a great critic in criticism pure and simple of literature.
Melville's The Thackeray Country. Kitton's The Dickens Country. Sloan's The Carlyle Country. Dougall's The Burns Country. Crockett's The Scott Country. Hill's Jane Austen: Her Homes and Her Friends. Cook's Homes and Haunts of John Ruskin. Eliot, The Brontë Country, Thackeray Land, The Thames from Oxford to the Nore. Hutton's Literary Landmarks of Edinburgh.
Her pale face flushed scarlet, and she glided out of the room again as softly as she had entered it. They had not seen her. Mr. Carlyle drew his wife to the window, and stood there, his arms round her waist. "Barbara, what should you say to living in London for a few months out of the twelve?" "London? I am very happy where I am. Why should you ask me that? You are not going to live in London?"
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