Yet it
must not be forgotten that in all his fun of castanets, or playing of
tunes with a whiplash like some renowned charioteers, -- in all this
glad and needful vending of his redundant spirits, -- he does yet
ever and anon, as if catching the glance of one wise man in the
crowd, quit his tempestuous key, and lance at him in clear level tone
the very word, and then with new glee returns to his game. He is
like a lover or an outlaw who wraps up his message in a serenade,
which is nonsense to the sentinel, but salvation to the ear for which
it is meant. He does not dodge the question, but gives sincerity
where it is due.
One word more respecting this remarkable style. We have in
literature few specimens of magnificence. Plato is the purple
ancient, and Bacon and Milton the moderns of the richest strains.
Burke sometimes reaches to that exuberant fulness, though deficient
in depth. Carlyle in his strange half mad way, has entered the Field
of the Cloth of Gold, and shown a vigor and wealth of resource, which
has no rival in the tourney play of these times; -- the indubitable
champion of England.
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