The next article which Carlyle published seems to have been on Werner, followed the same year, 1828, by one on Goethe’s “Helena,”—­a continuation of his “Faust.”  This transcendent work of German art, which should be studied rather than read, is commented on by the reviewer with boundless admiration.  If there was one human being whom Carlyle worshipped it was the dictator of German literature, who reigned at Weimar as Voltaire had reigned at Ferney.  If he was not the first to introduce the writings of Goethe into England, he was the great German’s warmest admirer.  If Goethe had faults, they were to Carlyle the faults of a god, and he exalted him as the greatest light of modern times,—­a new force in the world, a new fire in the soul, who inaugurated a new era in literature which went to the heart of cultivated Europe, weary of the doubts and denials that Voltaire had made fashionable.  It seemed to Carlyle that Goethe entered into the sorrows, the solemn questionings and affirmations of the soul, seeking emancipation from dogmas and denials alike, and, in the spirit of Plato, resting on the certitudes of a higher life,—­calm, self-poised, many-sided, having subdued passion as he had outgrown cant; full of benignity, free from sarcasm; a man of mighty and deep experiences, with knowledge of himself, of the world, and the whole realm of literature; a great artist as well as a great genius, seated on the throne of letters, not to scatter thunderbolts, but to instruct the present and future generations.

The next great essay which Carlyle published, this time in the Edinburgh Review, was on Burns,—­a hackneyed subject, yet treated with masterly ability.  This article, in some respects his best, entirely free from mannerisms and affectation of style, is just in its criticism, glowing with eloquence, and full of sympathy with the infirmities of a great poet, showing a remarkable insight into what is noblest and truest.  This essay is likely to live for style alone, aside from its various other merits.  It is complete, exhaustive, brilliant, such as only a Scotchman could have written who was familiar with the laborious lives of the peasantry, living in the realm of art and truth, careless of outward circumstances and trappings, and exalting only what is immortal and lofty.  While Carlyle sees in Goethe the impersonation of human wisdom,—­in every aspect a success, outwardly and inwardly, serene and potent as an Olympian deity,—­he sees in Burns a highly gifted genius also, but yet a wreck and a failure; a man broken down by the force of that degrading habit which unfortunately and peculiarly and even mysteriously robs a man of all dignity, all honor, and all sense of shame.  Amid the misfortunes, the mistakes, and the degradations of the born poet, whom he alike admires and pities and mildly blames, he sees also the noble elements of the poet’s gifted soul, and loves him, especially for his sincerity, which next to labor he uniformly praises.  It was the