Thus Carlyle destroyed his influence, even while he moved the mind to reflection.  It was seen and felt that he had no sympathy with many movements designed to benefit society, and that he cherished utter scorn for many active philanthropists.  In his bitterness, wrath, and disdain he became himself intolerant.  In some of his wild utterances he brought upon himself almost universal reproach, as when he said, “I never thought the rights of negroes worth much discussing, nor the rights of man in any form,”—­a sentiment which militated against his whole philosophy.  In this strange and unhappy mood of mind, the “Latter Day Pamphlets,” “Past and Present,” and other essays were written, which undermined the reverence in which he had been held.  These were the blots on his great career, which may be traced to sickness and a disordered mind.

In fact, Carlyle cannot be called a sound writer at any period.  He contradicts himself.  He is a great painter, a prose-poet, a satirist,—­not a philosopher; perhaps the most suggestive writer of the nineteenth century, often giving utterance to the grandest thoughts, yet not a safe guide at all times, since he is inconsistent and full of exaggerations.

The morbid and unhealthy tone of Carlyle’s mind at this period may be seen by an extract from one of his letters to Sterling:—­

“I see almost nobody.  I avoid sight, rather, and study to consume my own smoke.  I wish you would build me, among your buildings, some small Prophet Chamber, fifteen feet square, with a flue for smoking, sacred from all noises of dogs, cocks, and piano-fortes, engaging some dumb old woman to light a fire for me daily, and boil some kind of a kettle.”

Thus quaintly he expressed his desire for uninterrupted solitude, where he could work to advantage.

He was then engaged on Cromwell, and the few persons with whom he exchanged letters show how retired was his life.  His friends were also few, although he could have met as many persons as pleased him.  He was too much absorbed with work to be what is called a society man; but what society he did see was of the best.

At last Carlyle’s task on the “Life of Oliver Cromwell” was finished in August, 1845, when he was fifty years of age.  It was the greatest contribution to English history; Mr. Froude thinks, which has been made in the present century.  “Carlyle was the first to make Cromwell and his age intelligible to mankind.”  Indeed, he reversed the opinions of mankind respecting that remarkable man, which was a great accomplishment.  No one doubts the genuineness of the portrait.  Cromwell was almost universally supposed, fifty years ago, to be a hypocrite as well as a usurper.  In Carlyle’s hands he stands out visionary, perhaps, but yet practical, sincere, earnest, God-fearing,—­a patriot devoted to the good of his country.  Carlyle rescued a great historical personage from the accumulated slanders of two centuries, and did his work so well that no hostile criticisms have modified his verdict.  He has painted a picture which is immortal.  The insight, the sagacity, the ability, and the statesmanship of Cromwell are impressed upon the minds of all readers.  That England never had a greater or more enlightened ruler, everybody is now forced to admit,—­and not merely a patriotic but a Christian ruler, who regarded himself simply as the instrument of Providence.