‘Those unhappy men are going to begin!’
‘What do they intend to argue about?’ said Alice, in her soft voice, looking towards them.
There was no need to inquire of our neighbours, for the two gentlemen’s voices rose high above all others.
‘It is idle to speak of Carlyle as a good writer,’ exclaimed Mr. Wedmold; ‘his style is as barbarous as his matter is trite. Never was reputation so cheaply earned as Carlyle’s. His philosophy is worth about twopence-ha’penny. Here is a great original writer, who goes to the Son of Sirach, and to Solomon, and to Collections of the Proverbs of Nations, and taking here a thought and there a thought, he dresses it up in a horrid jargon, harder than Welsh, more repulsive than Scotch, more jaw-breaking than German, puts his name to it, and offers the fine old fancy in its vile new dress as something original!’
‘It is not Dickens and Thackeray to-day,’ said Mrs. Lee.
‘Well, you may sneer as much as you like at Carlyle,’ cried Mr. Clack, ‘but to my mind his style is the most magnificent in the English tongue. He is sometimes obscure, I admit; but why? His style is a Niagara Fall of words, and it is veiled by the mist that rises from the stupendous drench.’
‘Give me Swift for style,’ exclaimed Mr. Webber, a gentleman whom I have before described, with long whiskers and a glass in his eye.
‘Pray do not be drawn into the discussion,’ said Mrs. Webber, calling across to him.
‘I beg your pardon? You mentioned——’ exclaimed Mr. Wedmold.
‘I said Swift. Give me Swift for style,’ rejoined Mr. Webber, pulling down one whisker.