A young Liberal was talking theory to a beefy old Conservative, who despised youth and reason in an equal degree.
"The British people, sir," said he of the beef, "can afford to laugh at theories." "Sir," said Carlyle, speaking for the first time during dinner, "the French nobility of a hundred years ago said they could afford to laugh at theories.

Then came a man and wrote a book called the _Social Contract_.

The man was called Jean-Jacques Rousseau, and his book was a theory, and nothing but a theory.

The nobles could laugh at his theory; _but their skins went to bind the second edition of his book_[1]." [Footnote 1: There was a tannery of human skins at Meudon during the Revolution.] Look to your skin, world, lest it be dressed to morocco and cunningly tooled with gold.

There is much binding yet to be done.
Claudius thought neither of the world nor of Mr.Carlyle as he walked back to the hotel; for he was thinking of the Countess Margaret, to the exclusion of every other earthly or unearthly consideration.