1795. Born at Ecclefechan, Dumfriesshire, December 4.
1809. Enters Edinburgh University.
1814-18. Schoolmaster at Annan and Kirkcaldy. Friendship with Edward Irving.
1819-21. Reading law and literature at Edinburgh and Mainhill.
1821. First meeting with Jane Welsh at Haddington.
1822-3. Tutorship in Buller family.
1824-5. German literature, Goethe, Life of Schiller.
1826. October 17, marriage; residence at Comely1 Bank, Edinburgh.
1827. Jeffrey’s friendship; articles for Edinburgh Review.
1828-34. Craigenputtock, with intervals2 in London and Edinburgh; poverty; solitude3; profound study; Sartor Resartus written; reading for French Revolution.
1834. Cheyne Row, Chelsea, permanent home.
1834. Begins to read for, 1841 to write, Cromwell.
1834-6. French Revolution written; finished January 12, 1837.
1837-40. Four courses of lectures in London. (German literature, Heroes.)
1844. Changes plan of, 1845 finishes writing, Cromwell.
1846-51. Studies Ireland and modern questions; Latter-Day Pamphlets, 1849.
1851. Choice of Frederick the Great of Prussia for next subject.
1857. Two vols. printed; 1865, rest finished and published.
1865. Lord Rector of Edinburgh University.
1866. Death of Mrs. Carlyle, April 21.
1867-9. Prepares Memorials of his wife; friendship with Froude.
1870. Loses the use of his right hand.
1874. Refuses offer of Baronetcy or G.C.B.
1881. Death at Chelsea, February 5; burial at Ecclefechan.
Thomas Carlyle
Prophet
North-west of Carlisle (from which town the Carlyle family in all probability first took their name), a little way along the border, the river Annan comes down its green valley from the lowland hills to lose itself in the wide sands of the Solway Firth. At the foot of these hills is the village of Ecclefechan, some eight miles inland. Here in the wide irregular street, down the side of which flows a little beck, stands the grey cottage, built by the stonemason James Carlyle, where he lived with his second wife, Margaret Aitken; and here on December 4, 1795, the eldest4 of nine children, their son Thomas was born. There is little to redeem5 the place from insignificance6; the houses are mostly mean, the position of the village is tame and commonplace. But if a visitor will mount the hills that lie to the north, turn southward and look over the wide expanse of land and water to the Cumbrian mountains, then, should he be fortunate enough to see the landscape in stormy and unsettled weather, he may realize why the land was so dear to its most famous son that he could return to it from year to year throughout his life and could there at all times soothe7 his most unquiet moods. Through all his years in London he remained a lowland Scot and was most at home in Annandale. With this district his fame is still bound up, as that of Walter Scott with the Tweed, or that of Wordsworth with the Lakes.
In this humble8 household Thomas Carlyle first learnt what is meant by work, by truthfulness9, and by reverence10, lessons which he never forgot. He learnt to revere11 authority, to revere worth, and to revere something yet higher and more mysterious — the Unseen. In Sartor Resartus he describes how his hero was impressed by his parents’ observance of religious duties. ‘The highest whom I knew on earth I here saw bowed down with awe12 unspeakable before a Higher in Heaven; such things especially in infancy13, reach inwards to the very core of your being.’ His father was a man of unusual force of character and gifted with a wonderful power of speech, flashing out in picturesque14 metaphor15, in biting satire16, in humorous comment upon life. He had, too, the Scotch17 genius for valuing education; and it was he who decided18 that Tom, whose character he had observed, should have every chance that schooling19 could give him. His mother was a most affectionate, single-hearted, and religious woman; labouring for her family, content with her lot, her trust for her son unfailing, her only fear for him lest in his new learning he might fall away from the old Biblical faith which she held so firmly herself.
Reading with his father or mother, lending a hand at housework when needed, nourishing himself on the simple oatmeal and milk which throughout life remained his favourite food, submitting himself instinctively20 to the stern discipline of the home, he passed, happily on the whole, through his childhood and soon outstripped21 his comrades in the village school. His success there led to his going in his tenth year to the grammar school at Annan; and before he reached his fourteenth year he trudged22 off on foot to Edinburgh to begin his studies at the university.
Instead of young men caught up by express trains and deposited, by the aid of cabmen and porters, in a few hours in the sheltered courts of Oxford23 and Cambridge, we must imagine a party of boys, of fourteen or fifteen years old, trudging24 on foot twenty miles a day for five days across bleak25 country, sleeping at rough inns, and on their arrival searching for an attic26 in some bleak tenement27 in a noisy street. Here they were to live almost entirely28 on the baskets of home produce sent through the carriers at intervals by their thrifty29 parents. It was and is a Spartan30 discipline, and it turns out men who have shown their grit31 and independence in all lands where the British flag is flown.
The earliest successes which Carlyle won, both at Annan and at Edinburgh, were in mathematics. His classical studies received little help from his professors, and his literary gifts were developed mostly by his own reading, and stimulated32 from time to time by talks with fellow students. Perhaps it was for his ultimate good that he was not brought under influences which might have guided him into more methodical courses and tamed his rugged33 originality34. The universities cannot often be proved to have fostered kindly35 their poets and original men of letters; at least we may say that Edinburgh was a more kindly Alma Mater to Carlyle than Oxford and Cambridge proved to Shelley and Byron. His native genius, and the qualities which he inherited from his parents, were not starved in alien soil, but put out vigorous growth. From such letters to his friends as have survived, we can see what a power Carlyle had already developed of forcibly expressing his ideas and establishing an influence over others.
He left the university at the age of nineteen, and the next twelve years of his life were of a most unsettled character. He made nearly as many false starts in life as Goldsmith or Coleridge, though he redeemed36 them nobly by his persistence37 in after years. In 1814 his family still regarded the ministry38 as his vocation39, and Carlyle was himself quite undecided about it. To promote this idea the profession of schoolmaster was taken up for the time. He continued in it for more than six years, first at Annan and then at Kirkcaldy; but he was soon finding it uncongenial and rebelling against it. A few years later he tried reading law with no greater contentment; and in order to support himself he was reduced to teaching private pupils. The chief friend of this period was Edward Irving, the gifted preacher who afterwards, in London, came to tragic40 shipwreck41. He was a native of Annan, five years older than Carlyle, and he had spent some time in preaching and preparing for the ministry. He was one of the few people who profoundly influenced Carlyle’s life. At Kirkcaldy he was his constant companion, shared his tastes, lent him books, and kindled42 his powers of insight and judgement in many a country walk. Carlyle has left us records of this time in his Reminiscences, how he read the twelve volumes of Irving’s Gibbon in twelve days, how he tramped through the Trossachs on foot, how in summer twilights he paced the long stretches of sand at Irving’s side.
It was Irving who in 1822 commended him to the Buller family, with whom he continued as tutor for two years. Charles Buller, the eldest son, was a boy of rare gifts and promise, worthy43 of such a teacher; and but for his untimely death in 1848 he might have won a foremost place in politics. The family proved valuable friends to Carlyle in after-life, besides enabling him at this time to live in comfort, with leisure for his own studies and some spare money to help his family. But for this aid, his brother Alexander would have fared ill with the farming, and John could never have afforded the training for the medical profession.
Again, it was Irving who first took him to Haddington in 1821 and introduced him to Jane Baillie Welsh, his future wife. Irving’s sincerity44 and sympathy, his earnest enthusiasm joined with the power of genuine laughter (always to Carlyle a mark of a true rich nature), made him through all these years a thoroughly45 congenial companion. He really understood Carlyle as few outside his family did, and he never grew impatient at Carlyle’s difficulty in settling to a profession. ‘Your mind,’ he wrote, ‘unfortunately for its present peace, has taken in so wide a range of study as to be almost incapable46 of professional trammels; and it has nourished so uncommon47 and so unyielding a character, as first unfits you for, and then disgusts you with, any accommodations which for so cultivated and so fertile a mind would easily procure48 favour and patronage49.’ Well might Carlyle in later days find a hero in tough old Samuel Johnson, whose sufferings were due to similar causes. The other source which kept the fire in him aglow50 through these difficult years was the confidence and affection of his whole family, and the welcome which he always found at home. Disappointed though they were at his failure, as yet, to settle to a profession and to earn a steady income, for all that ‘Tom’ was to be a great man; and when he could find time to spend some months at Mainhill, or later at Scotsbrig,1 a room could always be found for him, hours of peace and solitude could be enjoyed, the most wholesome51 food, and the most cordial affection, were there rendered as loyal ungrudging tribute. But new ties were soon to be knit and a new chapter to be opened in his life.
John Welsh of Haddington, who died before Carlyle met his future wife, was a surgeon and a man of remarkable52 gifts; and his daughter could trace her descent to such famous Scotsmen as Wallace and John Knox. Her own mental powers were great, and her vivacity53 and charming manners caused her to shine in society wherever she was. She had an unquestioned supremacy54 among the ladies of Haddington and many had been the suitors for her hand. When Irving had given her lessons there, love had sprung up between tutor and pupil, but this budding romance ended tragically55 in 1822. Before meeting her he had been engaged to another lady; and when a new appointment gave him a sure income, he was held to his bond and was forced to crush down his passion and to take farewell of Miss Welsh. At what date Carlyle conceived the hope of making her his wife it is difficult to say. Her beauty and wit seem to have done their work quickly in his case; but she was not one to give her affections readily, for all the intellectual sympathy which united them. In 1823 she was contemplating56 marriage, but had made no promise; in 1824 she had accepted the idea of marrying him, but in 1825 she still scouted57 the conditions in which he proposed to live. His position was precarious58, his projects visionary, and his immediate59 desire was to settle on a lonely farm, where he could devote himself to study, if she would do the household drudgery60. Because his mother whom he loved and honoured was content to lead this life, he seemed to think that his wife could do the same; but her nature and her rearing were not those of the Carlyles and their Annandale neighbours. It involved a complete renunciation of the comforts of life and the social position which she enjoyed; and much though she admired his talents and enjoyed his company, she was not in that passion of love which could lift her to such heights of self-sacrifice.
By this time we can begin to discern in his letters the outline of his character — his passionate61 absorption in study, his moodiness62, his fits of despondency, his intense irritability63; his incapacity to master his own tongue and temper. In happy moments he shows great tenderness of feeling for those whom he loves or pities; but this alternates with inconsiderate clamour and loud complaints deafening64 the ears of all about him, provoked often by slight and even imaginary grievances65. It is the artistic66 nature run riot, and that in one who preached silence and stoicism as the chief virtues67 — an inconsistency which has amused and disgusted generations of readers. It was impossible for him to do his work with the regular method, the equable temper, of a Southey or a Scott. In dealing69 with history he must image the past to himself most vividly70 before he could expound71 his subject; and that effort and strain cost him sleepless72 nights and days of concentrated thought. Nor was he an easier companion when his work was finished and he could take his ease. Then life seemed empty and profitless; and in its emptiness his voice echoed all the louder. The ill was within him, and outward circumstances were powerless to affect his nature.
At this time he was chiefly occupied in reading German literature and spreading the knowledge of it among his countrymen. After Coleridge he was the first of our literary men to appreciate the poets and mystics of Germany, and he did more even than Coleridge to make Englishmen familiar with them. He acquired at this time a knowledge of French and Italian literature too; but the philosophy of Kant and the writings of Goethe and Schiller roused him to greater enthusiasm. From Kant he learnt that the guiding principle of conduct was not happiness, but the ‘categorical imperative’ of duty; from Goethe he drew such hopefulness as gleams occasionally through his despondent73 utterances74 on the progress of the human race. He translated Goethe’s novel, Wilhelm Meister, in 1823, and followed it up with the Life of Schiller. There was no considerable sale for either of these books till his lectures in London and his established fame roused a demand for all he had written. In these days he was practising for the profession of a man of letters, and was largely influenced by personal ambition and the desire to earn an income which would make him independent; he was not yet fired with a mission, or kindled to white heat.
His long courtship was rewarded in October 1826. When the marriage took place the bride was twenty-five years old and the bridegroom thirty. Men of letters have not the reputation of making ideal husbands, and the qualities to which this is due were possessed75 by Carlyle in exaggerated measure. It was a perilous76 enterprise for any one to live with him, most of all for such a woman, delicately bred, nervous, and highly strung. She was aware of this, and was prepared for a large measure of self-denial; but she could not have foreseen how severe she would find the trial. The morbid77 sensitiveness of Carlyle to his own pains and troubles, so often imaginary, joined with his inconsiderate blindness to his wife’s real sufferings, led to many heart-burnings. If she contributed to them, in some degree, by her wilfulness78, jealous temper, and sharpness of tongue, ill-health and solitude may well excuse her.
His own confessions79, made after her death, are coloured by sorrow and deep affection: no doubt he paints his own conduct in hues80 darker than the truth demands. Shallow critics have sneered81 at the picture of the philosopher whose life was so much at variance82 with his creed83, and too much has, perhaps, been written about the subject. If reference must be made to such a well-worn tale, it is best to let Carlyle’s own account stand as he wished it to stand. His moral worth has been vindicated84 in a hundred ways, not least by his humility85 and honesty about himself, and can bear the test of time.
For the first two years of married life Carlyle’s scheme of living on a farm was kept at bay by his wife, and their home was at Edinburgh. Carlyle refers to this as the happiest period of his life, though he did not refrain from loud laments86 upon occasions. The good genius of the household was Jeffrey, the famous editor of the Edinburgh Review, who was distantly related to Mrs. Carlyle. He made friends with the newly-married pair, opened a path for them into the society of the capital, and enabled Carlyle to spread the knowledge of German authors in the Review and to make his bow before a wider public. The prospects88 of the little household seemed brighter, but, by generously making over all her money to her mother, his wife had crippled its resources; and Carlyle was of so difficult a humour that neither Jeffrey nor any one else could guide his steps for long. Living was precarious; society made demands even on a modest household, and in 1828 he at length had his way and persuaded his wife to remove to Craigenputtock. It was in the loneliness of the moors89 that Carlyle was to come to his full stature90 and to develop his astonishing genius.
Craigenputtock was a farm belonging to his wife’s family, lying seventy feet above the sea, sixteen miles from Dumfries, among desolate91 moors and bogs92, and fully93 six miles from the nearest village. ‘The house is gaunt and hungry-looking. It stands with the scanty94 fields attached as an island in a sea of morass96. The landscape is unredeemed either by grace or grandeur97, mere98 undulating hills of grass and heather with peat bogs in the hollows between them.’ So Froude describes the home where the Carlyles were to spend six years, the wife in domestic labours, in solitude, in growing ill-health, the husband in omnivorous99 reading, in digesting the knowledge that he gathered, in transmuting100 it and marking it with the peculiar101 stamp of his genius. There was no true companionship over the work. As the moorland gave the fresh air and stillness required, so the wife might nourish the physical frame with wholesome digestible food and save him from external cares; the rest must be done by lonely communing with himself. He needed no Fleet Street taverns102 or literary salons103 to encourage him. Goethe, with whom he exchanged letters and compliments at times, said with rare insight that he ‘had in himself an originating principle of conviction, out of which he could develop the force that lay in him unassisted by other men’.
Few were the interruptions from without. His fame was not yet established. In any case pilgrims would have to undertake a very rough journey, and the fashion of such pilgrimages had hardly begun. But in 1833 from distant America came one disciple104, afterwards to be known as the famous author Ralph Waldo Emerson; and he has left us in his English Traits a vivid record of his impression of two or three famous men of letters whom he saw. He describes Carlyle as ‘tall and gaunt, with a cliff-like brow, self-possessed, and holding his extraordinary powers of conversation in easy command; clinging to his northern accent with evident relish105; full of lively anecdote106, and with a streaming humour, which floated everything he looked upon’.2
Much of his time was given to reading about the French Revolution, which was to be the subject of his greatest literary triumph. But the characteristic work of this period is Sartor Resartus (‘The tailor patched anew’), in which Carlyle, under a thin German disguise, reveals himself to the world, with his views on the customs and ways of society and his contempt for all the pretensions107 and absurdities108 which they involved. In many places it is extravagant109 and fantastic, as when ‘the most remarkable incident in modern history’ proves to be George Fox the Quaker making a suit of leather to render himself independent of tailors; in others it rises to the highest pitch of poetry, as in the sympathetic lament87 over the hardships of manual labour. ‘Venerable to me is the hard Hand; crooked110, coarse; wherein notwithstanding lies a cunning virtue68, indefeasibly royal, as of the Sceptre of this Planet. Venerable, too, is the rugged face, all weather-tanned, besoiled, with its rude intelligence; for it is the face of a Man living manlike. O, but the more venerable for thy rudeness, and even because we must pity as well as love thee! Hardly-entreated Brother! For us was thy back so bent112, for us were thy straight limbs and fingers so deformed113; thou wert our Conscript on whom the lot fell, and fighting our battles wert so marred114.’ It is through such passages that Carlyle has won his way to the hearts of many who care little for history, or for German literature.
The book evidently contains much that is autobiographical, and helps us to understand Carlyle’s childhood and youth; but it is so mixed up with fantasy and humour that it is difficult to separate fiction from fact. Its chief aim seems to be the overthrow115 of cant95, the ridiculing116 of empty conventions, and the preaching of sincerity and independence. But not yet was Carlyle’s generation prepared to listen to such sermons. Jeffrey was bewildered by the tone and offended at the style; publisher after publisher refused it; and when at length it was launched upon the world piecemeal117 in Fraser’s Magazine, the reading public either ignored it or abused it in the roundest terms. During all this time Carlyle was anxiously looking for some surer means of livelihood118, and had not yet decided that literature was to be his profession. He had hopes at different times of professorships in Edinburgh and St. Andrews, and of the editorship of various reviews; but these all came to nothing. For some posts he was not suited; for others his application could find no support. He even thought of going to America, where Emerson and other admirers would have welcomed him. But the disappointments in Scotland decided him to make one more effort in London before accepting defeat, and in 1834 he found a house at Chelsea and prepared to quit his hermitage among the moors.
Cheyne Row, Chelsea, was to be his new home, a quiet street running northward119 from the riverside in a quarter of London not then invaded by industrialism. The house, No. 24, with its little garden, has been made into a Carlyle museum, and may still be seen on the east side of the street facing a few survivors120 of the sturdy old pollarded lime-trees standing111 there ‘like giants in Tawtie wigs’. His bust121, by Boehm, is in the garden on the Embankment not a hundred yards away. With this district are connected other names famous in literature and art, but its presiding genius is the ‘Sage of Chelsea’, who spent the last forty-seven years of his life in it; and there, in a double-walled room, in spite of trivial disturbances122 from without, in spite of far more serious fits of dejection and discontent within, he composed his three greatest historical books. At the outset his prospects were not bright, and at the end of 1834 he confessed ‘it is now twenty-three months since I earned a penny by the craft of literature’. There was need of much faith; and it was fortunate for him that he had at his side one who believed in his genius and who was well qualified123 to judge. He must have been thinking of this when he wrote of Mahomet in Heroes and of the prophet’s gratitude124 to his first wife Kadijah: ‘She believed in me when none else would believe. In the whole world I had but one friend and she was that!’ In the same place he quoted the German writer Novalis: ‘It is certain my conviction gains infinitely125, the moment another soul will believe in it.’
So fortified126, he worked through the days of poverty and gloom, with groans127 and outbursts of fury, kindling128 to white heat as he imaged to himself the men and events of the French Revolution, and throwing them on to paper in lurid129 pictures of flame. One terrible misadventure chilled his spirit in 1835, when the manuscript of the first volume was lent to J. S. Mill, and was accidentally burnt; but, after a short fit of despair, he set manfully to work to repair the loss, and the new version was finished in January, 1837. This book marked an epoch130 in the writing of history. Hitherto few had realized what potent131 force there was in the original documents lying stored in libraries and record offices. They were ‘live shells’ buried in the dust of a neglected magazine; and in the hands of Carlyle they came to life again and worked havoc132 among the traditional judgements of history. This book was also the turning point in his career. Dickens, Thackeray, and others hailed it with enthusiasm; gradually it made its way with the public at large; and as in the following years Carlyle, prompted by some friends, gave successful courses of lectures,3 his position among men of letters became assured, and he had no more need to worry over money. Living in London he became known to a wider circle, and his marvellous powers of conversation brought visitors and invitations in larger measure than he desired. The new friends whom he valued most were Mr. and Lady Harriet Baring,4 and he was often their guest in London, in Surrey, in Scotland, and later at The Grange in Hampshire. But he remained faithful to his older and more humble friends, while he also made himself accessible to young men of letters who seemed anxious to learn, and who did not offend one or other of his many prejudices. Such were Sterling133, Ruskin, Tennyson, and James Anthony Froude.
Despite these successes Carlyle’s letters at this time are full of the usual discontents. London life and society stimulated him for the time, but he paid dearly for it. Late dinners and prolonged bouts134 of talk, in which he put forth135 all his powers, were followed by dyspepsia and lassitude next day; and the neighbours, who kept dogs or cocks which were accused of disturbing his slumbers136, were the mark for many plaints and lamentations. He could not in any circumstances be entirely happy. Work was so exciting with the imagination on fire, that it kept him awake at night; idleness was still more fatal in its effects. And so, after a few years of relative calm, in 1839 we find his active brain struggling to create a true picture of Oliver Cromwell and to expound the meaning of the Great Civil War.
It was to be no easy task. For nearly five years he was to wrestle137 with the subject, trying in vain to give it adequate shape and form, and then to scrap138 the labours of years and to start again on a new plan; but in the end he was to win another signal victory. While the French Revolution may be the higher artistic triumph, Cromwell is more important for one who wishes to understand the life-work of Carlyle and all for which he stood. The emptiness of political theories and institutions, the enduring value of character, are lessons which no one has preached more forcibly. In his opinion the success of the English revolution, the blow to tyranny and misgovernment in Church and State, was not due to eloquent139 members of the Long Parliament, but to plain God-fearing men, who, if they quoted scripture140, did so not from hypocrisy141 but because it was the language in which they habitually143 thought. Nor could they build up a new England till they had found a leader. It was the ages which had faith to recognize their worthiest144 man and to accept his guidance which had achieved great things in the world, not those which prated145 of democracy and progress. To make his countrymen, in this age of fluent political talk, see the true moral quality of the men of the seventeenth century — this it was which occupied seven years of Carlyle’s life and filled his thoughts. It was indeed a labour of Hercules. Much of the material was lost beyond repair, much buried in voluminous folios and State papers, much obscured by the cant and prejudice of eighteenth-century authors. To recall the past, Carlyle needed such help as geography would give him, and he spent many days in visiting Dunbar, Worcester, and other sites. To Naseby he went in 1842, in company with Dr. Arnold, and ‘plucked two gowans and a cowslip from the burial heaps of the slain’. A more important task was to recover authentic146 utterances of Cromwell and his fellow workers, and to put these in the place of the second-hand147 judgements of political partisans148; and this involved laborious149 researches in libraries. Above all, he had to interpret these records in a new spirit, exercising true insight and sympathy, to put life into the dry bones and to present his readers with the living image of a man. He combined in unique fashion the laborious research of a student with the moral fervour of a prophet.
Despite the strain of these labours Carlyle showed few signs of his fifty years. The family were of tough stock; and the years which he had spent in moorland air had increased the capital of health on which he could draw. The flight of time was chiefly marked by his growing antipathy150 to the political movements of the day, and by a growing despondency about the future. People might buy his books; but he looked in vain for evidence that they paid heed151 to the lessons which he preached. The year of revolutions, 1848, followed by the setting up of the French Empire and the collapse152 of the Roman Republic, produced nothing but disappointment, and he became louder and more bitter in his judgements on democracy. 1849 saw the birth of the Latter-Day Pamphlets in which he outraged154 Mill and the Radicals155 by his scornful words about Negro Emancipation156, and by the savage157 delight with which he shattered their idols158. He loved to expose what seemed to him the sophistries159 involved in the conventional praise of liberty. Of old the mediaeval serf or the negro slave had some one who was responsible for him, some one interested in his physical well-being160. The new conditions too often meant nothing but liberty to starve, liberty to be idle, liberty to slip back into the worst indulgences, while those who might have governed stood by regardless and lent no help. Such from an extreme point of view appeared the policy of laisser-faire; and he was neither moderate nor impartial161 in stating his case. ‘An idle white gentleman is not pleasant to me; . . . but what say you to an idle black gentleman, with his rum bottle in his hand, . . . no breeches on his body, pumpkin162 at discretion163, and the fruitfullest region of the earth going back to jungle round him?’ In a similar vein164 he dealt with stump165 oratory166, prison reform, and other subjects, tilting167 in reckless fashion at the shields of the reforming Radicals of the day; nor was he less outspoken168 when he met in person the champions of these views. A letter to his wife in 1847 tells of a visit to the Brights at Rochdale; how ‘John and I discorded169 in our views not a little’, and how ‘I shook peaceable Brightdom as with a passing earthquake’. From books he could learn: to human teachers he proved refractory170. Had he been more willing to listen to others, his judgements on contemporary events might have been more valuable. All his life he was, as George Meredith says, ‘Titanic rather than Olympian, a heaver of rocks, not a shaper’; and this fever of denunciation grew with advancing years. But with these spurts171 of volcanic172 energy alternate moods of the deepest depression. His journal for 1850 says, ‘This seems really the Nadir173 of my fortunes; and in hope, desire, or outlook, so far as common mortals reckon such, I never was more bankrupt. Lonely, shut up within my contemptible174 and yet not deliberately175 ignoble176 self, perhaps there never was, in modern literary or other history, a more solitary177 soul, capable of any friendship or honest relation to others.’ By this time he was feeling the need of another task, and in 1851 he chose Frederick the Great of Prussia for the subject of his next book.
To this generation apology seems to be needed for an English author who lavishes178 so much admiration179 on Prussian men and institutions. But Carlyle, whose chief heroes had been men of intense religious convictions, like Luther, Knox, and Cromwell, could find no hero after his heart in English history subsequent to the Civil War. Eloquent Pitts and Burkes, jobbing Walpoles and Pelhams, were to him types of politicians who had brought England to her present plight180. German literature had always kept its influence over him and had directed his attention to German history; Frederick, without religion as he was, seemed at any rate sincere, recognized facts, and showed practical capacity for ruling (essential elements in the Carlylean hero), and the subject would be new to his readers. The labour involved was stupendous; it was to fill his life and the lives of his helpers for thirteen years. Of these helpers the chief credit is due to Joseph Neuberg, who piloted him over German railways, libraries, and battle-fields in the search for picturesque detail, and to Henry Larkin, who toiled181 in London to trace references in scores of authors, and who finally crowned the work by laborious indexing, which made Carlyle’s labyrinth182 accessible to his readers. There were masses of material hidden away and unsifted; and, as in the case of Cromwell, only a man of original genius could penetrate183 this inert184 mass with shafts185 of light and make the past live again. The task grew as he continued his researches. He groped his way back to the beginning of the Hohenzollerns, and sketched186 the portraits of the old Electors in a style unequalled for vividness and humour. He drew a full-length portrait of Frederick William, most famous of drill-sergeants, and he studied the campaigns of his son with a thoroughness which has been a model to soldiers and civilians188 ever since. We have the record of two tours which he made in Germany to view the scene of operations;5 and it is amazing how exact a picture he could bring away from a short visit to each separate battle-field. His diligence, accuracy, and wide grasp of the subject satisfied the severest judges; and the book won him a success as complete and enduring in Germany as in England and America.
When this was finished, Carlyle was on the verge189 of seventy and his work was done; though the evening of his life was long, his strength was exhausted190. His wife lived just long enough to see the seal set upon his fame, and to hear of his election to be Lord Rector of Edinburgh University. But in April 1866, while he was in Scotland for his installation, which she was too weak to attend, he heard the news of her sudden death from heart failure in London; and after this he was a broken man. By reading her journal he learnt, too late, how much his own inconsiderate temper had added to her trials, and his remorse191 was bitter and lasting192. He shut himself off from all his friends except Froude, who was to be his literary executor, and gave himself to collecting and annotating193 the memorials which she had left. Each letter is followed by some words of tender recollection or some cry of self-reproach. He has erected194 to her the most singular of literary monuments, morbid perhaps, but inspired by a feeling which was in his case natural and sincere.
About 1870 he began to lose the use of his right hand and he found it impossible to compose by dictation. Of the last years of his life there is little to narrate195. The offer of a baronetcy or the G.C.B. from Mr. Disraeli in 1874 pleased him for the moment, but he resolutely196 refused external honours. He took daily walks with Froude, daily drives when he became too weak to go on foot. Towards the end the Bible and Shakespeare were his most habitual142 reading. He had long ceased to be a member of any church, but his belief in God and in God’s working in history was the very foundation of his being, and the lessons of the Bible were to him inexhaustible and ever new. Death came to him peacefully in February, 1881; and as he had expressed a definite wish, he was buried at Ecclefechan, though a public funeral in the Abbey was offered and its acceptance would have met with the approval of his countrymen.
The very wealth of records makes it difficult to judge his character fairly. Few men have so laid bare the thoughts and feelings of their hearts. It is easy to blame the unmanly laments which he utters over his health, his solitude, and his sufferings, real or imaginary; few imaginative writers have the every-day virtues. His egotism, too, is difficult to defend. If, as he himself admits, he invariably took an undue197 share of talk, often in fact monopolizing198 it, wherever he was, we must remember that the brilliance199 of his gifts was admitted by all; less pardonable is his habit of disparaging200 other men, and especially other men of letters. His pen-pictures of Mill, Wordsworth, Coleridge, and others, are wonderfully vivid but too often sour in flavour; his sketch187 of Charles Lamb is an outrage153 on that generous and kindly soul. Too often he was unconscious of the pain given by such random201 words. When he was brought to book, he was honourable202 enough to recant. Fearing on one occasion to have offended even the serene203 loyalty204 of Emerson, he cries out protestingly, ‘Has not the man Emerson, from old years, been a Human Friend to me? Can I ever forget, or think otherwise than lovingly of the man Emerson?’
But whatever offence Carlyle committed with his ungovernable tongue or pen, he had rare virtues in conduct. His generosity205 was as unassuming as it was persistent206; and it began at home. Long before he was free from anxieties about money for himself, he was helping207 two of his brothers to make a career, one in agriculture, and the other in medicine. In his latter days he regularly gave away large sums in such a way that no one knew the source from which they came. His letters show a deep tenderness of affection for his mother, his wife, and others of the family; and the humble Annandale home was always in his thoughts. His charity embraced even those whose claim on him was but indirect. When his wife was dead, he could remember to celebrate her birthday by sending a present to her old nurse. He was scrupulous208 in money-dealing and frugal209 in all matters of personal comfort; in his innermost thoughts he was always pure-hearted and sincere; for nothing on earth would he traffic in his independence or in adherence210 to the truth.
His style has not largely influenced other historians; and this is as well, since imitations of it easily fall into mere obscurity and extravagance. But his historical method has been of great value, the patient study of original authorities, the copious211 references quoted, the careful indexing, all being proof how anxious he was that the subject should be presented clearly and veraciously212, rather than that the books should shine as literary performances. How far the principles which he valued and taught have spread it is difficult to say. Party politicians still appeal to the sacred name of liberty without inquiring what true liberty means; publicists still speak as if the material gains of modern life, cheap food and machine-made products, meant nothing but advance in the history of the human race; but there are others who look to the spiritual factors and wish to enlarge the bounds of political economy.
The writings of Carlyle, and of Ruskin, on whom fell the prophet’s mantle213, certainly made their influence felt in later books devoted214 to that once ‘dismal’ science. Few can be quite indifferent to the man or to his message. Those who demand moderation, clearness, and Attic simplicity215, will be repelled216 by his extravagances or by his mysticism. Others will be attracted by his glowing imagination and by his fiery217 eloquence218, and will reserve for him a foremost place in their affections. These will echo the words which Emerson was heard to say on his death-bed, when his eyes fell on a portrait of the familiar rugged features, ’That is the man, my man’.
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1
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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redeem
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| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
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insignificance
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| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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truthfulness
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| n. 符合实际 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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revere
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| vt.尊崇，崇敬，敬畏 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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metaphor
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| n.隐喻，暗喻 | |
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satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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schooling
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| n.教育；正规学校教育 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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outstripped
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| v.做得比…更好，（在赛跑等中）超过( outstrip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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trudging
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的现在分词形式） | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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thrifty
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| adj.节俭的；兴旺的；健壮的 | |
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spartan
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| adj.简朴的，刻苦的；n.斯巴达；斯巴达式的人 | |
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grit
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| n.沙粒，决心，勇气；v.下定决心，咬紧牙关 | |
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stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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42
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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45
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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48
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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50
aglow
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| adj.发亮的；发红的；adv.发亮地 | |
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51
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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52
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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53
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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54
supremacy
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| n.至上；至高权力 | |
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55
tragically
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| adv. 悲剧地，悲惨地 | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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57
scouted
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| 寻找，侦察( scout的过去式和过去分词 )； 物色（优秀运动员、演员、音乐家等） | |
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58
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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moodiness
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| n.喜怒无常；喜怒无常，闷闷不乐；情绪 | |
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irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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64
deafening
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| adj. 振耳欲聋的, 极喧闹的 动词deafen的现在分词形式 | |
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grievances
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| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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expound
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| v.详述；解释；阐述 | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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utterances
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| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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wilfulness
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| 任性；倔强 | |
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confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
variance
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| n.矛盾，不同 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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84
vindicated
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| v.澄清（某人/某事物）受到的责难或嫌疑( vindicate的过去式和过去分词 )；表明或证明（所争辩的事物）属实、正当、有效等；维护 | |
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85
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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laments
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| n.悲恸，哀歌，挽歌( lament的名词复数 )v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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bogs
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| n.沼泽，泥塘( bog的名词复数 )；厕所v.（使）陷入泥沼， （使）陷入困境( bog的第三人称单数 )；妨碍，阻碍 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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morass
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| n.沼泽，困境 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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99
omnivorous
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| adj.杂食的 | |
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100
transmuting
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| v.使变形，使变质，把…变成…( transmute的现在分词 ) | |
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101
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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102
taverns
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| n.小旅馆，客栈，酒馆( tavern的名词复数 ) | |
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103
salons
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| n.（营业性质的）店( salon的名词复数 )；厅；沙龙（旧时在上流社会女主人家的例行聚会或聚会场所）；（大宅中的）客厅 | |
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104
disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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105
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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106
anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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107
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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108
absurdities
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| n.极端无理性( absurdity的名词复数 )；荒谬；谬论；荒谬的行为 | |
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109
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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110
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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111
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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112
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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113
deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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114
marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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115
overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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116
ridiculing
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的现在分词 ) | |
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117
piecemeal
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| adj.零碎的；n.片，块；adv.逐渐地；v.弄成碎块 | |
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118
livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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119
northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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120
survivors
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| 幸存者，残存者，生还者( survivor的名词复数 ) | |
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121
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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122
disturbances
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| n.骚乱( disturbance的名词复数 )；打扰；困扰；障碍 | |
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123
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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124
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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125
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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126
fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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127
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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128
kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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129
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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130
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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131
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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132
havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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133
sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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134
bouts
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| n.拳击（或摔跤）比赛( bout的名词复数 )；一段（工作）；（尤指坏事的）一通；（疾病的）发作 | |
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135
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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136
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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137
wrestle
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| vi.摔跤，角力；搏斗；全力对付 | |
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138
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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139
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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140
scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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141
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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142
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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143
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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144
worthiest
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| 应得某事物( worthy的最高级 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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145
prated
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| v.（古时用语）唠叨，啰唆( prate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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146
authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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147
second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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148
partisans
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| 游击队员( partisan的名词复数 )； 党人； 党羽； 帮伙 | |
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149
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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150
antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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151
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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152
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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153
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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154
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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155
radicals
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| n.激进分子( radical的名词复数 )；根基；基本原理；[数学]根数 | |
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156
emancipation
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| n.（从束缚、支配下）解放 | |
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157
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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158
idols
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| 偶像( idol的名词复数 )； 受崇拜的人或物； 受到热爱和崇拜的人或物； 神像 | |
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159
sophistries
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| n.诡辩术( sophistry的名词复数 )；（一次）诡辩 | |
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160
well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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161
impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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162
pumpkin
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| n.南瓜 | |
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163
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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164
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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165
stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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166
oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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167
tilting
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| 倾斜，倾卸 | |
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168
outspoken
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| adj.直言无讳的，坦率的，坦白无隐的 | |
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169
discorded
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| 不一致（discord的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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170
refractory
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| adj.倔强的，难驾驭的 | |
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171
spurts
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| 短暂而突然的活动或努力( spurt的名词复数 )； 突然奋起 | |
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172
volcanic
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| adj.火山的；象火山的；由火山引起的 | |
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173
nadir
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| n.最低点，无底 | |
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174
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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175
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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176
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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177
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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178
lavishes
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的第三人称单数 ) | |
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179
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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180
plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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181
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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182
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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183
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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184
inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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185
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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186
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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187
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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188
civilians
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| 平民，百姓( civilian的名词复数 )； 老百姓 | |
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189
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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190
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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191
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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192
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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193
annotating
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| v.注解，注释( annotate的现在分词 ) | |
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194
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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195
narrate
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| v.讲，叙述 | |
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196
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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197
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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198
monopolizing
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| v.垄断( monopolize的现在分词 )；独占；专卖；专营 | |
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199
brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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200
disparaging
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| adj.轻蔑的，毁谤的v.轻视( disparage的现在分词 )；贬低；批评；非难 | |
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201
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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202
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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203
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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204
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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205
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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206
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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207
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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208
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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209
frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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210
adherence
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| n.信奉，依附，坚持，固着 | |
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211
copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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212
veraciously
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| adv.诚实地 | |
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213
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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214
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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215
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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216
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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217
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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218
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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