Of the people I saw in London, you will wish me to speak first of the
Carlyles. Mr. C. came to see me at once, and appointed an evening to
be passed at their house. That first time, I was delighted with him.
He was in a very sweet humor,--full of wit and pathos, without being
overbearing or oppressive. I was quite carried away with the rich flow
of his discourse; and the hearty, noble earnestness of his personal
being brought back the charm which once was upon his writing, before I
wearied of it. I admired his Scotch, his way of singing his great full
sentences, so that each one was like the stanza of a narrative ballad.
He let me talk, now and then, enough to free my lungs and change my
position, so that I did not get tired. That evening, he talked of the
present state of things in England, giving light, witty sketches
of the men of the day, fanatics and others, and some sweet, homely
stories he told of things he had known of the Scotch peasantry. Of you
he spoke with hearty kindness; and he told, with beautiful feeling, a
story of some poor farmer, or artisan, in the country, who on Sunday
lays aside the cark and care of that dirty English world, and sits
reading the Essays, and looking upon the sea.
I left him that night, intending to go out very often to their
house. I assure you there never was anything so witty as Carlyle's
description of ---- ----. It was enough to kill one with laughing.
I, on my side, contributed a story to his fund of anecdote on this
subject, and it was fully appreciated. Carlyle is worth a thousand of
you for that;--he is not ashamed to laugh, when he is amused, but goes
on in a cordial human fashion.
The second time, Mr. C. had a dinner-party, at which was a witty,
French, flippant sort of man, author of a History of Philosophy, and
now writing a Life of Goethe, a task for which he must be as unfit as
irreligion and sparkling shallowness can make him. But he told stories
admirably, and was allowed sometimes to interrupt Carlyle a little,
of which one was glad, for, that night, he was in his more acrid
mood; and, though much more brilliant than on the former evening,
grew wearisome to me, who disclaimed and rejected almost everything he
said.
For a couple of hours, he was talking about poetry, and the whole
harangue was one eloquent proclamation of the defects in his own mind.
Tennyson wrote in verse because the schoolmasters had taught him that
it was great to do so, and had thus, unfortunately, been turned from
the true path for a man. Burns had, in like manner, been turned from
his vocation. Shakspeare had not had the good sense to see that
it would have been better to write straight on in prose;--and such
nonsense, which, though amusing enough at first, he ran to death after
a while. The most amusing part is always when he comes back to some
refrain, as in the French Revolution of the _sea-green_. In this
instance, it was Petrarch and _Laura_, the last word pronounced with
his ineffable sarcasm of drawl. Although he said this over
fifty times, I could not ever help laughing when _Laura_ would
come,--Carlyle running his chin out, when he spoke it, and his eyes
glancing till they looked like the eyes and beak of a bird of prey.
Poor Laura! Lucky for her that her poet had already got her safely
canonized beyond the reach of this Teufelsdrockh vulture.
The worst of hearing Carlyle is that you cannot interrupt him. I
understand the habit and power of haranguing have increased very much
upon him, so that you are a perfect prisoner when he has once got hold
of you. To interrupt him is a physical impossibility. If you get a
chance to remonstrate for a moment, he raises his voice and bears
you down. True, he does you no injustice, and, with his admirable
penetration, sees the disclaimer in your mind, so that you are not
morally delinquent; but it is not pleasant to be unable to utter it.
The latter part of the evening, however, he paid us for this, by a
series of sketches, in his finest style of railing and raillery, of
modern French literature, not one of them, perhaps, perfectly just,
but all drawn with the finest, boldest strokes, and, from his point of
view, masterly. All were depreciating, except that of Béranger. Of him
he spoke with perfect justice, because with hearty sympathy.
I had, afterward, some talk with Mrs. C., whom hitherto I had only
_seen_, for who can speak while her husband is there? I like her very
much;--she is full of grace, sweetness, and talent. Her eyes are sad
and charming. * * *
After this, they went to stay at Lord Ashburton's, and I only saw
them once more, when they came to pass an evening with us. Unluckily,
Mazzini was with us, whose society, when he was there alone, I enjoyed
more than any. He is a beauteous and pure music; also, he is a dear
friend of Mrs. C.; but his being there gave the conversation a turn to
"progress" and ideal subjects, and C. was fluent in invectives on
all our "rose-water imbecilities." We all felt distant from him, and
Mazzini, after some vain efforts to remonstrate, became very sad. Mrs.
C. said to me, "These are but opinions to Carlyle; but to Mazzini, who
has given his all, and helped bring his friends to the scaffold, in
pursuit of such subjects, it is a matter of life and death."
All Carlyle's talk, that evening, was a defence of mere
force,--success the test of right;--if people would not behave well,
put collars round their necks;--find a hero, and let them be his
slaves, &c. It was very Titanic, and anti-celestial. I wish the last
evening had been more melodious. However, I bid Carlyle farewell with
feelings of the warmest friendship and admiration. We cannot feel
otherwise to a great and noble nature, whether it harmonize with our
own or not. I never appreciated the work he has done for his age
till I saw England. I could not. You must stand in the shadow of that
mountain of shams, to know how hard it is to cast light across it.
Honor to Carlyle! _Hoch!_ Although in the wine with which we drink
this health, I, for one, must mingle the despised "rose-water."
And now, having to your eye shown the defects of my own mind, in the
sketch of another, I will pass on more lowly,--more willing to be
imperfect,--since Fate permits such noble creatures, after all, to
be only this or that. It is much if one is not only a crow or
magpie;--Carlyle is only a lion. Some time we may, all in full, be
intelligent and humanly fair.