the part of friendly governments might kindle anew the flames of war,
Lord Byron was living in Genoa, taking such an interest in the Greek
struggle that he abandoned poetry for politics. He had always
sympathized with enslaved nations struggling for independence, and was
driven from Ravenna on account of his alliance with the revolutionary
Society of the Carbonari. A new passion now seized him. He entered heart
and soul into the struggles of the Greeks. Their cause absorbed him. He
would aid them to the full extent of his means, with money and arms, as
a private individual. He would be a political or military hero,--a man
of action, not of literary leisure.
Every lover of liberty must respect Byron's noble aspirations to assist
the Greeks. It was a new field for him, but one in which he might
retrieve his reputation,--for it must be borne in mind that his ruling
passion was fame, and that he had gained all he could expect by his
literary productions. Whether loved or hated, admired or censured, his
poetry had placed him in the front rank of literary geniuses throughout
the world. As a poet his immortality was secured. In literary efforts he
had also probably exhausted himself; he could write nothing more which
would add to his fame, unless he took a long rest and recreation. He was
wearied of making poetry; but by plunging into a sea of fresh
adventures, and by giving a new direction to his powers, he might be
sufficiently renovated, in the course of time, to write something
grander and nobler than even "Childe Harold" or "Cain."
Lord Byron at this time was only thirty-five years old, a period when
most men begin their best work. His constitution, it is true, was
impaired, but he was still full of life and enterprise. He could ride or
swim as well as he ever could. The call of a gallant people summoned him
to arms, and of all nations he most loved the Greeks. He was an
enthusiast in their cause; he believed that the day of their deliverance
was at hand. So he made up his mind to consecrate his remaining energies
to effect their independence. He opened a correspondence with the Greek
committee in London. He selected a party, including a physician, to sail
with him from Geneva. He raised a sum of about £10,000, and on the 13th
of July, 1823, embarked with his small party and eight servants, on
board the "Hercules" for Greece.
After a short delay at Leghorn the poet reached Cephalonia on the 24th
of July. He was enthusiastically received by the Greeks of Argostoli,
the principal port, but deemed it prudent to remain there until he could
get further intelligence from Corfu and Missolonghi,--visiting, in the
interval, some of the neighboring islands consecrated by the muse
of Homer.
The dissensions among the Greek leaders greatly embarrassed Byron, but
did not destroy his ardor. He saw that the people were degenerate,
faithless, and stained with atrocities as disgraceful as those of the
Turks themselves. He dared not commit himself to any one of the
struggling, envious parties which rallied round their respective
chieftains. He lingered for six weeks in Cephalonia without the ordinary
comforts of life, yet, against all his habits, rising at an early hour
and attending to business, negotiating bills, and corresponding with the
government, so far as there was a recognized central power.
At last, after the fall of Corinth, taken from the Turks, and the
arrival at Missolonghi of Prince Mavrocordato, the only leader of the
Greeks worthy of the name of statesman, Byron sailed for that city, then
invested by a Turkish fleet, and narrowly escaped capture. Here he did
all he could to produce union among the chieftains, and took into his
pay five hundred Suliotes, acting as their leader. He meditated an
attack on Lepanto, which commanded the navigation of the Gulf of
Corinth, and received from the government a commission for that
enterprise; but dissensions among his men, and intrigues between rival
generals, prevented the execution of his project.
It was in Missolonghi, Jan. 22, 1824, that, with the memorandum, "On
this day I completed my thirty-sixth year," Byron wrote his latest
verses, most pathetically regretting his youth and his unfortunate life,
but arousing himself to find in a noble cause a glorious death:--
"The fire that in my bosom preys
Is like to some volcanic isle;
No torch is kindled at its blaze,--
A funeral pile."
* * * * *
"Awake!--not Greece: she is awake!--
Awake, my spirit! think through whom
Thy life-blood tastes its parent lake,
And then strike home!"
* * * * *
"Seek out--less often sought than found--
A soldier's grave, for thee the best;
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
And take thy rest!"
Vexations, disappointments, and exposure to the rains of February so
wrought upon Byron's eager spirit and weakened body that he was attacked
by convulsive fits. The physicians, in accordance with the custom of
that time, bled their patient several times, against the protest of
Byron himself, which reduced him to extreme weakness. He rallied from
the attack for a time, and devoted himself to the affairs of Greece,
hoping for the restoration of his health when spring should come. He
spent in three months thirty thousand dollars for the cause into which
he had so cordially entered. In April he took another cold from severe
exposure, and fever set in,--to relieve which bleeding was again
resorted to, and often repeated. He was now confined to his room, which
he never afterwards left. He at last realized that he was dying, and
sent incoherent messages to his sister, to his daughter, and to a few
intimate friends. The end came on the 19th of April. The Greek
government rendered all the honor possible to the illustrious dead. His
remains were transferred to England. He was not buried in Westminster
Abbey, however, but in the church of Hucknal, near Newstead, where a
tablet was erected to his memory by his sister, the Hon. Augusta
Maria Leigh.
"So Harold ends in Greece, his pilgrimage
There fitly ending,--in that land renowned,
Whose mighty genius lives in Glory's page,
He on the Muses' consecrated ground
Sinking to rest, while his young brows are bound
With their unfading wreath! To bands of mirth
No more in Tempe let the pipe resound!
Harold, I follow to thy place of birth
The slow hearse,--and thy last sad pilgrimage on earth."
I can add but little to what I have already said in reference to Byron,
either as to his character or his poetry. The Edinburgh Review, which in
Brougham's article on his early poems had stung him into satire and
aroused him to a sense of his own powers, in later years by Jeffrey's
hand gave a most appreciative account of his poems, while mourning over
his morbid gloom: "'Words that breathe and thoughts that burn' are not
merely the ornaments but the common staple of his poetry; and he is not
inspired or impressive only in some happy passages, but through the
whole body and tissue of his composition." The keen insight and
exceptional intellect of the philosopher-poet Goethe recognized in him
"the greatest talent of our century." His marvellous poetic genius was
universally acknowledged in his own day; and more than that, so human
was it that it attracted the sympathies of all civilized nations, and,
as Lamartine said, "made English literature known throughout Europe."
Byron's poetry was politically influential also, by reason of its
liberty-loving spirit,--arousing Italy, inspiring the young
revolutionists of Germany, and awaking a generous sympathy for Greece.
Without the consciousness of any "mission" beyond the expression of his
own ebullient nature, this poet contributed no mean impulse to the
general emancipation of spirit which has signalized the
nineteenth century.
Two generations have passed away since Byron's mortal remains were
committed to the dust, and the verdict of his country has not since
materially changed,--admiration for his genius _alone_. The light of
lesser stars than he shines with brighter radiance. What the enlightened
verdict of mankind may be two generations hence, no living mortal can
tell. The worshippers of intellect may attempt to reverse or modify the
judgment already passed, but the impressive truth remains that no man,
however great his genius, will be permanently judged aside from
character. When Lord Bacon left his name and memory to men's charitable
judgments and the next age, he probably had in view his invaluable
legacy to mankind of earnest searchings after truth, which made him one
of the greatest of human benefactors. How far the poetry of Byron has
proved a blessing to the world must be left to an abler critic than I
lay claim to be. In him the good and evil went hand in hand in the
eternal warfare which ancient Persian sages saw between the powers of
light and darkness in every human soul,--a consciousness of which
warfare made Byron himself in his saddest hours wish he had never
lived at all.
If we could, in his life and in his works, separate the evil from the
good, and let only the good remain,--then his services to literature
could hardly be exaggerated, and he would be honored as the greatest
English poet, so far as native genius goes, after Shakespeare
and Milton.
THOMAS CARLYLE.
1795-1881.
CRITICISM AND BIOGRAPHY.
The now famous biography of Thomas Carlyle, by Mr. Froude, shed a new
light on the eccentric Scotch essayist, and in some respects changed the
impressions produced by his own "Reminiscences" and the Letters of his
wife. It is with the aid of those two brilliant and interesting volumes
on Carlyle's "Earlier Life" and "Life in London," issued about two years
after the death of their distinguished subject, that I have rewritten my
own view of one of the most remarkable men of the nineteenth century.
Of the men of genius who have produced a great effect on their own time,
there is no one concerning whom such fluctuating opinions have prevailed
within forty years as in regard to Carlyle. His old admirers became his
detractors, and those who first disliked him became his friends. When
his earlier works appeared they attracted but little general notice,
though there were many who saw in him a new light, or a new power to
brush away cobwebs and shams, and to exalt the spiritual and eternal in
man over all materialistic theories and worldly conventionalities.
Carlyle's "Miscellanies"--essays published first in the leading Reviews,
when he lived in his moorland retreat--created enthusiasm among young
students and genuine thinkers of every creed. Lord Jeffrey detected the
new genius and gave him a lift. Carlyle's "French Revolution" took the
world by surprise, and established his fame. His "Oliver Cromwell"
modified and perhaps changed the opinions of English and American people
respecting the Great Protector. It was then that his popularity was
greatest, and that the eccentric genius of Cheyne Row, so long
struggling with poverty, was assured of a competence, and was received
in some of the proudest families of the kingdom as a teacher and a sage.
Thus far he was an optimist, taking cheerful views of human life, and
encouraging those who had noble aspirations.
But for some unaccountable reason, whether from discontent or dyspepsia
or disappointment, or disgust with this world, Carlyle gradually became
a pessimist, and attacked all forms of philanthropy, thus alienating
those who had been his warmest supporters. He grew more bitter and
morose, until at last he howled almost like a madman, and was steeped
in cynicism and gloom. He put forth the doctrine that might was right,
and that thrones belong to the strongest. He saw no reliance in
governments save upon physical force, and expressed the most boundless
contempt for all institutions established by the people. Then he wrote
his "Frederic the Great,"--his most ambitious and elaborate production,
received as an authority from its marvellous historical accuracy, but
not so generally read as his "French Revolution," and not, like his
"Cromwell," changing the opinions of mankind.
Soon after this the death of his wife plunged him into renewed gloom,
from which he never emerged; and he virtually retired from the world,
and was lost sight of by the younger generation, until his
"Reminiscences" appeared, injudiciously published at his request by his
friend and pupil Froude, in which his scorn and contempt for everybody
and everything turned the current of public opinion strongly against
him. This was still further increased when the Letters of his
wife appeared.
Carlyle's bitterest assailants were now agnostics of every shade and
degree, especially of the humanitarian school,--that to which Mill and
George Eliot belonged. It was seen that this reviler of hypocrisy and
shams, this disbeliever in miracles and in mechanisms to save society,
was after all a believer in God Almighty and in immortality; a stern
advocate of justice and duty, appealing to the conscience of mankind; a
man who detested Comte the positivist as much as he despised Mill the
agnostic, and who exalted the old religion of his fathers, stripped of
supernaturalism, as the only hope of the world. The biography by Froude,
while it does not conceal the atrabilious temperament of Carlyle, his
bad temper, his intense egotism, his irritability, his overweening
pride, his scorn, his profound loneliness and sorrow, and the deep gloom
into which he finally settled, made clear at the same time his honest
and tender nature, his noble independence, his heroic struggles with
poverty of which he never complained, his generous charities, his
conscientiousness and allegiance to duty, his constant labors amid
disease and excessive nervousness, and his profound and unvarying love
for his wife, although he was deficient in those small attentions and
demonstrations of affection which are so much prized by women. If it be
asked whether he was happy in his domestic relations, I would say that
he was as much so as such a man could be. But it was a physical and
moral impossibility that with his ailments and temper he _could_ be
happy. He was not sent into this world to be happy, but to do a work
which only such a man as he could do.
So displeasing, however, were the personal peculiarities of Carlyle
that the man can never be popular. This hyperborean literary giant,
speaking a Babylonian dialect, smiting remorselessly all pretenders and
quacks, and even honest fools, was himself personally a bundle of
contradictions, fierce and sad by turns. He was a compound of Diogenes,
Jeremiah, and Dr. Johnson: like the Grecian cynic in his contempt and
scorn, like the Jewish prophet in his melancholy lamentations, like the
English moralist in his grim humor and overbearing dogmatism.
It is unfortunate that we know so much of the man. Better would it be
for his fame if we knew nothing at all of his habits and peculiarities.
In our blended admiration and contempt, our minds are diverted from the
lasting literary legacy he has left, which, after all, is the chief
thing that concerns us. The mortal man is dead, but his works live. The
biography of a great man is interesting, but his thoughts go coursing
round the world, penetrating even the distant ages, modifying systems
and institutions. What a mighty power is law! Yet how little do we know
or care, comparatively, for lawgivers!
Thomas Carlyle was born in the year 1795, of humble parentage, in an
obscure Scotch village. His father was a stone-mason, much respected for
doing good work, and for his virtue and intelligence,--a rough, rugged
man who appreciated the value of education. Although kind-hearted and
religious, it would seem that he was as hard and undemonstrative as an
old-fashioned Puritan farmer,--one of those men who never kiss their
children, or even their wives, before people. His mother also was
sagacious and religious, and marked by great individuality of character.
For these stern parents Carlyle ever cherished the profoundest respect
and affection, regularly visiting them once a year wherever he might be,
writing to them frequently, and yielding as much to their influence as
to that of anybody.
At the age of fourteen the boy was sent to the University of Edinburgh,
with but little money in his pocket, and forced to practise the most
rigid economy. He did not make a distinguished mark at college, nor did
he cultivate many friendships. He was reserved, shy, awkward, and proud.
After leaving college he became a school-teacher, with no aptness and
much disdain for his calling. It was then that he formed the
acquaintance of Edward Irving, which ripened into the warmest friendship
of his life. He was much indebted to this celebrated preacher for the
intellectual impulse received from him. Irving was at the head of a
school at Kirkcaldy, and Carlyle became his assistant. Both these young
men were ambitious, and aspired to pre-eminence. Like Napoleon at the
military school of Brienne, they would not have been contented with
anything less, because they were conscious of their gifts; and both
attained their end. Irving became the greatest preacher of his day, and
Carlyle the greatest writer; but Carlyle had the most self-sustained
greatness. Irving was led by the demon of popularity into extravagances
of utterance which destroyed his influence. Carlyle, on the other hand,
never courted popularity; but becoming bitter and cynical in the rugged
road he climbed to fame, he too lost many of his admirers.
In ceasing to be a country schoolmaster, Carlyle did not abandon
teaching. He removed to Edinburgh for the study of divinity, and
supported himself by giving lessons. He had been destined by his parents
to be a minister of the Kirk of Scotland; but at the age of twenty-three
he entered upon a severe self-examination to decide whether he honestly
believed and could preach its doctrines. Weeks of intense struggle freed
him from the intellectual bonds of the kirk, but fastened upon him the
chronic disorder of his stomach which embittered his life, and in later
years distorted his vision of the world about him. At the recommendation
of his friend Irving, then preacher at Hatton Gardens, Carlyle now
became private tutor to the son of Mr. Charles Buller, an Anglo-Indian
merchant, on a salary of £200; and the tutor had the satisfaction of
seeing his pupil's political advancement as a member of the House of
Commons and one of the most promising men in England.
About this time Carlyle, who had been industriously studying German and
French, published a translation of Legendre's "Elements of Geometry;"
and in 1824 brought out a "Life of Schiller," a work that he never
thought much of, but which was a very respectable performance. In fact,
he never thought much of any of his works: they were always behind his
ideal. He wrote slowly, and took great pains to be accurate; and in this
respect he reminds us of George Eliot. Carlyle had no faith in rapid
writing of any sort, any more than Daniel Webster had in extempore
speaking. After he had become a master of composition, it took him
thirteen years of steady work to write "Frederick the Great,"--about the
same length of time it took Macaulay to write the history of fifteen
years of England's life, whereas Gibbon wrote the whole of his
voluminous and exhaustive "History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman
Empire" in twenty years.
"Schiller" being finished, Carlyle was now launched upon his life-work
as "a writer of books." He translated Goethe's "Wilhelm Meister," for
which he received £180. I do not see the transcendent excellence of
this novel, except in its original and forcible criticism, and its
undercurrent of philosophy; but it is nevertheless famous. These two
works gave Carlyle some literary reputation among scholars, but not
much fame.
Although Carlyle was thus fairly embarked on a literary career, the
"trade" of literature he always regarded as a poor one, and never
encouraged a young man to pursue it as a profession unless forced into
it by his own irresistible impulses. Its nobility he ranked very high,
but not its remunerativeness. He regarded it as a luxury for the rich
and leisurely, but a very thorny and discouraging path for a poor man.
How few have ever got a living by it, unless allied with other
callings,--as a managing clerk, or professor, or lecturer, or editor!
The finest productions of Emerson were originally delivered as lectures.
Novelists and dramatists, I think, are the only class, who, without
doing anything else, have earned a comfortable support by their
writings. Historians have, with very few exceptions, been independent in
their circumstances.
In the year 1826, at the age of thirty-one, Carlyle married Jane Welsh,
the only child of a deceased physician of Haddington, who had some
little property in expectancy from the profits of a farm in the
moorlands of Scotland. She was beautiful, intellectual, and nervously
intense. She had been a pupil of Edward Irving, who had introduced his
friend Carlyle to her. On the whole, it was a fortunate marriage for
Carlyle, although it would have been impossible for him to have or to
give happiness in constant and intimate companionship with any woman. He
was very fond of his wife, but in an undemonstrative sort of
way,--except in his letters to her, which are genuine love-letters,
tender and considerate. As in the case of most superior women, clouds at
times gathered over her, which her husband did not or could not
dissipate. But she was very proud of him, and faithful to him, and
careful of his interest and fame. Nor is there evidence from her
letters, or from the late biography which Froude has written, that she
was, on the whole, unhappy. She was very frank, very sharp with her
tongue, and sometimes did not spare her husband. She had a good deal to
put up with from his irritable temper; but she also was irritable,
nervous, and sickly, although in her loyalty she rarely complained,
while she had many privations to endure,--for Carlyle until he was
nearly fifty was a poor man. During the first two years of their
residence in London they were obliged to live on £100 a year. He was
never in even moderately easy circumstances until after his "Oliver
Cromwell" was published.
After his marriage, Carlyle lived eighteen months near Edinburgh; but
there was no opening for him in the exclusive society there. His merits
were not then recognized as a man of genius in that cultivated capital,
as it pre-eminently was at that time; but he made the acquaintance of
Jeffrey, who acknowledged his merit, admired his wife, and continued to
be as good a friend as that worldly but accomplished man could be to one
so far beneath him in social rank.
The next seven years of Carlyle's life were spent at the Scotch moorland
farm of Craigenputtock, belonging to his wife's mother, which must have
contributed to his support. How any brilliant woman, fond of society as
Mrs. Carlyle was, could have lived contentedly in that dreary solitude,
fifteen miles from any visiting neighbor or town, is a mystery. She had
been delicately reared, and the hard life wore upon her health. Yet it
was here that the young couple established themselves, and here that
some of the young author's best works were written,--as the
"Miscellanies" and "Sartor Resartus." From here it was that he sent
forth those magnificent articles on Heyne, Goethe, Novalis, Voltaire,
Burns, and Johnson, which, published in the Edinburgh and other Reviews,
attracted the attention of the reading world, and excited boundless
admiration among students.
The earlier of these remarkable productions, like those on Burns and
Jean Paul Richter, were free from those eccentricities of style which
Carlyle persisted in retaining with amazing pertinacity as he advanced
in life,--except, again, in his letters to his wife, which are models of
clear writing.