Carlyle would accept only £100. Few men could have rewritten with any
heart that first volume: it would be almost impossible to revive
sufficient interest; the precious inspiration would have been wanting.
Yet Carlyle manfully accomplished his task, and I am inclined to think
that the second writing was better than the first; that he probably left
out what was unessential, and made a more condensed narrative,--a more
complete picture, for his memory was singularly retentive. I do not
believe that any man can do his best at the first heat. See how the
great poets revise and rewrite. Brougham rewrote his celebrated
peroration on the trial of Queen Caroline seventeen times. Carlyle had
to rewrite his book, but his materials remained; his great pictures were
all in his mind. In this second writing there may have been less
emotion,--less fire in his descriptions; but there was fire enough, for
his vivacity was excessive. Even _his_ work could be pruned, not by
others, but by himself. "The household at Chelsea was never closer drawn
together than in those times of trial." Carlyle lost time and spirits,
but he could afford the loss. The entire work was delayed, but was done
at last. The final sentence of Vol. III. was written at ten o'clock on a
damp evening, January 14, 1837.
This great work, the most ambitious and famous of all Carlyle's
writings, and in many respects his best, was not received by the public
with the enthusiam it ought to have awakened. It was not appreciated by
the people at large. "Ordinary readers were not enraptured by the Iliad
swiftness and vividness of the narrative, its sustained passion, the
flow of poetry, the touches of grandeur and tenderness, and the masterly
touches by which he made the great actors stand out in their
individuality." It seemed to many to be extravagant, exaggerated, at war
with all the "feudalities of literature." Partisans of all kinds were
offended. The style was startlingly broken, almost savage in strength,
vivid and distinct as lightning. Doubtless the man himself had grown
away from the quieter moods of his earlier essays. Froude quotes this
from Carlyle's journal: "The poor people seem to think a style can be
put off or on, not like a skin but like a coat. Is not a skin verily a
product and close kinsfellow of all that lies under it, exact type of
the nature of the beast, not to be plucked off without flaying and
death? The Public is an old woman. Let her maunder and mumble."
But the extraordinary merits of the book made a great impression on the
cultivated intellects of England,--such men as Jeffrey, Macaulay,
Southey, Hallam, Brougham, Thackeray, Dickens,--who saw and admitted
that a great genius had arisen, whether they agreed with his views or
not. In America, we may be proud to say, the work created general
enthusiasm, and its republication through Emerson's efforts brought some
money as well as larger fame to its author. Of the first moneys that
Emerson sent Carlyle as fruits of this adventure, the dyspeptic
Scotchman wrote that he was "half-resolved to buy myself a sharp little
nag with twenty of these trans-Atlantic pounds, and ride him till the
other thirty be eaten. I will call the creature 'Yankee.' ... My kind
friends!" And _Yankee_ was duly bought and ridden.
Carlyle still remained in straitened circumstances, although his
reputation was now established. In order to assist him in his great
necessities his friends got up lectures for him, which were attended by
the _élite_ of London. He gave several courses in successive years
during the London season, which brought him more money than his writings
at that time, gave him personal _éclat_, and added largely to his circle
of admirers. His second course of twelve lectures brought him £300,--a
year's harvest, and a large sum for lectures in England, where the
literary institutions rarely paid over £5 for a single lecture. Even in
later times the Philosophical Society of Edinburgh, which commanded the
finest talent, paid only £10 to such men as Froude and the archbishop
of York.
But lecturing, to many men an agreeable excitement, seems to have been
very unpleasant to Carlyle,--even repulsive. Though the lectures brought
both money and fame, he abominated the delivery of them. They broke his
rest, destroyed his peace of mind, and depressed his spirits. Nothing
but direst necessity reconciled him to the disagreeable task. He never
took any satisfaction or pride in his success in this field; nor was his
success probably legitimate. People went to see him as a new literary
lion,--to hear him roar, not to be edified. He had no peculiar
qualification for public speaking, and he affected to despise it. Very
few English men of letters have had this gift. Indeed, popular eloquence
is at a discount among the cultivated classes in England. They prefer to
read at their leisure. Popular eloquence best thrives in democracies, as
in that of ancient Athens; aristocrats disdain it, and fear it. In their
contempt for it they even affect hesitation and stammering, not only
when called upon to speak in public, but also in social converse, until
the halting style has come to be known among Americans as "very
English." In absolute monarchies eloquence is rare except in the pulpit
or at the bar. Cicero would have had no field, and would not probably
have been endured, in the reign of Nero; yet Bossuet and Bourdaloue were
the delight of Louis XIV. What would that monarch have said to the
speeches of Mirabeau?
After the publication in 1837 of the "French Revolution,"--that "roaring
conflagration of anarchies," that series of graphic pictures rather than
a history or even a criticism,--it was some time before Carlyle could
settle down upon another great work. He delivered lectures, wrote tracts
and essays, gave vent to his humors, and nursed his ailments. He was now
famous,--a man whom everybody wished to see and know, especially
Americans when they came to London, but whom he generally snubbed (as he
did me) and pronounced them bores. It was at this time that he made the
acquaintance of Monckton Milnes, afterward Lord Houghton, who invited
him to breakfast, where he met other notabilities,--among them Bunsen
the Prussian Ambassador at London; Lord Mahon the historian; and Mr.
Baring, afterward Lord Ashburton, the warmest and the truest of his
friends, who extended to him the most generous hospitalities.
Carlyle was now in what is called "high society," and was "taking life
easy,"--writing but little, yet reading much, especially about Oliver
Cromwell, whose Life he thought of writing. His lectures at this period
were more successful than ever, attended by great and fashionable
people; and from them his chief income was derived.
While collecting materials for his Life of Cromwell, Carlyle became
deeply interested in the movements of the Chartists, composed chiefly of
working-men with socialistic tendencies. He was called a "radical,"--and
he did believe in a radical reform of men's lives, especially of the
upper classes who showed but little sympathy for the poor. He was not
satisfied with the Whigs, who believed that the Reform Bill would usher
in a political millennium. He had more sympathy with the "conservative"
Tories than the "liberal" Whigs; but his opinions were not acceptable to
either of the great political parties. They alike distrusted him. Even
Mill had a year before declined an article on the working classes for
his Review, the Westminster. Carlyle took it to Lockhart of the
Quarterly, but Lockhart was afraid to publish it. Mill, then about to
leave the Westminster, wished to insert it as a final shout; but Carlyle
declined, and in 1839 expanded his article into a book called
"Chartism," which was rapidly sold and loudly noticed. It gave but
little satisfaction, however. It offended the conservatives by exposing
sores that could not be healed, while on the other hand the radicals did
not wish to be told that men were far from being equal,--that in fact
they were very unequal; and that society could not be advanced by
debating clubs or economical theories, but only by gifted individuals as
instruments of Divine Providence, guiding mankind by their
superior wisdom.
These views were expanded in a new course of lectures, on "Heroes and
Hero Worship," and subsequently printed,--the most able and suggestive
of all Carlyle's lectures, delivered in the spring of 1840 with great
_éclat_. He never appeared on the platform again. Lecturing, as we have
said, was not to his taste; he preferred to earn his living by his pen,
and his writings had now begun to yield a comfortable support. He
received on account of them £400 from America alone, thanks to the
influence of his friend Emerson.
Carlyle now began to weary of the distraction of London life, and pined
for the country. But his wife would not hear a word about it; she had
had enough of the country, at Craigenputtock. Meanwhile preparations for
the Life of Cromwell went on slowly, varied by visits to his relatives
in Scotland, travels on the Continent, and interviews with distinguished
men. His mind at this period (1842) was most occupied with the sad
condition of the English people,--everywhere riots, disturbances,
physical suffering and abject poverty among the masses, for the Corn
Laws had not then been repealed; and to Carlyle's vision there was a
most melancholy prospect ahead,--not revolution, but universal
degradation, and the reign of injustice. This sad condition of the
people was contrasted in his mind with what it had been centuries
before, as it appeared from an old book which he happened to read,
Jocelin's Chronicles, which painted English life in the twelfth century.
He fancied that the world was going on from bad to worse; and in this
gloomy state of mind he wrote his "Past and Present," which appeared in
1843, and created a storm of anger as well as admiration. It was a sort
of protest against the political systems of economy then so popular.
Lockhart said of it that he could accept none of his friend's inferences
except one,--"that we were all wrong, and were all like to be damned."
Gloomy and satirical as the book was, it made a great impression on the
thinkers of the day, while it did not add to the author's popularity. It
seemed as if he were a prophet of wrath,--an Ishmaelite whose hand was
against everybody. He offended all political parties,--"the Tories by
his radicalism, and the Radicals by his scorn of their formulas; the
High Churchman by his Protestantism, and the Low Churchman by evident
unorthodoxy." Yet all parties and sects admitted that much that he said
was true, while at the same time they had no sympathy with his
fierce ravings.
For ten years after the publication of the "French Revolution" Carlyle
assumed the functions of a prophet, hurling anathemas and pronouncing
woes. To his mind everything was alike disjointed or false or
pretentious, in view of which he uttered groans and hisses and
maledictions. The very name of a society designed to ameliorate evils
seemed to put him into a passion. Every reformer appeared to him to be a
blind teacher of the blind. Exeter Hall, then the scene of every variety
of social and religious and political discussion, was to him a veritable
pandemonium. Everybody at that period of agitation and reform was giving
lectures, and everybody went to hear them; and Carlyle ridiculed them
all alike as pedlers of nostrums to heal diseases which were incurable.
He lived in an atmosphere of disdain. "The English people," said he,
"number some thirty millions,--mostly fools." His friends expostulated
with him for giving utterance to such bitter expressions, and for
holding such gloomy views. John Mill was mortally offended, and walked
no more with him. De Quincey said, "You have made a new hole in your
society kettle: how do you propose to mend it?"
Yet all this while Carlyle had not lost faith in Providence, as it
might seem, but felt that God would inflict calamities on peoples for
their sins. He resembled Savonarola more than he did Voltaire. What
seemed to some to be mockeries were really the earnest protests of his
soul against universal corruption, to be followed by downward courses
and retribution. His mind was morbid from intense reflection on certain
evils, and from his physical ailments. He doubtless grieved and
alienated his best friends by his diatribes against popular education
and free institutions. He even appeared to lean to despotism and the
rule of tyrants, provided only they were strong.
Thus Carlyle destroyed his influence, even while he moved the mind to
reflection. It was seen and felt that he had no sympathy with many
movements designed to benefit society, and that he cherished utter scorn
for many active philanthropists. In his bitterness, wrath, and disdain
he became himself intolerant. In some of his wild utterances he brought
upon himself almost universal reproach, as when he said, "I never
thought the rights of negroes worth much discussing, nor the rights of
man in any form,"--a sentiment which militated against his whole
philosophy. In this strange and unhappy mood of mind, the "Latter Day
Pamphlets," "Past and Present," and other essays were written, which
undermined the reverence in which he had been held. These were the
blots on his great career, which may be traced to sickness and a
disordered mind.
In fact, Carlyle cannot be called a sound writer at any period. He
contradicts himself. He is a great painter, a prose-poet, a
satirist,--not a philosopher; perhaps the most suggestive writer of the
nineteenth century, often giving utterance to the grandest thoughts, yet
not a safe guide at all times, since he is inconsistent and full of
exaggerations.
The morbid and unhealthy tone of Carlyle's mind at this period may be
seen by an extract from one of his letters to Sterling:--
"I see almost nobody. I avoid sight, rather, and study to consume my own
smoke. I wish you would build me, among your buildings, some small
Prophet Chamber, fifteen feet square, with a flue for smoking, sacred
from all noises of dogs, cocks, and piano-fortes, engaging some dumb old
woman to light a fire for me daily, and boil some kind of a kettle."
Thus quaintly he expressed his desire for uninterrupted solitude, where
he could work to advantage.
He was then engaged on Cromwell, and the few persons with whom he
exchanged letters show how retired was his life. His friends were also
few, although he could have met as many persons as pleased him. He was
too much absorbed with work to be what is called a society man; but
what society he did see was of the best.
At last Carlyle's task on the "Life of Oliver Cromwell" was finished in
August, 1845, when he was fifty years of age. It was the greatest
contribution to English history; Mr. Froude thinks, which has been made
in the present century. "Carlyle was the first to make Cromwell and his
age intelligible to mankind." Indeed, he reversed the opinions of
mankind respecting that remarkable man, which was a great
accomplishment. No one doubts the genuineness of the portrait. Cromwell
was almost universally supposed, fifty years ago, to be a hypocrite as
well as a usurper. In Carlyle's hands he stands out visionary, perhaps,
but yet practical, sincere, earnest, God-fearing,--a patriot devoted to
the good of his country. Carlyle rescued a great historical personage
from the accumulated slanders of two centuries, and did his work so well
that no hostile criticisms have modified his verdict. He has painted a
picture which is immortal. The insight, the sagacity, the ability, and
the statesmanship of Cromwell are impressed upon the minds of all
readers. That England never had a greater or more enlightened ruler,
everybody is now forced to admit,--and not merely a patriotic but a
Christian ruler, who regarded himself simply as the instrument of
Providence.
People still differ as to the cause in which Cromwell embarked, and few
defend the means he used to accomplish his ends. He does not stand out
as a perfect man; he made mistakes, and committed political crimes which
can be defended only on grounds of expediency. But his private life was
above reproach, and he died in the triumph of Christian faith, after
having raised his country to a higher pitch of glory than had been seen
since the days of Queen Elizabeth.
The faults of the biographer centre in confounding right with might; and
this conspicuously false doctrine is the leading defect of the
philosophy of Carlyle, runs through all his writings, and makes him an
unsound teacher. If this doctrine be true, then all the usurpers of the
world from Caesar to Napoleon can be justified. If this be true, then an
irresistible imperialism becomes the best government for mankind. It is
but fair to say that Carlyle himself denied this inference. Writing of
Lecky's having charged him with believing in the divine right of
strength, he says:--
"With respect to that poor heresy of might being the symbol of right 'to
a certain great and venerable author,' I shall have to tell Lecky one
day that quite the converse or _re_verse is the great and venerable
author's real opinion,--namely, that right is the eternal symbol of
might; ... in fact, he probably never met with a son of Adam more
contemptuous of might except when it rests on the above origin."
Yet the impression of all his strongest work is the other way.
Certain other kindred doctrines may be inferentially drawn from
Carlyle's defence of Cromwell; namely, that a popular assembly is
incapable of guiding successfully the destinies of a nation; that behind
all constitutions lies an ultimate law of force; that majorities, as
such, have no more right to rule than kings and nobles; that the
strongest are the best, and the best are the strongest; that the right
to rule lies with those who are right in mind and heart, as he supposed
Cromwell to be, and who can execute their convictions. Such teachings,
it need not be shown, are at war with the whole progress of modern
society and the enlightened opinion of mankind.
The great merit of Carlyle's History is in the clearness and vividness
with which he paints his hero and the exposure of the injustice with
which he has been treated by historians. It is an able vindication of
Cromwell's character. But the deductions drawn from his philosophy lead
to absurdity, and are an insult to the understanding of the world.
It was about this time, on the conclusion of the "Cromwell," when he was
on the summit of his literary fame, and the world began to shower its
favors upon him, that Carlyle's days were saddened by a domestic trouble
which gave him inexpressible solicitude and grief. His wife, with whom
he had lived happily for so many years, was exceedingly disturbed on
account of his intimate friendship with Lady Ashburton. Nothing can be
more plaintive and sadly beautiful than the letters he wrote to her on
the occasion of her starting off in a fit of spleen, after a stormy
scene, to visit friends at a distance; and what is singular is that we
do not find in those letters, when his soul was moved to its very
depths, any of his peculiarities of style. They are remarkably simple as
well as serious.
Carlyle's friendship for one of the most brilliant and cultivated women
of England, which the breath of scandal never for a moment assailed, was
reasonable and natural, and was a great comfort to him. He persisted in
enjoying it, knowing that his wife disliked it. In this matter, which
was a cloud upon his married life, and saddened the family hearth for
years, Mrs. Carlyle was doubtless exacting and unreasonable; though some
men would have yielded the point for the sake of a faithful wife,--or
even for peace. There are those who think that Carlyle was selfish in
keeping up an intercourse which was hateful to his wife; but the
Ashburtons were the best friends that Carlyle ever had, after he became
famous,--and in their various country seats he enjoyed a hospitality
rarely extended to poor literary men. There he met in enjoyable and
helpful intercourse, when he could not have seen them in his own house,
some of the most distinguished men of the day,--men of rank and
influence as well as those of literary fame.
Until this intimacy with the Ashburtons, no domestic disturbances of
note had taken place in the Carlyle household. The wife may occasionally
have been sad and lonely when her husband was preoccupied with his
studies; but this she ought to have anticipated in marrying a literary
man whose only support was from his pen. Carlyle, too, was an inveterate
smoker, and she detested tobacco, so that he did not spend as much time
in the parlor as he did in his library, where he could smoke to his
heart's content. On the whole, however, their letters show genuine
mutual affection, and as much connubial happiness as is common to most
men and women, with far more of intimate intellectual and spiritual
congeniality. Carlyle, certainly, in all his letters, ever speaks of his
wife with admiration and gratitude. He regarded her as not only the most
talented woman that he had ever known, but as the one without whom he
was miserable. They were the best of comrades and companions from first
to last, when at home together.
For a considerable period after the publication of the Life of Cromwell,
Carlyle was apparently idle. He wrote for several years nothing of note
except his "Latter Day Pamphlets" (1850), and a Life of his friend John
Sterling (1851), to whom he was tenderly attached. It would seem that he
was now in easy circumstances, although he retained to the end his
economical habits. He amused himself with travelling, and with frequent
visits to distinguished people in the country. If not a society man, he
was much sought; he dined often at the tables of the great, and
personally knew almost every man of note in London. He sturdily took his
place among distinguished men,--the intellectual peer of the greatest.
He often met Macaulay, but was not intimate with him. I doubt if they
even exchanged visits. The reason for this may have been that they were
not congenial to each other in anything, and that the social position of
Macaulay was immeasurably higher than Carlyle's. It would be hard to say
which was the greater man.
It was not until 1852 or 1853, when Carlyle was fifty-eight, that he
seriously set himself to write his Life of Frederic II., his last great
work, on which he perseveringly labored for thirteen years. It is an
exhaustive history of the Prussian hero, and is regarded in Germany as
the standard work on that great monarch and general. The first volume
came out in 1858, and the last in 1865. It is a marvel of industry and
accuracy,--the most elaborate of all his works, but probably the least
read because of its enormous length and scholastic pedantries. It might
be said to bear the same relation to his "French Revolution" that
"Romola" does to "Adam Bede." In this book Carlyle made no new
revelations, as he did in his Life of Cromwell. He did not change
essentially the opinion of mankind. Frederick the Great, in his hands,
still stands out as an unscrupulous public enemy,--a robber and a
tyrant. His crimes are only partially redeemed by his heroism,
especially when Europe was in arms against him. There is the same defect
in this great work that there is in the Life of Cromwell,--the
inculcation of the doctrine that might makes right; that we may do evil
that good may come,--thus putting expediency above eternal justice, and
palliating crimes because of their success. It is difficult to account
for Carlyle's decline in moral perceptions, when we consider that his
personal life was so far above reproach.