Reminiscences

Preface

In the summer of 1871, Mr. Carlyle placed in my bands a collection of MSS. of which he desired me to take charge, and to publish, should I think fit to do so, after he was gone. They consisted of letters written by his wife to himself and to other friends during the period of her married life, with the " rudiments" of a preface of his own, giving an account of her family, her childhood, and their own experience together from their first acquaintance till her death. They were married iu 1826; Mrs. Carlyle died suddenly in 1866. Between these two periods Carlyle's active literary life was comprised ; and be thought it unnecessary that more than these letters contained should be made known, or attempted to be made known, about himself or his personal history. The essential part of his life "was in his works, which those who chose could read. The private part of it was a matter iu which the world had no concern. Enough would be found, told by one who knew him better than any one else knew him, to satisfy such curiosity as there might be. His object was rather to leave a monument to a singularly gifted woman, "who, had she so pleased, might have made a name for herself, and for his sake had voluntarily sacrificed ambition and fortune.

The letters had been partially prepared for the press by short separate introductions and explanatory notes. But Carlyle warned me that before they were published they would require anxious revision. Written with the unreserve of confidential communications, they contained anecdotes, allusions, reflections, expressions of opinion and feeling, which were intended obviously for no eye save that of the person to whom they were addressed. He believed, at the time I speak of, that his own life was near its end, and, seeing the difficulty in which I might be placed, he left me at last with discretion to destroy the whole of them, should I find the task of discriminating too intricate a problem.

The expectation of an early end was perhaps suggested by the wish for it. He could no longer write. His hand was disabled by palsy. His temperament did not suit with dictation, and he was impatient of an existence which he could no longer turn to any useful purpose. He lingered on, however, year after year, and it gradually became known to him that his wishes would not protect liim from biographers, and that an account of his life would certainly be tried, perhaps by more than one person. A true description of it he did not believe that any one could give, not even his closest friend : but there might be degrees of falsity ; and since a biography of some kind there was to be, he decided at last to extend bis original commission to me, and to make over to me all bin private papers, journals, note-books, letters, and unfinished or ueglected writings.

Being a person of most methodical habits, he had preserved every letter which be had ever received of not entirely trifling import. His mother, his wife, his brothers, and many of his friends had kept as carefully every letter from himself. The most remarkable of his contemporaries bad beeu among his correspondents — English, French, Italian, German, and American. Goethe had recognized his genius, aud had written to him often, advising and encouraging. His own aud Mrs. Carlyle's journals were records of their most secret thoughts. All these Mr. Carlyle, scarcely remembering what they contained, but with characteristic fearlessness, gave me leave to use as I might please.

Material of such a character makes my duty in one respect an easy one. I have not to relate Mr. Carlyle's history, or describe his character. He is his own biographer, aud paiuts his own portrait. But another difficulty arises from the extent of the resources thrown open to me. His own letters are as full of matter as the richest of his published works. His friends were not common men, and iu writing to him they wrote their best. Of the many thousand letters in my possession, there is hardly one which either on its special merits, or through its connection with something which concerned him, does not deserve to be printed. Selection is indispensable ; a middle way must be struck between too much and too little. I have been guided largely, however, by Carlyle's personal directions to me, and such a way will, I trust, be discovered.

Meanwhile, on examining the miscellaneous MSS., I found among them various sketches and reminiscences : one written iu a note-book fifty years ago, on hearing in London of his father's death ; another of Edward Irving ; another of Lord Jeffrey ; others (these brief aud slight) of Southey and Wordsworth. In addition, there was a long narrative, or fragments of a narrative, designed as material for the introduction to Mrs. Carlyle's letters. These letters would now have to be rearranged with his own; aud an introduction, under the shape which had been intended for it, would be no longer necessary. The "Reminiscences" appeared to me to be far too valuable to be broken up and employed in any composition of

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my own, ami I told Mr. Carlyle that I thought they ought to he printed with the requisite omissious immediately after his own death. He agreed with me that it should he so, and at one time it was proposed that the type should he set up while ho was still alive, and could himself revise what he had written. He found, however, that the effort would he too much for him, and the reader has here hefore him Mr. Carlyle's own handiwork, hut without his last touches, not edited hy himself, not corrected by himself, perhaps most of it not intended for publication, and written down merely as an occupation, for his own private satisfaction.

The Introductory Fragments were written immediately after his wife's death ; the account of Irving belongs to the autumn and winter which followed. So singular was his condition at this time, that he was afterwards unconscious what he had done; and when, ten years later, I found the Irving MS. and asked him about it, he did not know to what I was alluding. The sketch of Jeffrey was written immediately after. Some parts of the introduction I have reserved for the biography, into which they will most conveniently fall ; the rest, from the point where they form a consecutive story, I have printed with only a few occasional reservations. " Southey " and " Wordsworth," being merely detached notes of a few personal recollections, I have attached as an appendix.

Nothing more remains to be said about these papers, save to repeat, for clearness' sake, that they are published with Mr. Carlyle's consent, but without his supervision. The detailed responsibility is therefore entirely my own. I will add, for the convenience of the geueral public, the few chief points of his outward life. He was the son of a village mason, boru atEcclefechan, in Annandale, December 4, 1795. He was educated first at Ecclefechau school. In 1806 he was sent to the grammar-school at Auuau, and in 1809 to Edinburgh University. In 1814 he was appointed mathematical usher at Annan, and in 1816 schoolmaster at Kirkcaldy. In 1818 he gave up his situation, and supported himself by taking pupils at Edinburgh. Iu 1822 he became private tutor iu the family of Mr. Charles Buller ; Charles Buller the younger, who was afterwards so brilliantly distinguished in Parliament, being his pupil. While in this capacity he wrote his " Life of Schiller," and translated " Wilhelm Meister." In 1826 he married. Ho lived for eighteen months at Comley Bauk, on the north side of Edinburgh. He then removed to Craigeuputtoch, a moorland farm iu Dumfriesshire belonging to his wife's mother, where he remained for seven years, writing" Sartor Resartus" there, and nearly all his Miscellanies. Iu 1834 he left Scotland and settled in London, No. 5 Cheyne Row, Chelsea, and there continued without further change till his death.

JAMES CARLYLE*

On Tuesday, January 26, 1832, I received tidings that my dear and worthy father had departed out of this world. He was called away by a death appareutly of the mildest, on Sunday morning about six. He had taken what, was thought a bad cold on the Monday preceding, but rose every day and was sometimes out of doors. Occasionally he wa-s insensible (as pain usually soon made him of late years), but when spokeu to he recollected himself. He was up and at the kitchen fire (at Scotsbrig)t on the Saturday evening about six, but was evidently growing fast worse iu breathing. "About ten o'clock he fell into a sort of stupor," writes my sister Jane, " still breathing higher and with greater difficulty. He spoke little to any of us, seemingly unconscious of what he did, came over to the bedside, and offered np a prayer to Heaven iu such accents as it is impossible to forget. He departed almost without a struggle," adds she, " this morning at half-past six." My mother adds, in her own hand, " It is God that has done it. Be still, my dear children. Your affectiouate mother. God support us all." The funeral is to be on Friday, the present date is Wednesday night. This stroke, altogether unexpected at the time, but which I have been long anticipating in general, falls heavy on me, as such needs must, yet uot so as to stun me or unman me. Natural tears have come to my relief. I cau look at my dear father, and that section of the past which he has made alive for me, in a certain sacred sanctified light, and give way to what thoughts rise in me without feeling that they are weak and useless.

The time till the funeral was past I instantly determined on passing with my wife only, and all others were excluded. I have written to my mother and .to John,t have walked far and much, chiefly in the Regent's Park, and considered about many things, if so were that I might accomplish this problem, to see clearly what my present calamity means — what I have lost and what lesson my loss was to teach me.

As for the departed, we ought to say that he was taken home " like a shock of corn fully ripe." He " had finished the work that was given him to do" and finished it, (very greatly more than the most) as became a man. He was summoned, too, before he had ceased to be interesting — to be lovable. (He was to the last the pleasantest man I had to speak with in Scotland.) For many years too he had the end ever in his eye, and was studying to make all preparation for what in his strong way he called often "that last, that awful change." Even at every new parting of late years I have noticed him wring my hand with a tenderer pressure, as if he felt that one other of our few meetings here was over. Mercifully also has he been spared me till I am abler to bear his loss ; till by manifold struggles I too, as he did, feel my feet on tho Everlasting rock, and, through time with its death, can in some degree see into eternity with its life. So that I have repeated, not with unwet eyes, let me hope likewise uot with nnsoftened heart, those old and forever true words, " Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord ; tiny do rest from their labors, and their works follow them.''

* Written in London, in January, 1S32.

t A farm near Ecclefechan occupied by James Carlyle during the last six years of his life. } Mr. Carlyle's brother.

Yes, their works follow them. The force that had been lent my father he honorably expended in manful well-doing. A portion of this planet bears beneficent traces of his strong hand and strong head. Nothing that he undertook to do but he did it faithfully and like a true man. I shall look on the houses he built with a certain proud interest. They stand firm and sound to tho heart all over his little district. No one that comes after him will ever say, "Here was the finger of aihofibw eye-servant." They are little texts for me of the gospel' of man's free-will. Nor will his deeds and sayings in any case be found unworthy — not false and barren, but genuine and fit. Nay, am not I also the humble James Carlyle's work ? I owe him much more than existence, I owe him a noble inspiring example (now that I can read it in that rustic character). It was he exclusively that determined on educating me; that from his small hard-earned funds sent me to school and college, and made me whatever I am or may become. Let me not mourn for my father, let me do worthily of him. So shall he still live even here iu me, and his worth plant itself honorably forth into new generations.

I purpose now, while the impression is more pure and clear within me, to mark down the main things I can recollect of my father. To myself, if I live to after-years, it may be instructive and interesting, as the past grows ever holier the farther we leave it. My mind is calm enough to do it deliberately, and to do it truly. The thought of that pale earnest face which even now lies stiffened into death in that bed at Scotsbrig, with the Infinite all of worlds looking down on it, will certainly impel me. Neither, should these lines survive myself and be seen by others, can the sight of them do harm to any one. It is good to know how a true spirit will vindicate itself with truth and freedom through what obstructions soever ; how the acorn cast carelessly into the wilderness will make room for itself and grow to be an oak. This is one of the cases belonging to that class, "the lives of remarkable men," in which it has beeu said, "paper and ink should least of all be. spared." I call a man remarkable who becomes a true workman in this vineyard of the Highest. Be his work that of palace-building and kingdom-founding, or only of delving aud ditching, to me it is no matter, or next to none. All human work is transitory, small in itself, contemptible. Only the worker thereof, aud the spirit that dwelt in him, is significant. I proceed without order, or almost any forethought, auxious only to save what I have left and mark it as it lies in me.

In several respects, I consider my father as one of tho most interesting men I have known. He was a man of perhaps the very largest natural endowment of any it has been my lot to converse with. None of us will ever forget that bold glowing style of his, flowing free from his untutored soul, full of metaphors (though he knew not what a metaphor was) with all manner of potent words which he appropriated and applied with a surprising accuracy you often would not guess whence; brief, energetic, and which I should say conveyed tho most perfect picture — definite, clear, not in ambitious colors, but in full white sunlight — of all the dialects I have ever listened to. Nothing did I ever hear him undertake to render visible which did not become almost ocularly so. Never

JAMES CAKLYLE.

shall we again hear such speech as that. was. The whole district knew of it and laughed joyfully over it, not knowing how otherwise to express the feeling it gave them; emphatic I have heard him beyond all men. Iu anger he had no need of oaths, his words ■wore like sharp arrows that smote into the very heart. The fault was that he exaggerated (which tendency I also inherit), yet only in description aud for the sake chiefly of humorous effect. He was a man of rigid, even scrupulous, veracity. I have often heard him turn back when ho thought his strong words were misleading, aud correct them into meusurative accuracy.

I call him a natural man, singularly free from all manner of affectation ; he was among the last of the true men which Scotland, on the old system, produced or can produce; a man healthy in hody and mind, fearing God, and diligently working on God's earth with contentment, hope, and unwearied resolution. He was never visited with doubt. The old theorem of the universe was sufficient for him; and he worked well in it, and iu all senses successfully aud wisely — as few can do. So quick is the motion of transition hecoming, the new generation almost to a man must make their belly their God, and, alas! find even that an empty one. Thus, curiously enough and blessedly, he stood a true man on the verge of the oid, while his sou stands here lovingly surveying him on the verge of the new, and sees the possibility of also being true there. God make the possibility, blessed possibility, iuto a reality.

A virtue he had which I should learn to imitate. He never spoke of tvhat was disagreeable and past. I have often wondered and admired at this. The thing that he had nothing to do with, ho did nothing with. His was a healthy mind. In like manner I have seen him always, when we young ones, half roguishly (aud provokingly, without doubt), were perhaps repeating sayings of his, sit as if ho did not hear us at all. Never once did I know him utter a word ; only once, that I remember, give a look iu such a case.

Another virtue the example of which has passed strongly into me was his settled placid indifference to the clamors or the murmurs of public opinion. For the judgment of those that had no right or power to judge him, he seemed simply to eare nothing at all. He very rarely spoke of despising such things. He contented himself with altogether disregarding them. Hollow babble it was for him, a thing, as Fichte said, that did not exist — das gar nicht existirte. There was something truly great in this. The very perfection of it hid from you the extent of the attainment.

Or rather let us call it a new phasis of the health which in mind as in body was conspicuous iu him. Like a healthy man, he wanted only to get along with his task. Whatsoever could not forward him iu this (aud how could public opinion aud much else of the like sort do?) was of no momeufto him, was not there for him.

This great maxim of philosophy he had gathered by the teaching of nature aloue — that man was created to work, not to speculate or feel or dream. Accordingly, he set his whole heart thitherwards. He did work wisely and unweariedly (phne Hast aier Bast), and perhaps performed more with the tools he had than any man I now know. It should have made mo sadder than it did to hear the young ones sometimes complaining of his slow punctuality and thoroughness. He would leave nothing till it was done. Alas ! the age of substance and solidity is goue for the time ; that of show and hollow superficiality — in all senses — is in full course.

And yet ho was a man of open sense ; wonderfully so. I could have entertained him for days talking of any matter interesting to man. Ho delighted to hear of all things that were worth talking of: the mode of living men had — the mode of working; their opinions, virtues, whole spiritual and temporal environments.

It is some two years ago (iu summer) since I entertained him highly — he was hoeing turnips, and perhaps I helped him — with an account of the character aud manner of existence of Francis Jeffrey. Another evening he enjoyed — probably it was on this very visit — with the heartiest relish my description of the people, I think, of Turkey. The Chinese had astonished him much. In some magazine he had got a sketch of McCartney's " Embassy," tho memory of which never left him. Adam Smith's "Wealth of Nations," greatly as it lay out of his course, he had also fallen in with, aud admired and understood and remembered so far as he had any business with it. I once wrote him about my being iu Smithfield Market seven years ago, of my seeing St. Paul's. Both things interested him heartily aud dwelt with him. I had hoped to tell him much of what I saw iu this secoud visit, and that many a long cheerful talk would have given us both some sunny hours, but es konnte nimmcr seijn. Patience ! hope !

At the same time, he had the most entire and open contempt for all idle tattle; what ho called clatter. Any talk that had meaning in it he could listen to. What had no meaning in it — above all, what seemed false — he absolutely could and would not hear, but abruptly turned aside from it, or if that might not suit, with the besom of destruction swept it far away from him. Long may we remember his " I don't believe thee ;" his tongue-paralyziug, cold, indifferent " Hah !" I should say of him as I did of our sister* whom we lost, that he seldom or never spoke except actually to convey an idea, Measured by quantity of words, he was a talker of fully average copiousness; by extent of meaning communicated, he was the most copious I have listened to. How in few sentences he would sketch you off an entire biography, an entire object or transaction, keen, clear, rugged, genuine, completely rounded in! His words came direct from the heart by the inspiration of the moment.

"It is no idle tale," he said to some laughing rustics while stating, in his strong way, some complaint against them, and their laughter died into silence. Dear, good father ! There looked honestly through those clear earnest eyes a sincerity that compelled belief aud regard. "Moffat," said ho one day to an incorrigible reaper, "thou hast had every feature of a bad shearer — high, rough, and little on't. Thou maun alter thy figure or slant the bog," pointing to the man's road hoprewards.

He was irascible, choleric, and we all dreaded his wrath, yet passion never mastered him or maddened him. It rather inspired him with new vehemence of insight and more piercing emphasis of wisdom. It must have been a bold man that did not quail before that face wheu glowing with indignation, grounded, for so it ever was, on the seuse of right and in resistance of wrong. More than ouce has he lifted up his strong voice in tax courts and the like before "the gentlemen" (what he knew of highest among men), and, rending asunder official sophisms, thundered even into their deaf ears the indignant seuteuce of natural justice to the conviction of all. Oh, why did we laugh at these things while we loved them ? There is a tragic greatness and sacredness ih them now.

I can call my father a brave man (em tapferer). Man's face he did not fear ; God he always feared. His revereuce, I think, was considerably mixed with fear ; yet not slavish fear, rather awe, as of unutterable depths of silence through which flickered a trembling hope. How he used to speak of death, especially in late years — or rather to he silent, and look at it ! There was no feeling in him here that he cared to hide. He trembled at the really terrible ; the mock terrible he cared nought for. That last act of his life, when in the last agony, with the thick ghastly vapors of death rising round him to choke him, he burst through aud called with a man's voice on the great God to have mercy on him — that was like tho epitome and concluding summary of his whole life. God gave him strength to wrestle with the King of Terrors, and, as it were, even then to prevail. All his strength came from God, aud ever sought new nourishment there. God be thanked for it.

Let me not mourn that my father's force is all spent, that his valor wars no longer. Has it not gained the victory ? Let me imitate him rather. Let his courageous heart beat anew in me, that when oppression and opposition unjustly threaten, I too may rise with his spirit to front them aud subdue them.

On the whole, ought I not to rejoice that God was pleased to give me such a father ; that from earliest years I had the example of a real man of God's own making continually before me? Let me learn of him. Let me write my hooks as he built his houses, and walk as blamelessly through this shadow world; if God so will, to rejoiu him at last. Amen.

, Alas! such is the miseducation of these days, it is only among those that are called tho uneducated classes — those educated by experience — that you can look for a Man. Even among these, such a. sight is growing daily rarer. My father, iu several respects, has not. that I can think of, left his fellow. Ultimas liomanorum. Perhaps among Scottish peasants what Samuel Johnson was among English authors. I have a sacred pride iu my peasant father, and would not exchange him, even now, for any king known to me. Gold and tho guinea stamp — the Mau and the clothes of the man. Let me thank God for that greatest of blessings, and strive to live worthily of it.

Though from the heart, and practically even more than in words, au independent man, ho was by no means an insubordiuate one. His bearing towards his superiors I consider noteworthy — of a piece with himself. I think in early life, when working in Springhill for a Sir W.Maxwell — the grandfather of the present Baronet — he had got au early respect impressed upon him for the character as well as station of a gentleman. I have heard him often describe the grave wisdom aud dignified deportment of that Maxwell as of a true " ruler of the people." It used to remind mo of the gentlemen in Goethe. Sir William, like those he ruled over, and benignantly, or at least gracefully and earnestly, governed, has passed away. But even for tho mere clothes-screens of rank my father testified no contempt. He spoko of them in public or private without acerbity ; testified for them the outward deference which cus-

• Margaret, who died in 1S31.

REMINISCENCES.

torn and convenience prescribed, and felt no degradation therein. Their inward claim to regard was a thing which concerned them, not him. I love to figure him addressing these men, with bared head, by the title of "your honor," with a manner respectful, yet unembarrassed ; a certain manly dignity looking through his own fiue face, with his noble gray head bent patiently to the, alas! unworthy. Such conduct is, perhaps, no longer possible.

Withal, he had in general a grave natural politeness. I have seen him, wheu the women were perhaps all iu anxiety about the disorder, etc., usher men iu with true hospitality into his mean house, without any grimace of apologies, or the smallest seemiug embarrassment. Were the house but a cabin, it was his, aud they were welcome to him, aud what it held. This was agaiu the man. His life was " no idle tale ;" not a lie, but a truth, which whoso liked was welcome to come aud examine. "An earnest, toilsome life," which had also a serious issue.

The more I reflect ou it, the more I must admire how completely nature had taught him ; how completely he was devoted to his work, to the task of his life, aud content to let all pass by unheeded that had not relation to this. It is a singular fact, for example, that though a man of such opeuuess and clearness, he had never, I believe, read three pages of Burus's poems. Not even when all about him became noisy aud enthusiastic, I the loudest, ou that matter, did he feel it worth while to renew his investigation of it, or once turn his face towards it. The poetry he liked (he did not call it poetry) was truth, aud the wisdom of reality. Burns, indeed, could have done nothing for him. As high a greatness hung over his world as over that of Burns — the ever-present greatness of the Iunuite itself. Neither was he, like Burns, called to rebel against 'the world, but to labor patiently at his task there, uniting the possible with the necessary to bring out the real, whereiu also lay au ideal. Burns could not have iu auy way strengthened him iu this course, and therefore was for him a phenomenon merely. Nay, rumor had been so busy with Burns, aud destiny and his own desert had in very deed so marred his name, that the good rather avoided him. Yet it was not with aversion that my father regarded Burns; at worst with indifference aud neglect. I have heard him speak of once seeing him standing iu "Rob Scott's smithy" (at Ecclefechan, no doubt superintending some work). He heard one say, "There is the poet Burns." He went out to look, aud saw a man with boots on, like a well-dressed farmer, walking down the village on the opposite side of the burn. This was all the relation these two men ever had ; they were very nearly coevals.* I knew Robert Burns, and I knew my father. Yet were you to ask me which had the greater natural faculty, I might perhaps actually pause before replying. Burus had an infinitely wider education, my father a far wholesomer. Besides, the one was a man of musical utterance; the other wholly a man of action, with speech subservient thereto. Never, of all the men I have seen, has one come personally in my way in whom the endowment from nature and the arena from fortune were so utterly out of all proportion. I have said this often, aud partly know it. As a man of speculation — had culture ever unfolded him — he must have gone wild and desperate as Burns ; but he was a man of conduct, and work keeps all right. What strange shapable creatures ■we are !