No More Learning

'Tis thus, O Adrian, with holy visions
thou comfortest the souls of fellow-men.
'Tis thus, O artist, with thy blows severe
thou putt'st in stone the ages' ancient hope,
the lofty hope that cries, "Oh, when shall labor
be happy, and faithful love secure from harm?
"When shall a mighty nation of freemen
say in the face of the sun, Shine no more
on the idle ease and the selfish wars of tyrants,
but on the pious justice of labor? >»


## p. 3221 (#191) ###########################################

3221
THOMAS CAREW
(1598? -1639)
HOMAS CAREW is deservedly placed among the most brilliant
representatives of a class of lyrists who were not only
courtiers but men of rank; who, varied in accomplishments,
possessing culture and taste, expressed their play of fancy with
elegance and ease. The lyre of these aristocratic poets had for its
notes only love and beauty, disdain, despair, and love's bounty,
sometimes frivolous in sound and sometimes serious; and their work
may be regarded as the ancestor of the vers de société, which has
reached its perfection in Locker and Austin Dobson. To Carew's
lyrics we may apply Izaak Walton's famous criticism: "They were
old-fashioned poetry, but choicely good. "
Thomas Carew, son of Sir Matthew Carew, was born in London
about 1598. He left Corpus Christi, Oxford, without a degree, and
early fell into wild habits. In 1613 his father wrote to Sir Dudley
Carleton that "one of his sons was roving after hounds and hawks,
and the other [Thomas] studying in the Middle Temple, but doing
little at law. " The result was that Carleton made Thomas his secre-
tary, and took him to Venice and Turin, returning in 1615. Carew
accompanied him to the Hague also, but resigned his post and again
returned to England. In 1619 he went with Lord Herbert of Cher-
bury to the French court. He became sewer in ordinary to Charles
I. , and a
gentleman of his privy chamber; and the King, who was
particularly fond of him, gave him the royal domain of Sunninghill
in Windsor Forest.
Carew was an intimate friend of Ben Jonson, Sir
John Suckling, John Selden, Sir Kenelm Digby, Davenant, Charles
Cotton, and also of Lord Clarendon; who writes:-"Carew was a
person of a pleasant and facetious wit, and made many poems
(especially in the amorous way) which for the sharpness of the
fancy and the elegance of the language in which that fancy was
spread, were at least equal, if not superior, to any of that time. "
work was
Four editions of Carew's poems appeared between 1640 and 1671,
and four have been printed within the present century, the best
being a quarto published by Mr. W. C. Hazlitt in 1870. His longest
a masque called 'Coelum Britannicum,' performed at
Whitehall, February 18th, 1633. Inigo Jones arranged the scenery,
Henry Lawes the music, and the King, the Duke of Lennox, and
other courtiers played the chief parts. Carew's death is supposed to
have occurred in 1639.


## p. 3222 (#192) ###########################################

THOMAS CAREW
3222
A SONG
A
SK me no more where Jove bestows,
When June is past, the fading rose;
For in your beauty's orient deep,
These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.
Ask me no more whither doth stray
The golden atoms of the day;
For in pure love heaven did prepare
These powders to enrich your hair.
Ask me no more whither doth haste
The nightingale when May is past;
For in your sweet dividing throat,
She winters and keeps warm her note.
Ask me no more where those stars light
That downward fall in dead of night;
For in your eyes they sit, and there
Fixed become as in their sphere.
Ask me no more if east or west
The Phoenix builds her spicy nest;
For unto you at last she flies,
And in your fragrant bosom dies.
THE PROTESTATION
N°
O MORE shall meads be deckt with flowers,
Nor sweetness dwell in rosy bowers,
Nor greenest buds on branches spring,
Nor warbling birds delight to sing,
Nor April violets paint the grove,
If I forsake my Celia's love.
The fish shall in the ocean burn,
And fountains sweet shall bitter turn;
The humble oak no flood shall know,
When floods shall highest hills o'erflow;
Black Lethe shall oblivion leave,
If e'er my Celia I deceive.
Love shall his bow and shaft lay by,
And Venus's doves want wings to fly;


## p. 3223 (#193) ###########################################

THOMAS CAREW
3223
The Sun refuse to shew his light,
And day shall then be turned to
And in that night no star appear,
If once I leave my Celia dear.
Love shall no more inhabit earth,
Nor lovers more shall love for worth,
Nor joy above the heaven dwell,
Nor pain torment poor souls in hell;
Grim death no more shall horrid prove,
If I e'er leave bright Celia's love.
WOU
SONG
LD you know what's soft? I dare
Not bring you to the down, or air,
Nor to stars to shew what's bright,
Nor to snow to teach you white;
ht;
Nor, if you would music hear,
Call the orbs to take your ear;
Nor, to please your sense, bring forth
Bruised nard, or what's more worth;
Or on food were your thoughts placed,
Bring you nectar, for a taste:
Would you have all these in one,
Name my mistress, and 'tis done.
THE SPRING
NOV
ow that the winter's gone, the earth hath lost
Her snow-white robes; and now no more the frost
Candies the grass or casts an icy cream
Upon the silver lake or crystal stream:
But the warm sun thaws the benumbèd earth,
And makes it tender; gives a sacred birth
To the dead swallow; wakes in hollow tree
The drowsy cuckoo and the humble-bee.
Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bring
In triumph to the world the youthful Spring:
The valleys, hills, and woods, in rich array,
Welcome the coming of the longed-for May.
Now all things smile; only my love doth lower;
Nor hath the scalding noonday sun the power


## p. 3224 (#194) ###########################################

3224
THOMAS CAREW
To melt that marble ice which still doth hold
Her heart congealed, and makes her pity cold.
The ox, which lately did for shelter fly
Into the stall, doth now securely lie
In open fields; and love no more is made
By the fireside; but, in the cooler shade,
Amyntas now doth with his Cloris sleep
Under a sycamore, and all things keep
Time with the season-only she doth carry
June in her eyes, in her heart January.
THE INQUIRY*
MONGST the myrtles as I walked,
Love and my sighs together talked;
Tell me (said I in deep distress)
Where I may find my shepherdess?
Α
Thou fool (said Love), know'st thou not this,-
In everything that's good she is:
In yonder tulip go and seek;
There thou mayst find her lip, her cheek.
In yonder enameled pansy by,
There thou shalt have her curious eye;
In bloom of peach, in rosy bud,
There wave the streamers of her blood;
In brightest lilies that there stands,
The emblems of her whiter hands;
In yonder rising hill there swells
Such sweets as in her bosom dwells.
'Tis true (said I), and thereupon
I went to pluck them one by one,
To make of parts a union;
But on a sudden all was gone.
With that I stopped. Said Love, These be
(Fond man) resemblances of thee;
And in these flowers thy joys shall die,
Even in the twinkling of an eye,
And all thy hopes of her shall wither,
Like these short sweets thus knit together.
*Attributed to Herrick in Drake's 'Literary Hours. '


## p. 3225 (#195) ###########################################

3225
EMILIA FLYGARE-CARLÉN
(1807-1892)
MILIA SMITH FLYGARE-CARLEN was born at Strömstad, Sweden
August 8th, 1807. She was the daughter of Rutger Smith,
a merchant of that place, and here her childhood was
passed, varied by frequent sea trips with her father, and excursions
to different parts of the coast. It was probably these early maritime
experiences that laid the foundation of her accurate knowledge of
the character and habits of the Swedish fisherfolk. In 1827 she was
married to Dr. Flygare, a physician of Kronbergslän, but after his
death in 1833 she returned to her native
place. As a child her talent for imagin-
ative literature was known among her
friends, but nothing of any permanent
value was
developed until after her thir-
tieth year, when her first novel, 'Waldemar
Klein,' was published anonymously (1838).
After this first successful literary attempt,
she went to Stockholm upon the advice of
her father (1839), and shortly after she was
married to a lawyer of that city, Johan
Gabriel Carlén, a Swedish poet and author.
Her novels appeared in quick succession;
she at once became popular, and her books
were widely read. Her productivity was
remarkable. The period of her highest accomplishment was from
1838 to 1852, when a great affliction in the loss of her son suspended
her activities for several years. It was not until 1858 that she again
resumed her writing.
She
She was honored by the gold medal of the Swedish Academy
(1862), and the success of her books was followed by abundant pecun-
iary reward as well as distinction. Her house in Stockholm was the
centre of the literary life of the capital until the death of her hus-
band in 1875, when she completely retired from the world.
established the "Rutger Smith Fund" for poor fishermen and their
widows, made an endowment for students to the University of Upsala
in memory of her son, and also founded in memory of her husband
a fund for the assistance of teachers. She died at Stockholm, Febru-
ary 5th, 1892.
EMILIA CARLÉN
➖➖➖➖➖➖
-------
1
I

I


## p. 3226 (#196) ###########################################

3226
EMILIA FLYGARE-CARLÉN
As a novelist she shares national honors with her countrywoman,
Fredrika Bremer. Her range in fiction was not confined to a single
field, but embraced all classes and conditions of Swedish life. Her
stories are full of action and rich in incident, and her delineation of
character is natural and shows her real experience of human nature.
She is most happy in depicting the humble fisherfolk and peasants.
The stirring incidents of the adventurous life of the smugglers were
congenial themes, and her graphic descriptions give typical pictures
of the rough coast life among sailors, fishers, and revenue officers.
Among her best and most characteristic works are: Gustav
Lindorm (1835); 'Rosen på Tistelön (The Rose of Tistelön), 1842;
'Jungfrutornet' (The Maiden's Tower), 1848; Enslingen på Johan-
nisskäret (The Hermit of the Johannis Rock), 1846. Her autobiogra-
phy, written in her later years, is sprightly and interesting. Her
collected works number more than thirty volumes, the greater part
of which have been translated into German, French, and English.
THE PURSUIT OF THE SMUGGLERS
From The Merchant House among the Islands'
HⓇ
E [OLAGUS] thundered his command to his companions:
«< Row, row as fast as you can to the open sea! "
And as though it had invisible wings, the boat turned and
shot forward.
"Halt! halt! " cried the lieutenant, whose blood was now up.
"In the name of his Majesty and of the Crown, down with the
sails. "
Loud laughter from the smugglers' boat sounded across the
water.
This scornful laughter was answered from the yacht by the
firing of the second cannon, which was fully loaded. The ball
fell into the water close to the windward of the boat.
The answer was renewed laughter from the smugglers' boat;
whose crew, urged by the twofold desire to save their cargo and
to make fools of the Custom-house officers, continued to increase.
the distance between themselves and the yacht. In spite of the
more skillful guidance, the two oars of the latter could not over-
take the four men. But the lieutenant's full strong voice could
still be heard:-
"Stop, or I will shoot you to the bottom! "


## p. 3227 (#197) ###########################################

EMILIA FLYGARE-CARLÉN
3227
But he did not shoot, for the smugglers' boat was already out
of the reach of shot.
At this moment it would have been impossible to detect the
least trace of the amiable, good-natured Gudmar Guldbrandsson,
the favorite of all the ladies, with his light yellow curls and
his slightly arched forehead, and the beautiful dark blue eyes,
which when not enlivened by the power of some passion, some-
times revealed that half-dreamy expression that women so often
admire.
Majke ought to have seen her commander now, as he stood
for а moment on the deck, leaning on his gun, his glass in his
hand.
« Row, boys, row with all your might! I will not allow — »
The remainder of the sentence was lost in inarticulate tones.
Once more he raised the glass to his eyes.
The chase lasted some time, without any increase of the inter-
vening distance, or any hope of its diminution. It was a grave,
a terrible chase.
Meantime new and strange intentions had occurred to the
commander of the smugglers' boat. From what dark source
could he have received the inspiration that dictated the com-
mand?
“Knock out the bung of the top brandy-barrel, and let us
drink; that will refresh our courage and rejoice our hearts. Be
merry and drink as long as you like. "
And now ensued a wild bacchanalia. The men drank out of
large mugs, they drank out of cans, and the result was not
wanting, while the boat was nearing the entrance to the sea.
"Now, my men," began Olagus in powerful penetrating tones,
as he stroked his reddish beard, "shall we allow one of those
government fools to force us to go a different way from the one
we ourselves wish to go? "
“Olagus,” Tuve ventured to interpose,- for Tuve still pos-
sessed full consciousness, as he had only made a pretense of
drinking,-"dear Olagus, let us be content if we can place the
goods in safety. I think I perceive that you mean something
else something dangerous. "
« Coward!
weave nets.
You ought to sit at home and help your father
If you are afraid, creep under the tarpaulin; there
are others here who do not get the cramp when they are to fol-
low the Mörkö Bears. "


## p. 3228 (#198) ###########################################

3228
EMILIA FLYGARE-CARLEN
"For my part," thought Börje, as he bent over his oar, "I
should like to keep away from this hunt. But who dare speak a
word? I feel as though I were already in the fortress, the ship
and crew in the service of the Crown. "
Perhaps Ragnar thought so too; but the great man was so
much feared that when he commanded no contradiction was ever
heard.
It was almost the first time that Tuve had made an objection,
and his brother's scornful rebuke had roused his blood also; but
still he controlled himself.
What was resolved on meantime will be seen from what
follows.
"Why, what is that? " exclaimed the lieutenant of the yacht.
"The oars are drawn in! He is turning,- on my life, he is
turning! "
"He knew that we should catch him up," said Sven, delighted
once more to be able to indulge in his usual humor. "Fists and
sinews like mine are worth as much as four of them; and if we
take Pelle into account, they might easily recognize that the
best thing they can do is to surrender at once. "
"Silence, you conceited idiot! " commanded the lieutenant;
"this is no matter of parley. He is making straight for us.
The wind is falling; it is becoming calm. "
"What does the lieutenant think, Pelle? " asked Sven, in a
loud whisper. "Can Olagus have weapons on board and want
to attack us? "
"It almost looks like it," answered Pelle shortly.
Meantime the two boats approached one another with alarm-
ing speed.
"Whatever happens," said the lieutenant, with icy calm,-
"and the game looks suspicious, you know, my friends,— would
that the coast-guardsman may not look behind him! The flag of
the Crown may wave over living or dead men; that is no matter
so long as it does not wave over one who has not done his duty. "
"Yes," answered Pelle.
Sven spread out his arms in a significant gesture.
"They may be excited by drink,- their copper-colored faces
show that; but here stands a man who will not forget that his
name is Sven Dillhufvud. There, I have spoken! But, dear sir,
do take care of yourself. They have torn up the boards, and are
fetching up stones and pieces of iron. "


## p. 3229 (#199) ###########################################

EMILIA FLYGARE-CARLÉN
3229
"Yes, I see. If they attack us, take care of the oars. Do
not lay-to on the long side; but row past, and then turn. If
they throw, watch their movements carefully; in that way you
can escape the danger. "
The boats, which were only a few fathoms apart, glided gently
towards one another.
The lieutenant's command was punctually executed by his
people.
"Olagus Esbjörnsson," exclaimed the commander of the Cus-
tom-house yacht, "I charge you once more in the King's name
to surrender! "
"O dear, yes," exclaimed the worthy descendant of the Vik-
ings. "I have come back just with that intention. Perhaps I
also wanted to fulfill an old vow. Do you remember what I
vowed that night by the Oternnest ? »
At the same moment a whole shower of pieces of iron whis-
tled through the air, and fell rattling on to the yacht; but the
sharp piece of iron thrown by Olagus's own hands was aimed at
the lieutenant himself. He however darted aside so quickly
that he was not wounded, although it flew so close past him that
it tore off his straw hat and dashed it into the sea.
་་
Olagus, and you others," sounded his voice, in all its youth-
ful power, (( consider what you do; consider the price of an
attack on
a royal boat and crew! The responsibility may cost
you dear. I charge you to cease at once. "
"What! Are you frightened, you Crown slaves? " roared
Olagus, whose sparkling eyes and flushed face, so different from
his usual calm in peaceful circumstances, lent increased wildness
to his form and gestures. "Come, will this warm you? " And
at the same moment another piece of iron flew past, aimed with
such certainty that it would have cut off the thread of the lieu-
tenant's life if he had not taken shelter behind the mast. The
iron was firmly fixed in the mast.
The yacht was now bombarded on all sides. Here hung a
torn sail, there an end of rope; and the side planks had already
received a good deal of injury, so that the yacht was threatened
with a leak.
But now was heard for the last time the young
commander's warning:-
་་
Stop, Olagus, and tell your people to put aside their
wretched arms; for, on my life, this gun is loaded with a ball,
and the first of you who throws another piece shall be shot down
like a stag. "


## p. 3230 (#200) ###########################################

EMILIA FLYGARE-CARLÉN
3230
"Do it if you dare! But there, see, miserable Custom-house
dog, how the Mörkö Bears respect your threats! "
The third piece of iron was just about to be thrown; but at
the same moment the lieutenant took aim.
The shot was fired.
During the long chase and the attack which followed it, the
sun had been approaching the horizon, and now might be seen
one of those beautiful sunsets which so often delight the eye on
this blue-green sea. They are the counterpart of the autumn
apparitions during the dark fogs, when the ships wander about
seeking their way among the cliffs, then glimmering whitely, and
now shining red.
Worthy the inspiration of poet and painter, this warm, divinely
peaceful, and lovely scene of nature offered a new, bitter con-
trast to the terrible picture which human passion and the claims
of duty had conjured with lightning speed into these two spots
in the sea- the smugglers' boat and the Custom-house yacht.
The shot was fired, and the mighty giant of Mörkö, Olagus
Esbjörnsson, sank back into the tarpaulin.
"The accursed devil has shot right into my heart! "
Pale as death, Tuve sprang forward, and wanted to stay the
blood.
Give my
"Leave it alone," panted Olagus. "It is no use.
love to father and Britje; she was a good wife. You must be a
father to my boy. The business may cease. "
The subduing touch of death had already extinguished the
wild light which the fire of hatred had kindled in these eyes.
And the last glance that sought his brother's gaze was gentle.
Suddenly he was once more fired by the remembrance of the
earthly life which was fast retreating from him.
"Quickly away with the cargo! No one must know that
Olagus Esbjörnsson fell from a shot out of the Custom-house
yacht. I-I-fell upon them. "
-
They were his last words.
Tuve's head fell, sobbing, on the man whom he had so com-
pletely honored as his superior.
Tuve was now the first in Mörkö, and as though a stronger
spirit had come over him, he began to feel his duty.
He rose,
and gave orders to turn toward the sea, but the crew stood
motionless with terror.


## p. 3230 (#201) ###########################################



## p. 3230 (#202) ###########################################


THOMAS CARLYLE.
Crasch


## p. 3230 (#203) ###########################################

3431
3. 1
זי
157
:
hundre that niversary of the nth of Thomas Carlyle
de ca er 4th, 17957 -WAS ately commemorated. The
Dise in Cheyne Walk, Chelsea, wich he had overpicd
544 11 his death (1)bruary 4, 1885, was handed over to
to be preserved as a pubic memort à No house in the
Is has more remarkable associations. Thither Carlyle
ne in his thirty-eighth year. still hardy recognized by the
Teltie, though dreadly regarded by a smal circle as a
འ . '1
inary powers.
There He went the gh the concludrg
the long struggle whien ended by a hard won and scarcely
Victory There he had been visited by almost al. the m»t
"shen of letters of his time: by Joftrov, Southey, and J. S.
Tenison and Browning, the greatest poets, and by Thack-
Dcles, the greatest novelists of his generation; by the
erds of his youth. Ing vd Emerson and John Sterling,
The last folowers, Froude and Ruskin. There too nad ved
To the woman who had shared his struggies, whom he loved
ired without stint, and whom he was yet destined to remem-
many bitter pangs of remorse, Ineir story, laid are with
fless, has invested the scene of their joys and sorrows,
tion and reconciliations, with extraordinary interest. Every
he has read the Reminiscences' and the later mass of bio-
matter must be glad to see the "sound-proof" room, and
Korden haunted by the "demon-fowls," and the other dumb wit-
LI
a lorg tragi-comedy No one was so keenly sensitive a
to the interest of the Ble gleams of Hght which reveal our
"ང༌
not only stirred by the great passions, but absorbed like
by the trivialities of the day. A similar interest will long
to the scene of his own trials.
he's fe was a struggle 1 a warfare. Each of his Tooke
enned from him, like the tale of the Ancient Marine", by
wy my. The early bocks exerted the wrath of his conferape-
when they were not ridiculed as the grotesque on pourings of
Centric humorist. His teaching was intended to oppose what
ge, le take to be the general tendency of thought, and yet
Who share that tendency gladly acknowledge that they owe to
If
THOMAS CARLYLE
41795 Les)
BY LESLIE STEPH'N


## p. 3230 (#204) ###########################################

17443 MRLYLE


## p. 3231 (#205) ###########################################

3231
THOMAS CARLYLE
(1795-1881)
BY LESLIE STEPHEN
HE hundredth anniversary of the birth of Thomas Carlyle —
(December 4th, 1795)—was lately commemorated. The
house in Cheyne Walk, Chelsea, which he had occupied
from 1834 till his death (February 4th, 1881), was handed over to
trustees to be preserved as a public memorial. No house in the
British islands has more remarkable associations. Thither Carlyle
had come in his thirty-eighth year, still hardly recognized by the
general public, though already regarded by a small circle as a man
of extraordinary powers. There he went through the concluding
years of the long struggle which ended by a hard-won and scarcely
enjoyed victory. There he had been visited by almost all the most
conspicuous men of letters of his time: by Jeffrey, Southey, and J. S.
Mill; by Tennyson and Browning, the greatest poets, and by Thack-
eray and Dickens, the greatest novelists of his generation; by the
dearest friends of his youth, Irving and Emerson and John Sterling,
and by his last followers, Froude and Ruskin. There too had lived
until 1866 the woman who had shared his struggles, whom he loved
and admired without stint, and whom he was yet destined to remem-
ber with many bitter pangs of remorse. Their story, laid bare with
singular fullness, has invested the scene of their joys and sorrows,
their alienation and reconciliations, with extraordinary interest. Every
one who has read the 'Reminiscences' and the later mass of bio-
graphical matter must be glad to see the "sound-proof» room, and
the garden haunted by the "demon-fowls," and the other dumb wit-
nesses of a long tragi-comedy. No one was so keenly sensitive as
Carlyle to the interest of the little gleams of light which reveal our
ancestors not only stirred by the great passions, but absorbed like
ourselves by the trivialities of the day. A similar interest will long
attach to the scene of his own trials.
Carlyle's life was a struggle and a warfare. Each of his books
was wrenched from him, like the tale of the 'Ancient Mariner,' by a
spiritual agony. The early books excited the wrath of his contempo-
raries, when they were not ridiculed as the grotesque outpourings of
an eccentric humorist. His teaching was intended to oppose what
most people take to be the general tendency of thought, and yet
many who share that tendency gladly acknowledge that they owe to


## p. 3232 (#206) ###########################################

THOMAS CARLYLE
3232
Carlyle a more powerful intellectual stimulus than they can attribute
even to their accepted teachers. I shall try briefly to indicate the
general nature of his message to mankind, without attempting to con-
sider the soundness or otherwise of particular views.
Carlyle describes what kind of person people went to see in
Cheyne Row. "The very sound of my voice," he says, "has got
something savage-prophetic: I am as a John the Baptist girt about
with a leather girdle, whose food is locusts and wild honey. " Re-
spectable literary society at "æsthetic tea-parties" regarded him as
the Scribes and Pharisees regarded the Hebrew prophet. He came
among them to tear the mask from their hypocritical cant. Carlyle
was not externally a Diogenes. Though the son of peasants, he had
the appearance and manner of a thorough gentleman in spite of all
his irritable outbreaks. But he was not the less penetrated to the
core with the idiosyncrasies of his class. The father, a Davie Deans
of real life, had impressed the son profoundly. Carlyle had begun
life on the same terms as innumerable young Scots. Strict frugality
had enabled him to get a college training and reach the threshold of
the ministry. His mother could look forward to the exquisite pleas-
ure of seeing "her own bairn wag his head in a pulpit! " But at
this point Carlyle's individuality first asserted itself. He could not
step into any of the ordinary grooves. His college teachers appeared
to him to offer "sawdust» instead of manna from heaven. The
sacred formulæ of their ancestral creed had lost their savor. Words
once expressive of the strongest faith were either used to utter the
bigotry of narrow pedants, or were adopted only to be explained away
into insipid commonplace. Carlyle shared the intellectual movement
of his time too much to profess any reverence for what he called
the "Hebrew old-clothes. " Philosophers and critics had torn them
to rags.
His quarrel however was with the accidental embodiment,
not with the spirit of the old creeds. The old morality was ingrained
in his very nature; nor was he shocked, like some of his fellows, by
the sternness of the Calvinistic views of the universe and life. The
whole problem was with him precisely to save this living spirit.
The skeptics, he thought, were, in the German phrase, "emptying out
the baby with the bath. " They were at war with the spirit as well
as with the letter; trying to construct a Godless universe; to substi-
tute a dead mechanism for the living organism; and therefore to
kill down at the root every noble aspiration which could stimulate
the conscience, or strengthen a man to bear the spectacle of the
wrongs and sufferings of mankind.
The crisis of this struggle happened in 1821. After giving up the
ministry, Carlyle had tried "schoolmastering," and found himself to
be least fitted of mankind for a function which demands patience


## p. 3233 (#207) ###########################################

THOMAS CARLYLE
3233
with stupidity. He had just glanced at the legal profession only to
be disgusted with its chicaneries. Hack authorship was his only
chance. The dyspeptic disorder which tormented him through life
was tormenting him. "A rat was gnawing at the pit of his stom-
ach. " Then he was embittered by the general distress of his own
class. Men out of work were threatening riots and the yeomanry
being called out to suppress them. Carlyle was asked by a friend
why he too did not come out with a musket. "Hm! yes," he
replied, "but I haven't quite settled on which side. " It was while
thus distracted, that after three weeks of sleeplessness he experi-
enced what he called his "conversion. " The universe had seemed to
him "void of life, of purpose, of volition, even of hostility; it was
one huge and immeasurable steam-engine, rolling on in its dead
indifference, to grind me limb from limb. Oh, the vast, gloomy,
solitary Golgotha and mill of death! " And then he suddenly re-
solved to resist. Why go on trembling like a coward? "As I so
thought, there rushed a stream of fire over my whole soul, and I
shook base fear away from me for ever. I was strong, of unknown
strength; a spirit; almost a god: ever from that time the temper of
my misery was changed; not fear or whining sorrow was in it, but
indignation and grim, fell-eyed defiance. " These are the phrases of
his imaginary hero in Sartor Resartus. In the 'Reminiscences' he
repeats the statement in his own person. He had won "an immense
victory »; he had escaped from the "foul mud gods" and soared into
the "eternal blue of ether" where he had "for the spiritual part
ever since lived. " He could look down upon his fellow creatures
still weltering in that fatal element," "pitying the religious part
of them and indignant against the frivolous "; enjoying an inward
and supreme happiness which still remained to him, though often
"eclipsed" in later years.
«<
To understand this crisis is to understand his whole attitude.
The change was not of the purely logical kind. Carlyle was not
converted by any philosophical system. Coleridge, not long before,
had found in Kant and Schelling an answer to similar perplexities.
Carlyle, though he respected the German metaphysicians, could never
find their dogmas satisfactory to his shrewd Scottish sense. His
great helper, he tells us, in the strait, was not Kant but Goethe.
The contrast between that serene prophet of culture and the rugged
Scottish Puritan is so marked that one may be tempted to explain
the influence partly by personal accident. Carlyle grew up at a time
when the British public was just awaking to the existence of Ger-
many; and not only promoted the awakening but was recognized
by the great Goethe himself. He may well have been inclined in
years to exaggerate a debt due to so welcome a recognition.
later
VI-203


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THOMAS CARLYLE
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And yet it is intelligible that in Goethe, Carlyle saw what he most
required. A man of the highest genius and a full representative of
the most advanced thought could yet recognize what was elevating
in the past as clearly as what was the true line of progress for us to
pursue; and while casting aside the dead trappings as decidedly as
Carlyle, could reach serene heights above the petty controversies
where men wrangled over extinct issues. Goethe had solved the
problem which vexed Carlyle's soul, and set an inspiring example of
the true spirit and its great reward.
Carlyle, however, was not qualified by temperament or mental
characteristics to follow Goethe's steps. If not primarily a reasoner,
and too impatient perhaps for slow logical processes, he was also
not a poet. Some of the greatest English teachers of his period
embodied their conceptions of the world in poetry. Wordsworth and
Shelley and Byron, in particular, were more effective representatives
of the chief spiritual influences of the day than the few speculative
writers. Carlyle thought for a time that he could utter himself in
verse, or at least in prose fiction. He tried, only to feel his incom-
petence. As Froude observes, he had little ear for metrical composi-
tion. There were other and perhaps greater obstacles. A poet must
be capable of detachment from the actual world in which he lives,
however profound his interest in its great problems. He must be
able to dwell with "seraph contemplation" and stand aside from
the actual contest. To Carlyle such an attitude was partly impos-
sible, partly contemptible. He had imbibed the Puritan aversion to
æsthetic enjoyments. He had been brought up in circles where
it was thought wrong for a child to read the 'Arabian Nights,' and
where Milton could only obtain a doubtful admission as a versifier of
the Scriptural narrative. Carlyle retained
Carlyle retained the prejudice. He always
looked askance at poetry which had no immediate bearing upon con-
duct, and regarded "æsthetic" as equivalent to frivolous. "May the
devil fly away with the fine arts" is a sentiment which he quotes
with cordial sympathy. This view was congenial to his inborn char-
acteristics.
One striking peculiarity was his extraordinary "receptivity" of all
outward impressions. The strange irritability which he set down to
the "hag Dyspepsia" made him resemble a patient in whom disease
has produced a morbidly excessive sensibility. Little annoyances
were magnified into tragic dimensions. The noises in a next-door
house affected him as an earthquake might affect others. His
memory was as retentive as his impressions were strong. Froude
testifies that his account of a little trip to Paris, written forty years
later without reference to memoranda, is verified down to the
minutest details by contemporary letters. Scenes instantaneously


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THOMAS CARLYLE
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photographed on his memory never faded. No one had a keener
eye for country. When he visited Germany he brought back pictures
of the scenes of Frederick's battles, which enabled him to reproduce
them with such startling veracity that after reading you seem to
remember the reality, not the book. In history he seeks to place
before us a series of visions as distinct as actual eyesight: to show
us Cromwell watching the descent of the Scottish army at Dunbar,
or the human whirlpool raging round the walls of the Bastille. We
-the commonplace spectators - should not, it is true, even at
present see what was visible to Carlyle, any more than we see a
landscape as Turner saw it. We may wish that we could.
At any
rate, we have the conviction of absolute truthfulness to the impres-
sion made on a powerful idiosyncrasy. We perceive, as by the help
of a Rembrandt, vast chaotic breadths of gloomy confusion, with
central figures thrown out by a light of extraordinary brilliancy.
Carlyle, indeed, always has it in mind that what we call reality is
but a film on the surface of mysterious depths. We are such stuff,
to repeat his favorite quotation, as dreams are made of. Past
history is a series of dreams; the magic of memory may restore
them for an instant to our present consciousness. But the most
vivid picture of whatever is not irrecoverably lost always brings, too,
the pathetic sense that we are after all but ephemeral appearances
in the midst of the eternities and infinities. Overwhelmed by this
sense of the unsubstantiality even of the most real objects, Carlyle
clutches, as it were with the energy of despair, every fading image;
and tries to invest it with something of its old brightness. Carlyle was
so desirous to gain this distinctness of vision that he could not be
happy in personal descriptions till, if possible, he had examined the
portrait of his hero and satisfied himself that he could reproduce the
actual bodily appearance. The face, he holds, shows the soul. And
then his shrewd Scottish sagacity never deserts him. If the hero
sometimes becomes, like most heroes, a little too free from human
infirmities, the actors in his dramas never become mere walking
gentlemen. In Dryasdust he gives us lay figures, bedizened at
times with shallow paradoxes; but Carlyle always deals in genuine
human nature. His judgment may not be impartial, but at least it
is not nugatory. He sees the man from within and makes him a
credible individual, not a mere bit of machinery worked by colorless
formulæ. With this eye for character goes the keen sense of grim
humor which keeps him in touch with reality. Little incidents bring
out the absurd side of even the heroic. The most exciting scenes
of his 'French Revolution' are heightened by the vision of the
shivering usher who "accords the grand entries" when the ferocious
mob is rushing into the palace-not "finding it convenient," as


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3236
THOMAS CARLYLE
-
Carlyle observes, "to refuse them"; and of the gentleman who
continues for an hour to "demand the arrestment of knaves and
dastards" — a most comprehensive of all known petitions. Carlyle's
"mannerism" is one result of this strain to be graphic. It has been
attributed to readings of Jean Paul, and by Carlyle himself, partly
to Irving and partly to the early talk in his father's home. It
appears at any rate as soon as Carlyle gets confidence enough in
himself to trust to his own modes of impression; and if it may fairly
be called a mannerism, was not an affectation. It was struck out in
the attempt to give most effective utterance to his genuine thought,
and may be compared, as Burke said of Johnson's conversation, to the
"contortions of the Sibyl. "
It is time, however, to try to say what was the prophetic message
thus delivered. Carlyle, I have said, had no logical system of phi-
losophy, and was too much of a "realist" (in one sense) to find
poetry congenial. He has to preach by pictures of the past; by
giving us history, though history transfused with poetry; an account
of the external fact which shall reveal the real animating principle,
quietly omitted by statisticians and constitutional historians. The
doctrine so delivered appears to be vague. What, the ordinary
believer may ask, would be left of a religion if its historical state-
ments should turn out to be mere figments and its framework of
dogmas to be nonsense? He would naturally reply, Nothing. Carlyle
replies, Everything. The spirit may survive, though its whole visible
embodiment should be dissolved into fiction and fallacy. But to
define this spirit is obviously impossible. It represents a tone of
thought, a mode of contemplating life and the world, not any dis-
tinct set of definite propositions. Carlyle was called a "mystic," and
even, as he says, was made into a "mystic school. " We may accept
the phrase, so far as mysticism means the substitution of a "logic of
the heart" for a "logic of the head"-an appeal to sentiment rather
than to any definite reasoning process. The "mystic" naturally
recognizes the inner light as shining through many different and
even apparently contradictory forms. But most mystics retain, in a
new sense perhaps, the ancient formulæ. Carlyle rejected them so
markedly that he shocked many believers, otherwise sympathetic.
His early friend Irving, who tried to restore life to the old forms,
and many who accepted Coleridge as their spiritual guide, were
scandalized by his utterances. He thought, conversely, that they
were still masquerading in "Hebrew old-clothes,» or were even
like the apes who went on chattering by the banks of the Dead Sea,
till they ceased to be human. He regards the "Oxford movement"
with simple contempt. His dictum that Newman had "no more
brain than a moderate-sized rabbit" must have been followed, as no


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THOMAS CARLYLE
3237
one will doubt who heard him talk, by one of those gigantic explos-
ions of laughter which were signals of humorous exaggeration. But
it meant in all seriousness that he held Newman to be reviving
superstitions unworthy of the smallest allowance of brain.
Yet Carlyle's untiring denunciation of "shams" and " unrealities"
of this, as of other varieties, does not mean unqualified antipathy.
He feels that the attempt to link the living spirit to the dead ex-
ternals is a fatal enterprise. That may be now a stifling incum-
brance, which was once the only possible symbol of a living belief.
Accordingly, though Carlyle's insistence upon the value of absolute
intellectual truthfulness is directed against this mode of thought, his
attack upon the opposite error is more passionate and characteristic.
The Sartor Resartus,' his first complete book (1833-4), announced
and tried to explain his "conversion. " To many readers it still
seems his best work, as it certainly contains some of his noblest
passages. It was unpopular in England, and (an Englishman must
say it with regret) seems to have been first appreciated in America.
It gave indeed many sharp blows at English society: it expresses his
contempt for the upper literary strata, who like Jeffrey complained
of him for being so "desperately in earnest "; and for the authors,
who were not "prophets," but mere caterers to ephemeral amuse-
ment. But the satire, I cannot but think, is not quite happy. The
humor of the "Clothes Philosophy" is a little strained; to me, I
confess, rather tiresome: and the impressive passages just those
where he forgets it.
His real power became obvious beyond all cavil on the publica-
tion of the 'French Revolution' (1837). Not for a hundred years, he
declared, had the public received any book that " came more direct
and flamingly from the heart of a living man. " That expresses, as
I think, the truth. The book is not to be "read for information. "
The facts would now require much restatement; and moreover, the
narrative is too apt to overleap prosaic but necessary facts in order
to fasten upon the picturesque passages. But considered as what
it is, a "prose epic," a moving panorama, drawn with astonishing
force and perception of the tremendous tragi-comedy involved, it is
unequaled in English literature. The doctrine inculcated is signifi-
cant. Carlyle's sympathies were in one sense with the Revolution.
He felt, he says, that the Radicals were "guild-brothers," while the
Whigs were mere "amateurs. " He was even more thoroughly con-
vinced than the Radicals that a thoroughgoing demolition of the old
order was essential. The Revolution was but the first volcanic out-
burst of the great forces still active below the surface. Europe, he
says (Chartism), lay "hag-ridden" and "quack-ridden. " The quack
is the most hideous of hags; he is a "falsehood incarnate. » To


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THOMAS CARLYLE
blow him and his to the four winds was the first necessity. The
French Revolution was "the inevitable stern end of much: the fear-
ful but also wonderful, indispensable, and sternly beneficent begin-
ning of much. » So far, Carlyle was far more in agreement with
Paine than with Burke. But what was to follow when the ground
was cleared? When you have cut off your king's head and con-
fiscated the estates of the nobility and the church, you have only
begun. A new period is to be born with death-throes and birth-
throes, and there are, he guesses (French Revolution,' Book iv. ,
chapter 4), some two centuries of fighting before "Democracy go
through its dire, most baleful stage of Quackocracy. › » The radi-
cals represent this coming "Quackocracy. " What was their root
error? Briefly (I try to expound, not to enlarge), that they were
materialists. Their aim was low. They desired simply a multipli-
cation of physical comforts, or as he puts it, a boundless supply of
"pigs-wash. " Their means too were futile.