ECONOMIES IN CHEYNE ROW.

57

CHAPTER III.

A.D. 1835-6. ET. 40-41.

Visit to Scotland-Hard conditions of life-Scotsbrig-Return to London-Effort of faith-Letter from his mother-Schemes for employment-Offer from Basil Montagu-Polar bears-Struggles with the book-Visit from John Carlyle-Despondency-Money anxieties-Mrs. Carlyle in Scotland-Letters to her-Diamond Necklace' printed- French Revolution' finished.

In the first week in October Carlyle started for his old home, not in a smack, though he had so purposed, but in a steamer to Newcastle, whence there was easy access, though railways as yet were not, to Carlisle and Annandale. His letters and diary give no bright picture of his first year's experience in London, and fate had dealt hardly with him; but he had gained much notwithstanding. His strong personality had drawn attention wherever he had been seen. He had been invited with his wife into culti

vated circles, literary and political. The Sterlings were not the only new friends whom they had made. Their poverty was unconcealed; there was no sham in either of the Carlyles, and there were many persons anxious to help them in any form in which help could be accepted. Presents of all kinds, hampers of wine, and suchlike poured in upon them. Carlyle did not speak of these things. He did not feel them less than

other people, but he was chary of polite expressions which are so often but half sincere, and he often seemed indifferent or ungracious when at heart he was warmly grateful. Mrs. Carlyle, when disappointed of her trip to Scotland, had been carried off into the country by the Sterlings for a week or two. In August Mrs. Welsh came, and stayed on while Carlyle was away. She was a gifted woman, a little too sentimental for her sarcastic daughter, and troublesome with her caprices. They loved each other dearly and even passionately. They quarrelled daily and made it up again. Mrs. Carlyle, like her husband, was not easy to live with. But on the whole they were happy to be together again after so long a separation. They had friends of their own who gathered about them in Carlyle's absence. Mrs. Carlyle occupied herself in learning Italian, painting and arranging the rooms, negotiating a sofa out of her scanty allowance, preparing a pleasant surprise when he should come back to his work. He on his part was not left to chew his own reflections. was to provide the winter stock of bacon and hams and potatoes and meal at Scotsbrig. He was to find a Scotch lass for a servant and bring her back with him. He was to dispose of the rest of the Craigenputtock stock which had been left unsold, all excellent antidotes against spectral visions. He had his old Annandale relations to see again, in whose fortunes he was eagerly interested, and to write long stories about them to his brother John. In such occupation, varied with daily talks and smokes with his mother, and in feeding himself into health on milk or porridge, Carlyle passed his holiday. He

He

HOLIDAY IN SCOTLAND

59

walked far and fast among the hills, with an understanding of their charm as keen as an artist's, though art he affected to disdain.

I am sometimes sad enough (he told his brother), but that, too, is profitable. I have moments of inexpressible beauty, like auroral gleams on a sky all dark. My book seems despicable; however I will write it. After that there remains for me-on the whole exactly what God has appointed, therefore let us take it thankfully.

One characteristic letter to his wife remains, written from Scotsbrig on this visit. It was in reply to her pretty Anglo-Italian epistle of October 26.1

To Jane Welsh Carlyle.

Scotsbrig: November 2, 1835.

All people say, and, what is more to the purpose, I myself rather feel, that my health is greatly improved since I got hither. Alas! the state of wreckage I was in, fretted, as thou sayest, to fiddlestrings, was enormous. Even yet, after a month's idleness and much recovery, I feel it all so well. Silence for a solar year; this, were it possible, would be my blessedness. All is so black, confused, about me, streaked with splendour too as of heaven; and I the most helpless of mortals in the middle of it. I could say with Job of old, Have pity upon me, have pity upon me, O my friends.' And thou, my poor Goody, depending on cheerful looks of mine for thy cheerfulness! For God's sake do not, or do so as little as possible. How I love thee, what I think of thee, it is not probable that thou or any mortal will know. But cheerful looks, when the heart feels slowly dying in floods of confusion and obstruction, are not the thing I have to give. Courage, however-courage to the last! One thing in the middle of this chaos I can more and more determine to adhere to it is now almost my sole rule of life--to clear myself of cants and formulas as of poisonous Nessus shirts; to strip

1 Letters and Memorials, vol. i. p. 40.

them off me, by what name soever called, and follow, were it down to Hades, what I myself know and see. Pray God only that sight be given me, freedom of eyes to see with. I fear nothing then, nay, hope infinite things. It is a great misery for a man to lie, even unconsciously, even to himself. Also I feel at this time as if I should never laugh more, or rather say never sniff and whiffle and pretend to laugh more. The despicable titter of a—,' for example, seems to me quite criminally small. Life is no frivolity, or hypothetical coquetry or whifflery. It is a great world of truth,' that we are alive, that I am alive; that I saw the 'Sweet Milk well' yesterday, flowing for the last four thousand years, from its three sources on the hill side, the origin of Middlebie Burn, and noted the little dell it had hollowed out all the way, and the huts of Adam's posterity built sluttishly along its course, and a sun shining overhead ninety millions of miles off, and eternity all round, and life a vision, dream and yet fact woven with uproar in the loom of time. Withal it should be said that my biliousness is considerable to-day; that I am not so unhappy as I talk, nay, perhaps rather happy; in one word, that my mother indulged me this morning in a cup of ! I am actually very considerably better than when we parted.

The sheet is all but done, and no word of thanks for your fine Italian-English letter, which I read three times actually and did not burn. It is the best news to me that you are getting better; that you feel cheerful, as your writing indicated. My poor Goody! it seems as if she could so easily be happy; and the easy means are so seldom there. Let us take it bravely, honestly. It will not break us both. What you say of the sofa is interesting, more than I like to confess. May it be good for us! I feel as if an immeasurable everlasting sofa was precisely the thing I wanted even now. Oh dear! I wish I was there, on the simple greatness of that one, such as it is, and Goody might be as near as she liked. Hadere nicht mit deiner Mutter, Liebste. Trage, trage; es wird bald enden.1

1 Quarrel not with your mother, dearest. Be patient; be patient. It will soon end.

RETURN TO LONDON.

61

God bless thee, my poor little darling. I think we shall be happier some time, and oh, how happy if God will!

Your ever affectionate

T. CARLYLE.

The holiday lasted but four weeks, and Carlyle was again at his work at Chelsea. He was still restless, of course, with so heavy a load upon him; but he did his best to be cheerful under it. Her chief resources were the Sterlings and the Italian lessons, and as long as she was well in health her spirits did not fail. Him, too, the Sterlings' friendship helped much to encourage; but he was absorbed in his writing and could think of little else. To his brother John he was regular in his accounts of himself, and complained as little as could be expected.

I could live very patiently (he said) amid this circle of London people. They are greatly the best people I ever walked with. One is freer than anywhere else in the world, esteemed without being questioned, more at home than one has been. I will stay here and try it out to the last; but indeed my soul is like to grow quite sick, and I feel as if no resting-place waited me on this side the Great Ocean. It is a petulant, weak thought; neither do I long to die till I have done my task. I think, however, I will quit literature.

Journal.

December 23, 1835.-To write of the conditions, external and especially internal, in which I live at present, is impossible for me; unprofitable were it possible. Bad bodily health added to all the rest makes the ungainliest result of it, frightful, drawing towards what consummation? Silence is better. Be silent, be calm, at least not mad. On the 4th of this month, not without remembering and bitterly considering, I completed my fortieth year. Spiritual strength, as I feel, still