CHAPTER V.

A.D. 1837-8. ET. 42-43.

Effects of the book-Change in Carlyle's position-Thoughts on the cholera-Article on Sir Walter Scott-Proposals for a collection of miscellanies-Lord Monteagle-The great world-T. Erskine— Literature as a profession-Miss Martineau-Popularity-Second course of lectures-Financial results-Increasing fame.

AUTUMN, as usual, brought back the migratory London flocks, and among them Carlyle. He found his wife better in health, delighted to have him again at her side, and in lightened humour altogether. She knew, though he, so little vain was he, had failed as yet to understand it, that he had returned to a changed position, that he was no longer lonely and neglected, but had taken his natural place among the great writers of his day. Popular he might not be. Popularity with the multitude he had to wait for many a year; but he was acknowledged by all whose judgment carried weight with it to have become actually what Goethe had long ago foretold that he would be a new moral force in Europe, the extent of which could not be foreseen, but must be great and might be immeasurable. He was still poor, wretchedly poor according to the modern standard. But the Carlyles did not think about standards, and on that score had no more anxieties. He had no

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work on hand or immediate desire for any. He was able to tell his brother John that, 'having no book to write in the coming year, he would not feel so fretted and would fret no one else: there would be a cheerfuller household than of old.' An article on Sir Walter Scott had been promised to Mill, and a subject had to be thought of for the next Spring's lectures. Both of these would be easy tasks. Meanwhile, he discovered that his wife was right. 'He was to be considered as a kind of successful man. The poor book had done him real service in truth, had been abundantly reviewed and talked about and belauded; neither, apparently, had it yet done.' He sent to Scotsbrig cheery accounts of himself. I find John Sterling here,' he said, and many friends, all kinder each than the other to me. With talk and locomotion the days pass cheerfully till I rest and gird myself together again. They make a great talk about the book, which seems to have succeeded in a far higher degree than I looked for. Everybody is astonished at every other body's being pleased with this wonderful performance.'

To Margaret Carlyle, Scotsbrig.

Chelsea: October 9, 1837.

People all say,' How much better you look!' The grand improvement I trace is that of being far calmer than I was, the immense fuff having subsided into composure... I have seen most of my friends that are here. All people are very good to me. Doubt not, dear mother, I shall be able to do better now, have a far better chance. My book has been abundantly reviewed, praised, and discussed. Fraser also tells me it is steadfastly making way. . . Also I must mention a strange half-daft Edinburgh gentleman that called here

last week to congratulate. He however went upon the old article Characteristics,' and illustrified us at a great rate; an elder of the Kirk, brimful of religion, a very queer man indeed. At bottom I fancy you, dear mother, apprehensive now that we shall err in the other way, that it will ‘tak hal' o' thee, Tom. No fear, no fear at all! When one is turned of forty and has almost twenty years of stomach disease to draw upon, there is great safety as to that. A voice from the interior of the liver cries out too sternly 'What's ta use on't?'

In his extremest poverty Carlyle had always contrived his little presents to give his mother comforts which she would never have allowed to herself. Now, feeling himself easy and on the way to what, in his estimate of such things, would be riches, he sent her a more generous offering. And what picture is this, dear mother?' he said, enclosing a bank note. 'It is to buy you a little keg of ale, and some warm things through the winter. The money I gave you last you gave wholly away again, or almost wholly. It is a thing totally absurd. I beg you to accept this, and I insist upon it; and write me, when you next take up the pen, not useless speech, but an account of all the warm clothings and furnishings Jenny1 and you have laid in by my order.' Then, as always, Carlyle's generosity was in an 'inverse ratio' to his means. His expenditure on himself was to the last thrifty, even to parsimony, while he scarcely seemed to know what he gave away to others.

John Carlyle, not finding sufficient occupation in attending on Lady Clare, was practising as a physician at Rome on his own account. The cholera had broken out there, and he was giving his service

The youngest sister, still living at Scotsbrig.

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gratis among the poor. There were universal terror, selfishness, and inhumanity; the Pope and the Monsignori had shown particular cowardice; the inferior priests had been brave and devoted. John had written about all this to Chelsea.

Men are great blockheads (Carlyle answered) and very miserable. Your letter is a true emblem of a country suffering dreadfully by Heaven's visitation, and still more by its own folly and frenzy. We remember well enough how it was in Dumfriesshire, yet with this difference in our favour, that village was not shut against village, and we had only the madness of fear in an isolated inorganic shape. God preserve you, dear brother, in the midst of these perils! As I used to say to myself, 'Are we not at all times near to death, separated from us by a mere film?' God will preserve us till our days and their work are done. Therefore, at least, we will not live in bondage to the vile tyranny of fear. Expose not yourself without duty to do; but with duty again one will dread no exposure. As for you, you had a distinct call to go and seek your daily bread. Would to Ileaven it were well over for you all!

Another interesting letter came about the heroism of the poorer clergy, which led to a long reply.

To John Carlyle.

Chelsea: November 7, 1837.

Danger of death is something; but the madness of mortals under base panic storming round one is more insupportable than any danger. We had reports last week that cholera was in London too; but the news did not take. Indeed Cockneydom is too busy to yield lightly to panic. Cholera, as I used to tell the gabbling blockheads, holds nothing in it that the pitifullest catarrh, the fall of a roof, the breakdown of a hackney-coach may not hold. Death! That is the utmost the crash of the whole solar and stellar

system could bring on us; and to that we have been used for 6,000 years now, or nearly so. For the rest we will honour the Jesuits and other poor priests, and pity the Monsignori and the 'Holiness of our Lord,' to whom the faith of a common Russian soldier does not seem to have been vouchsafed in this instance. But it was so at Dumfries too. Only one clergyman dared enter their horror of a hospital there, and he was an old Roman Catholic. Walter Dunlop carried it at length so far that he ventured on praying through a window, with or without benefit. . . . For myself (he goes on now to speak of other things) there is little to be bragged of, but yet nothing specially to be complained of. I feel a great change in me accomplished and going on; a state of humour in many points new, unnamed, of which in its present state it is above all unpleasant and useless to speak. My life is full of sadness, streaked with wild gleamings of a very strange joy, but habitually sad enough. The dead seem as much my companions as the living; death as much present with me as life. The only wise thing I can do is to hold my tongue and see what will come of it. In regard to temporals, I believe if I had these two, health and impudence, I might make great way here; but having neither of them, one sees not so well how it will be; one knows not which may be best. Alas! I trace in myself such a devilish disposition on many sides, such abysses of self-conceit, disgust, and insatiability, I think many times it were better and safer I were kept always sunk, pinched in the ice of poverty and obscurity till death quietly received me and I were at rest. If you call this hypochondriacal, consider the unutterable discrepancy that lies in these two facts; a man becoming notable as a light or rushlight of his generation, and possessed of resources to serve him three or four months without an outlook beyond. I suppose I shall have to lecture again in spring, God knows on what. No blessing in the world were dearer to me than that of being allowed now to hold my peace for a twelvemonth. If I had wings I would fly to Italy, fly to Saturn, somewhither where I could be let alone. And yet, dear Jack, through all this black welter of sorrow and