Victorian Worthies | Page 8

impatient at Carlyle's difficulty in settling to a profession. 'Your mind,'
he wrote, 'unfortunately for its present peace, has taken in so wide a
range of study as to be almost incapable of professional trammels; and
it has nourished so uncommon and so unyielding a character, as first
unfits you for, and then disgusts you with, any accommodations which
for so cultivated and so fertile a mind would easily procure favour and

patronage.' Well might Carlyle in later days find a hero in tough old
Samuel Johnson, whose sufferings were due to similar causes. The
other source which kept the fire in him aglow through these difficult
years was the confidence and affection of his whole family, and the
welcome which he always found at home. Disappointed though they
were at his failure, as yet, to settle to a profession and to earn a steady
income, for all that 'Tom' was to be a great man; and when he could
find time to spend some months at Mainhill, or later at Scotsbrig,[1] a
room could always be found for him, hours of peace and solitude could
be enjoyed, the most wholesome food, and the most cordial affection,
were there rendered as loyal ungrudging tribute. But new ties were
soon to be knit and a new chapter to be opened in his life.
[Note 1: Farms near Ecclefechan to which his parents moved in 1814
and 1826.]
John Welsh of Haddington, who died before Carlyle met his future wife,
was a surgeon and a man of remarkable gifts; and his daughter could
trace her descent to such famous Scotsmen as Wallace and John Knox.
Her own mental powers were great, and her vivacity and charming
manners caused her to shine in society wherever she was. She had an
unquestioned supremacy among the ladies of Haddington and many
had been the suitors for her hand. When Irving had given her lessons
there, love had sprung up between tutor and pupil, but this budding
romance ended tragically in 1822. Before meeting her he had been
engaged to another lady; and when a new appointment gave him a sure
income, he was held to his bond and was forced to crush down his
passion and to take farewell of Miss Welsh. At what date Carlyle
conceived the hope of making her his wife it is difficult to say. Her
beauty and wit seem to have done their work quickly in his case; but
she was not one to give her affections readily, for all the intellectual
sympathy which united them. In 1823 she was contemplating marriage,
but had made no promise; in 1824 she had accepted the idea of
marrying him, but in 1825 she still scouted the conditions in which he
proposed to live. His position was precarious, his projects visionary,
and his immediate desire was to settle on a lonely farm, where he could
devote himself to study, if she would do the household drudgery.

Because his mother whom he loved and honoured was content to lead
this life, he seemed to think that his wife could do the same; but her
nature and her rearing were not those of the Carlyles and their
Annandale neighbours. It involved a complete renunciation of the
comforts of life and the social position which she enjoyed; and much
though she admired his talents and enjoyed his company, she was not
in that passion of love which could lift her to such heights of
self-sacrifice.
By this time we can begin to discern in his letters the outline of his
character--his passionate absorption in study, his moodiness, his fits of
despondency, his intense irritability; his incapacity to master his own
tongue and temper. In happy moments he shows great tenderness of
feeling for those whom he loves or pities; but this alternates with
inconsiderate clamour and loud complaints deafening the ears of all
about him, provoked often by slight and even imaginary grievances. It
is the artistic nature run riot, and that in one who preached silence and
stoicism as the chief virtues--an inconsistency which has amused and
disgusted generations of readers. It was impossible for him to do his
work with the regular method, the equable temper, of a Southey or a
Scott. In dealing with history he must image the past to himself most
vividly before he could expound his subject; and that effort and strain
cost him sleepless nights and days of concentrated thought. Nor was he
an easier companion when his work was finished and he could take his
ease. Then life seemed empty and profitless; and in its emptiness his
voice echoed all the louder. The ill was within him, and outward
circumstances were powerless to affect his nature.
At this time he was chiefly occupied in reading German literature and
spreading the