GARLYLE HOUSE, CHELSEA 



Carlyle's admirable conscientiousness in refusing to use his gifts 

 in support of what he did not thoroughly approve, a line of conduct 

 in which his wife nobly seconded him, kept him poor for many 

 years ; but, through his thrift, and her excellent management, 

 |C the extremity of poverty never came near them." 



' I mean to write according to my strength," he writes to his 

 brother in 1834. "As to riches, fame, success, and so forth, I 

 ask no questions. Were the work laid out for us but the kneading 

 of a clay brick, let us, in God's name, do it faithfully, and look for 

 our reward elsewhere." He finds no encouragement in the book- 

 selling world, for at this time the author of " Sartor Resartus " 

 was an unpopular person with the reading public. " On July 26, 

 at ' Sunset ' " (an ominous hour), he writes in his journal, " nothing 

 can exceed the gravity of my situation here. ' Do or die ' seems 

 the word ; and, alas ! what to do ? ... no periodical editor 

 wants me ; no man will give me money for my work. Bad health, 

 too . . . despicable fears of coming to absolute beggary, etc., etc., 

 besiege me." But he never entirely despaired, and a month 

 earlier he had written : " Surely as the blue dome of Heaven 

 encircles us all, so does the providence of the Lord of Heaven. He 

 will withhold no good thing from those that love Him ! This, as 

 it was the ancient psalmist's faith, let it likewise be ours. It is 

 the Alpha and Omega, I reckon, of all possessions that can belong 

 to man." 



Sir Leslie Stephen truly says " that Carlyle was too often judged 

 by his defects, and regarded as a selfish and eccentric misanthrope, 

 with flashes of genius, rather than a man with the highest qualities 

 of mind and character, clouded by constitutional infirmities." 

 For alas ! ' The fierce light that beats upon a throne " beats also 

 upon the home of genius, betraying all the little flaws 'and imper- 

 fections that escape remark when they are seen on commoner clay. 



To my mind, therefore, what men have called a tragedy, was 

 no tragedy at all, and the dingy, old house in Cheyne Row, though 

 it saw tragic moments, is coloured rosy- red with romance romance 

 that did not end, as is the way with most fiction, with marriage 

 rejoicings, the union of the Haddington belle with the peasant's 

 son ; but romance that followed them throughout the rough and 

 tumble of their early days in Annandale and Edinburgh, through 

 the struggles, and disappointments, and joys, the growing fame, 



259 17* 



