dreamed that the wall would give way before the head did. It was not
mere obstinacy; it was not the pride of opinion: it was the thunders of
conscience, the awful voice of Sinai, within him; he _dared_ not do
otherwise.
A selfish or self-seeking man Carlyle in no sense was, though it has so
often been charged upon him. He was the victim of his own genius; and he
made others its victims, not of his selfishness. This genius, no doubt,
came nearer the demon of Socrates than that of any modern man. He is
under its lash and tyranny from first to last. But the watchword of his
life was "_Entsagen_," renunciation, self-denial, which he learned from
Goethe. His demon did not possess him lightly, but dominated and drove
him.
One would as soon accuse St. Simeon Stylites, thirty years at the top of
his penitential pillar, of selfishness. Seeking his own ends, following
his own demon, St. Simeon certainly was; but seeking his ease or
pleasure, or animated by any unworthy, ignoble purpose, he certainly was
not. No more was Carlyle, each one of whose books was a sort of pillar
of penitence or martyrdom atop of which he wrought and suffered, shut
away from the world, renouncing its pleasures and prizes, wrapped in
deepest gloom and misery, and wrestling with all manner of real and
imaginary demons and hindrances. During his last great work,--the
thirteen years spent in his study at the top of his house, writing the
history of Frederick,--this isolation, this incessant toil and
penitential gloom, were such as only religious devotees have voluntarily
imposed upon themselves.
If Carlyle was "ill to live with," as his mother said, it was not
because he was selfish. He was a man, to borrow one of Emerson's early
phrases, "inflamed to a fury of personality." He must of necessity
assert himself; he is shot with great velocity; he is keyed to an
extraordinary pitch; and it was this, this raging fever of
individuality, if any namable trait or quality, rather than anything
lower in the scale, that often made him an uncomfortable companion and
neighbor.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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