English literature -- History and criticism; Historiography; Literature
First of all, it may be stated, without a shadow of a doubt, that he
is one of those who would sooner be wrong with Plato than right with
Aristotle; in one word, he is a mystic. What he says of Novalis may with
equal truth be said of himself: 'He belongs to that class of persons
who do not recognise the syllogistic method as the chief organ for
investigating truth, or feel themselves bound at all times to stop short
where its light fails them. Many of his opinions he would despair of
proving in the most patient court of law, and would remain well content
that they should be disbelieved there.' In philosophy we shall not be
very far wrong if we rank Carlyle as a follower of Bishop Berkeley;
for an idealist he undoubtedly was. 'Matter,' says he, 'exists only
spiritually, and to represent some idea, and body it forth. Heaven and
Earth are but the time-vesture of the Eternal. The Universe is but one
vast symbol of God; nay, if thou wilt have it, what is man himself but a
symbol of God? Is not all that he does symbolical, a revelation to sense
of the mystic God-given force that is in him?--a gospel of Freedom,
which he, the "Messias of Nature," preaches as he can by act and word.'
'Yes, Friends,' he elsewhere observes, 'not our logical mensurative
faculty, but our imaginative one, is King over us, I might say Priest
and Prophet, to lead us heavenward, or magician and wizard to lead us
hellward. The understanding is indeed thy window--too clear thou canst
not make it; but phantasy is thy eye, with its colour-giving retina,
healthy or diseased.' It would be easy to multiply instances of this,
the most obvious and interesting trait of Mr. Carlyle's writing; but
I must bring my remarks upon it to a close by reminding you of his
two favourite quotations, which have both significance. One from
Shakespeare's _Tempest_:
'We are such stuff
As dreams are made of, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep;'
the other, the exclamation of the Earth-spirit, in Goethe's _Faust_:
''Tis thus at the roaring loom of Time I ply,
And weave for God the garment thou seest Him by.'
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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