Before long there came a period of trouble, which is easily explained by what has been already said.  Carlyle, thinking and writing some of the most beautiful things that he ever thought or wrote, could not make allowance for his wife’s high spirit and physical weakness.  She, on her side—­nervous, fitful, and hard to please—­thought herself a slave, the servant of a harsh and brutal master.  She screamed at him when her nerves were too unstrung; and then, with a natural reaction, she called herself “a devil who could never be good enough for him.”  But most of her letters were harsh and filled with bitterness, and, no doubt, his conduct to her was at times no better than her own.

But it was at Craigenputtock that he really did lay fast and firm the road to fame.  His wife’s sharp tongue, and the gnawings of his own dyspepsia, were lived down with true Scottish grimness.  It was here that he wrote some of his most penetrating and sympathetic essays, which were published by the leading reviews of England and Scotland.  Here, too, he began to teach his countrymen the value of German literature.

The most remarkable of his productions was that strange work entitled Sartor Resartus (1834), an extraordinary mixture of the sublime and the grotesque.  The book quivers and shakes with tragic pathos, with inward agonies, with solemn aspirations, and with riotous humor.

In 1834, after six years at Craigenputtock, the Carlyles moved to London, and took up their home in Cheyne Row, Chelsea, a far from fashionable retreat, but one in which the comforts of life could be more readily secured.  It was there that Thomas Carlyle wrote what must seem to us the most vivid of all his books, the History of the French Revolution.  For this he had read and thought for many years; parts of it he had written in essays, and parts of it he had jotted down in journals.  But now it came forth, as some one has said, “a truth clad in hell-fire,” swirling amid clouds and flames and mist, a most wonderful picture of the accumulated social and political falsehoods which preceded the revolution, and which were swept away by a nemesis that was the righteous judgment of God.

Carlyle never wrote so great a book as this.  He had reached his middle style, having passed the clarity of his early writings, and not having yet reached the thunderous, strange-mouthed German expletives which marred his later work.  In the French Revolution he bursts forth, here and there, into furious Gallic oaths and Gargantuan epithets; yet this apocalypse of France seems more true than his hero-worshiping of old Frederick of Prussia, or even of English Cromwell.

All these days Thomas Carlyle lived a life which was partly one of seclusion and partly one of pleasure.  At all times he and his dark-haired wife had their own sets, and mingled with their own friends.  Jane had no means of discovering just whether she would have been happier with Irving; for Irving died while she was still digging potatoes and complaining of her lot at Craigenputtock.