Meanwhile he had met and loved a beautiful and clever lady named Jane Walsh.  She was above him in station, witty, and sought after.  Admiring the genius of Carlyle she yet had no mind she said to marry a poor genius.  But she did, and so began a long mistake of forty years.

The newly married couple took a cottage on the outskirts of Edinburgh, and there Carlyle settled down to his writing.  But money coming in slowly, Carlyle found he could no longer afford to live in Edinburgh.  So after a year and a half of cheerful, social life, surrounded by many cultured friends, he and his wife moved to Craigenputtock, a lonely house fourteen miles from Dumfries, which belonged to Mrs. Carlyle.  Here was solitude indeed.  The air was so quiet that the very sheep could be heard nibbling.  For miles around there was no house, the post came only once a week, and months at a time would go past without a visitor crossing the doorstep.

To Carlyle, who hated noises, who all his life long waged war against howling dogs and “demon” fowls, the silence and loneliness were delightful.  His work took all his thoughts, filled all his life.  He did not remember that what to him was simply peaceful quiet was for his witty, social wife a dreary desert of loneliness.  Carlyle was not only, as his mother said, “gey ill to deal wi’,” but also “gey ill to live wi’.”  For he was a genius and a sick genius.  He was nervous and bilious and suffered tortures from indigestion which made him often gloomy and miserable.

It was not a happy fortune which cast Jane and Thomas Carlyle together into this loneliness.  Still the days passed not all in gloom, Thomas writing a wonderful book, Sartor Resartus, and Jane using all her cleverness to make the home beautiful and comfortable.  For they were very poor, and Jane, who before her marriage had no knowledge of housekeeping, found herself obliged to cook and do much of the housework herself.

Nearly all Carlyle’s first books had to do with German literature.  He translated stories from great German writers and wrote about the authors.  And just as Byron had taught people on the Continent to read English literature, so Carlyle taught English people to read German literature.  He steeped himself so thoroughly in German that he himself came to write English, if I may so express it, with a German accent.  Carlyle’s style is harsh and rugged.  It has a vividness and picturesqueness all his own, but when Carlyle began to write people cared neither for his style nor for his subjects.  He found publishers hard to persuade, and life was by no means easy.

When Sartor was finished Carlyle took it to London, but could find no one willing to publish it.  So it was cut up into articles and published in a magazine “and was then mostly laughed at,” says Carlyle, and many declared they would stop taking the magazine unless these ridiculous papers ceased.  Not until years had passed was it published in book form.