The object of the present lecture is neither to explain Sartor Resartus nor to summarise it.  It certainly requires explanation, and it is no wonder that it puzzled the publishers.  Before it was finally accepted by Fraser, its author had “carried it about for some two years from one terrified owl to another.”  When it appeared, the criticisms passed on it were amusing enough.  Among those mentioned by Professor Nichol are, “A heap of clotted nonsense,” and “When is that stupid series of articles by the crazy tailor going to end?” A book which could call forth such abuse, even from the dullest of minds, is certainly in need of elucidation.  Yet here, more perhaps than in any other volume one could name, the interpretation must come from within.  The truth which it has to declare will appeal to each reader in the light of his own experience of life.  And the endeavour of the present lecture will simply be to give a clue to its main purpose.  Every reader, following up that clue for himself, may find the growing interest and the irresistible fascination which the Victorians found in it.  And when we add that without some knowledge of Sartor it is impossible to understand any serious book that has been written since it appeared, we do not exaggerate so much as might be supposed on the first hearing of so extraordinary a statement.

The first and chief difficulty with most readers is a very obvious and elementary one.  What is it all about?  As you read, you can entertain no doubt about the eloquence, the violent and unrestrained earnestness of purpose, the unmistakable reserves of power behind the detonating words and unforgettable phrases.  But, after all, what is it that the man is trying to say?  This is certainly an unpromising beginning.  Other great prophets have prophesied in the vernacular; but “he that speaketh in an unknown tongue speaketh not unto men but unto God; for no man understandeth him; howbeit in the spirit he speaketh mysteries.”  Yet there are some things which cannot convey their full meaning in the vernacular, thoughts which must coin a language for themselves; and although at first there may be much bewilderment and even irritation, yet in the end we shall confess that the prophecy has found its proper language.

Let us go back to the time in which the book was written.  In the late twenties and early thirties of the nineteenth century a quite exceptional group of men and women were writing books.  It was one of those galaxies that now and then over-crowd the literary heavens with stars.  To mention only a few of the famous names, there were Byron, Scott, Wordsworth, Dickens, Tennyson, and the Brownings.  It fills one with envy to think of days when any morning might bring a new volume from any one of these.  Emerson was very much alive then, and was already corresponding with Carlyle.  Goethe died in 1832, but not before he had found in Carlyle one who “is almost more, at home in our literature than ourselves,” and who had penetrated to the innermost core of the German writings of his day.