it be accomplished." As for me I honor peace before all things;
the silence of a great soul is to me greater than anything it
will ever say, it ever can say. Be tranquil, my friend; utter
no word till you cannot help it;--and think yourself a
"reporter," till you find (not with any great joy) that you are
not altogether that!
We have not yet seen Miss Sedgwick: your Letters with her card
were sent hither by post we went up next day, but she was out;
no meeting could be arranged earlier than tomorrow evening, when
we look for her here. Her reception, I have no doubt, will be
abundantly flattering in this England. American Notabilities
are daily becoming notabler among us; the ties of the two
Parishes, Mother and Daughter, getting closer and closer knit.
Indissoluble ties:--I reckon that this huge smoky Wen may, for
some centuries yet, be the best Mycale for our Saxon _Panionium,_
a yearly meeting-place of "All the Saxons," from beyond the
Atlantic, from the Antipodes, or wherever the restless wanderers
dwell and toil. After centuries, if Boston, if New York, have
become the most convenient _"All-Saxondom,"_ we will right
cheerfully go thither to hold such festival, and leave the Wen.--
Not many days ago I saw at breakfast the notabest of all your
Notabilities, Daniel Webster. He is a magnificent specimen; you
might say to all the world, This is your Yankee Englishman, such
Limbs _we_ make in Yankeeland! As a Logic-fencer, Advocate, or
Parliamentary Hercules, one would incline to back him at first
sight against all the extant world. The tanned complexion, that
amorphous crag-like face; the dull black eyes under their
precipice of brows, like dull anthracite furnaces, needing only
to be _blown;_ the mastiff-mouth, accurately closed:--I have not
traced as much of _silent Berserkir-rage,_ that I remember of, in
any other man. "I guess I should not like to be your nigger!"--
Webster is not loquacious, but he is pertinent, conclusive; a
dignified, perfectly bred man, though not English in breeding: a
man worthy of the best reception from us; and meeting such, I
understand. He did not speak much with me that morning, but
seemed not at all to dislike me: I meditate whether it is fit or
not fit that I should seek out his residence, and leave _my_ card
too, before I go? Probably not; for the man is political,
seemingly altogether; has been at the Queen's levee, &c., &c.:
it is simply as a mastiff-mouthed _man_ that he is interesting to
me, and not otherwise at all.
In about seven days hence we go to Scotland till the July heats
be over. That is our resolution after all. Our address there,
probably till the end of August, is "Templand, Thornhill,
Dumfries, N. B.,"--the residence of my Mother-in-law, within a
day's drive of my Mother's. Any Letter of yours sent by the old
constant address (Cheyne Row, Chelsea) will still find me there;
but the other, for that time, will be a day or two shorter. We
all go, servant and all. I am bent on writing _something;_ but
have no faith that I shall be able. I _must_ try. There is a
thing of mine in _Fraser_ for July, of no account, about the
"sinking of the _Vengeur_" as you will see. The _French
Revolution_ printing is not to stop; two thirds of it are done;
at this present rate, it ought to finish, and the whole be ready,
within three weeks hence. A Letter will be here from you about
that time, I think: I will print no title-page for the Five
Hundred till it do come. "Published by _Fraser and_ Little"
would, I suppose, be unobjectionable, though Fraser is the most
nervous of creatures: but why put _him_ in at all, since these
Five hundred copies are wholly Little's and yours? Adieu, my
Friend. Our blessings are with you and your house. My wife
grows better with the hot weather; I, always worse.
Yours ever,
T. Carlyle
I say not a word about America or Lecturing at present; because
I mean to consider it intently in Scotland, and there to decide.
My Brother is to be at Ischl (not far from Salzburg) during
Summer: he was anxious to have me there, and I to have gone;
but--but--Adieu.
_Fraser's Shop._ Books not yet come, but known to be safe, and
expected soon. Nay, the dexterous Fraser has argued away L15 of
the duty, he says! All is right therefore. N.B. he says you are
to send the second Portion _in sheets,_ the weight will be less.
This if it be still time.--_Basta._
--T.C.
XLIV. Emerson to Carlyle
Concord, 4 July, 1839
I hear tonight, O excellent man! that, unless I send a letter to
Boston tomorrow with the peep of day, it will miss the Liverpool
steamer, which sails earlier than I dreamed of. O foolish
Steamer! I am not ready to write. The facts are not yet ripe,
though on the turn of the blush. Couldst not wait a little?
Hurry is for slaves;--and Aristotle, if I rightly remember only
that little from my college lesson, affirmed that the high-minded
man never walked fast. O foolish Steamer! wait but a week, and
we will style thee Megalopsyche, and hang thee by the Argo in the
stars. Meantime I will not deny the dear and admirable man the
fragments of intelligence I have. Be it known unto you then,
Thomas Carlyle, that I received yesterday morning your letter by
the "Liverpool" with great contentment of heart and mind, in all
respects, saving that the American Hegira, so often predicted on
your side and prayed on ours, is treated with a most unbecoming
levity and oblivion; and, moreover, that you do not seem to have
received all the letters I seem to have sent. With the letter
came the proof-sheet safe, and shall be presently exhibited to
Little and Brown. You must have already the result of our first
colloquy on that matter. I can now bring the thing nearer to
certainty. But you must print their names as before advised on
the title-page.
Nearly four weeks ago Ellis sent me the noble Italian print for
my wife.* She is in Boston at this time, and I believe will be
glad that I have written without her aid or word this time, for
she was so deeply pleased with the gift that she said she never
could write to you. It came timely to me at least. It is a
right morning thought, full of health and flowing genius, and I
rejoice in it. It is fitly framed and tomorrow is to be hung in
the parlor.
--------
* Morghen's engraving of Guido's Aurora.
--------
Our Munroe's press, you must believe, was of Aristotle's category
of the high-minded and slow. Chiding would do no good. They
still said, "We have but one copy, and so but one hand at work"!
At last, on the 1st of July, the book appeared in the market, but
does not come from the binder fast enough to supply the instant
demand; and therefore your two hundred and sixty copies cannot
part from New York until the 20th of July. They will be on board
the London packet which sails on that day. The publisher has his
instructions to bind the volumes to match the old ones. Our year
since the publication of the Vols. I. and II. is just complete,
and I have set the man on the account, but doubt if I get it
before twelve or fourteen days. All the edition is gone except
forty copies, he told me; and asked me if I would not begin to
print a small edition of this First Series, five hundred, as we
have five hundred of the new Series too many, with that view.
But I am now so old a fox that I suspend majestically my answer
until I have his account. For on the 21st of July I am to pay
$462 for the paper of this new book: and by and by the printer's
bill,--whose amount I do not yet know; and it is better to be
"slow and high-minded" a little more, since we have been so much,
and not go deeper into these men's debt until we have tasted
somewhat of their credit. We are to get, as you know, by
contract, near a thousand dollars from these first two volumes;
yet a month ago I was forced to borrow two hundred dollars for
you on interest, such advances had the account required. But the
coming account will enlighten us all.
I am very happy in the "success" of the London lectures. I have
no word to add tonight, only that Sterling is not timber-toned,
that I love his poetry, that I admire his prose with reservations
here and there. What he knows he writes manly and well. Now and
then he puts in a pasteboard man; but all our readers here take
_Blackwood_ for his sake, and lately seek him in vain. I am
getting on with some studies of mine prosperously for me, have
got three essays nearly done, and who knows but in the autumn I
shall have a book? Meantime my little boy and maid, my mother
and wife, are well, and the two ladies send to you and yours
affectionate regards,--they would fain say urgent invitations.
My mother sends tonight, my wife always.
I shall send you presently a copy of a translation published here
of Eckermann, by Margaret Fuller, a friend of mine and of yours,
for the sake of its preface mainly. She is a most accomplished
lady, and her culture belongs rather to Europe than to America.
Good bye.
--R.W. Emerson
XLV. Emerson to Carlyle
Concord, 8 August, 1839
Dear Friend,--This day came the letter dated 24 June, with "steam
packet" written by you on the outside, but no paddles wheeled it
through the sea. It is forty-five days old, and too old to do
its errand even had it come twenty days sooner--so far as printer
and bookbinder are concerned. I am truly grieved for the
mischance of the _John_ Fraser, and will duly lecture the sinning
bookseller. I noticed the misnomer in a letter of his New York
correspondent, and, I believe, mentioned to you in a letter my
fear of such a mischance. I am more sorry for the costliness
of this adventure to you, though in a gracious note to me you
cut down the fine one half. The new books, tardily printed,
were tardily bound and tardily put to sea on the packet ship
"Ontario," which left New York for London on the 1st of August.
At least this was the promise of Munroe & Co. I stood over the
boxes in which they were packing them in the latter days of July.
I hope they have not gone to John again, but you must keep an eye
to both names....
I cannot tell you how glad I am that you have seen my brave
Senator, and seen him as I see him. All my days I have wished
that he should go to England, and never more than when I listened
two or three times to debates in the House of Commons. We send
out usually mean persons as public agents, mere partisans, for
whom I can only hope that no man with eyes will meet them; and
now those thirsty eyes, those portrait-eating, portrait-painting
eyes of thine, those fatal perceptions, have fallen full on the
great forehead which I followed about all my young days, from
court-house to senate-chamber, from caucus to street. He has his
own sins no doubt, is no saint, is a prodigal. He has drunk this
rum of Party too so long, that his strong head is soaked,
sometimes even like the soft sponges, but the "man's a man for a'
that." Better, he is a great boy,--as wilful, as nonchalant and
good-humored. But you must hear him speak, not a show speech
which he never does well, but _with cause_ he can strike a stroke
like a smith. I owe to him a hundred fine hours and two or three
moments of Eloquence. His voice in a great house is admirable.
I am sorry if you decided not to visit him. He loves a _man,_
too. I do not know him, but my brother Edward read law with him,
and loved him, and afterwards in sick and unfortunate days
received the steadiest kindness from him.
Well, I am glad you are to think in earnest in Scotland of our
Cisatlantic claims. We shall have more rights over the wise and
brave, I believe before many years or months. We shall have more
men and a better cause than has yet moved on our stagnant waters.
I think our Church, so called, must presently vanish. There is a
universal timidity, conformity, and rage; and on the other hand
the most resolute realism in the young. The man Alcott bides his
time. I have a young poet in this village named Thoreau, who
writes the truest verses. I pine to show you my treasures; and
tell your wife, we have women who deserve to know her.
--R.W. Emerson
The Yankees read and study the new volumes of _Miscellanies_ even
more than the old. The "Sam Johnson" and "Scott" are great
favorites. Stearns Wheeler corrected proofs affectionately to
the last. Truth and Health be with you alway!
XLVI. Carlyle to Emerson
Scotsbrig, Ecclefechan, 4 September, 1839
Dear Emerson,--A cheerful and right welcome Letter of yours,
dated 4th July, reached me here, duly forwarded, some three
weeks ago; I delayed answering till there could some definite
statement, as to bales of literature shipped or landed, or other
matter of business forwarded a stage, be made. I am here, with
my Wife, rusticating again, these two months; amid diluvian
rains, Chartism, Teetotalism, deficient harvest, and general
complaint and confusion; which not being able to mend, all that
I can do is to heed them as little as possible. "What care I for
the house? I am only a lodger." On the whole, I have sat under
the wing of Saint Swithin; uncheery, sluggish, murky, as the
wettest of his Days;--hoping always, nevertheless, that blue sky,
figurative and real, does exist, and will demonstrate itself by
and by. I have been the stupidest and laziest of men. I could
not write even to you, till some palpable call told me I must.
Yesternight, however, there arrives a despatch from Fraser,
apprising me that the American _Miscellanies,_ second cargo, are
announced from Portsmouth, and "will probably be in the River
tomorrow"; where accordingly they in all likelihood now are, a
fair landing and good welcome to them! Fraser "knows not whether
they are bound or not"; but will soon know. The first cargo, of
which I have a specimen here, contented him extremely; only
there was one fatality, the cloth of the binding was multiplex,
party-colored, some sets done in green, others in red, blue,
perhaps skyblue! Now if the second cargo were not multiplex,
party-colored, nay multiplex, _in exact concordance with the
first,_ as seemed almost impossible--?--Alas, in that case, one
could not well predict the issue!--Seriously, it is a most
handsome Book you have made; and I have nothing to return but
thanks and again thanks. By the bye, if you do print a small
second edition of the First Portion, I might have had a small set
of errata ready: but _where are they?_ The Book only came into
my hand here a few days ago; and I have been whipt from post
to pillar without will of my own, without energy to form a
will! The only glaring error I recollect at this moment is one
somewhere in the second article on _Jean Paul:_ "Osion" (I
think, or some such thing) instead of "Orson": it is not an
original American error, but copied from the English; if the
Printer get his eye upon it, let him rectify; if not, not, I
_deserve_ to have it stand against me there. Fraser's joy,
should the Books prove either unbound or multiplex in the right
way, will be great and unalloyed; he calculates on selling all
the copies very soon. He has begun reprinting Goethe's _Wilhelm
Meister_ too, the _Apprenticeship_ and _Travels_ under one; and
hopes to remunerate himself for that by and by: whether there
will then remain any small peculium for me is but uncertain;
meanwhile I correct the press, nothing doubting. One of these I
call my best Translation, the other my worst; I have read that
latter, the _Apprenticeship,_ again in these weeks; not without
surprise, disappointment, nay, aversion here and there, yet on
the whole with ever new esteem. I find I can pardon _all_ things
in a man except purblindness, falseness of vision,--for, indeed,
does not that presuppose every other kind of falseness?
But let me hasten to say that the _French Revolution,_ five
hundred strong for the New England market, is also, as Fraser
advises, "to go to sea in three days." It is bound in red cloth,
gilt; a pretty book, James says; which he will sell for
twenty-five shillings here;--nay, the London brotherhood have
"subscribed" for one hundred and eighty at once, which he
considers great work. I directed him to consign to Little and
Brown in Boston, the _property_ of the thing _yours,_ with such
phraseology and formalities as they use in those cases. I paid
him for it yesterday (to save discount) L95; that is the whole
cost to me, twenty or thirty pounds more than was once calculated
on. Do the best with it you can, my friend; and never mind the
result. If the thing fail, as is likely enough, we will simply
quit that transport trade, and my experience must be _paid for._
The Title-page was "Boston: Charles C. Little and James Brown,"
then in a second line and smaller type, "London James Fraser";
to which arrangement James made not the slightest objection, or
indeed rather seemed to like it.--So much for trade matters: is
it not _enough?_ I declare I blush sometimes, and wonder where
the good Emerson gets all his patience. We shall be through the
affair one day, and find something better to speak about than
dollars and pounds. And yet, as you will say, why not even of
dollars? Ah, there are leaden-worded [bills] of exchange I
have seen which have had an almost sacred character to me!
_Pauca verba._
Doubt not your new utterances are eagerly waited for here; above
all things the "Book" is what I want to see. You might have told
me what it was about. We shall see by and by. A man that has
discerned somewhat, and knows it for himself, let him speak it
out, and thank Heaven. I pray that they do not confuse you by
praises; their blame will do no harm at all. Praise is sweet to
all men; and yet alas, alas, if the light of one's own heart go
out, bedimmed with poor vapors and sickly false glitterings and
flashings, what profit is it! Happier in darkness, in all manner
of mere outward darkness, misfortune and neglect, "so that _thou
canst endure,_"--which however one cannot to all lengths. God
speed you, my Brother! I hope all good things of you; and
wonder whether like Phoebus Apollo you are destined to be a youth
forever.--Sterling will be right glad to hear your praises; not
unmerited, for he is a man among millions that John of mine,
though his perpetual mobility wears me out at times. Did he ever
write to you? His latest speculation was that he should and
would; but I fancy it is among the clouds again. I hear from
him the other day, out of Welsh villages where he passed his
boyhood, &c., all in a flow of "lyrical recognition," hope,
faith, and sanguine unrest; I have even some thoughts of
returning by Bristol (in a week or so, that must be), and seeing
him. The dog has been reviewing me, he says, and it is coming
out in the next _Westminster!_ He hates terribly my doctrine of
_"Silence."_ As to America and lecturing, I cannot in this
torpid condition venture to say one word. Really it is not
impossible; and yet lecturing is a thing I shall never grow to
like; still less lionizing, Martineau-ing: _Ach Gott!_ My Wife
sends a thousand regards; _she_ will never get across the ocean,
you must come to her; she was almost _dead_ crossing from
Liverpool hither, and declares she will never go to sea for any
purpose whatsoever again. Never till next time! My good old
Mother is here, my Brother John (home with his Duke from Italy);
all send blessings and affection to you and yours. Adieu till I
get to London.
Yours ever,
T. Carlyle
XLVII. Carlyle to Emerson
Chelsea, London, 8 December, 1839
My Dear Emerson,--What a time since we have written to one
another! was it you that defalcated? Alas, I fear it was myself;
I have had a feeling these nine or ten weeks that you were
expecting to hear from me; that I absolutely could not write.
Your kind gift of Fuller's _Eckermann_* was handed in to our
Hackney coach, in Regent Street, as we wended homewards from the
railway and Scotland, on perhaps the 8th of September last; a
welcome memorial of distant friends and doings: nay, perhaps
there was a Letter two weeks prior to that:--I am a great sinner!
But the truth is, I could not write; and now I can and do it!
----------
* "Conversations with Goethe. Translated from the German of
Eckermann. By S.M. Fuller." Boston, 1839. This was the fourth
volume in the series of "Specimens of Foreign Standard
Literature," edited by George Ripley. The book has a
characteristic Preface by Miss Fuller, in which she speaks of
Carlyle as "the only competent English critic" of Goethe.
----------
Our sojourn in Scotland was stagnant, sad; but tranquil, _well
let alone,_--an indispensable blessing to a poor creature fretted
to fiddle-strings, as I grow to be in this Babylon, take it as I
will. We had eight weeks of desolate rain; with about eight
days bright as diamonds intercalated in that black monotony of
bad weather. The old Hills are the same; the old Streams go
gushing along as in past years, in past ages; but he that looks
on them is no longer the same: and the old Friends, where are
