rejoice very much that I seem to be flinging aside innumerable
sets of spectacles (could I but _lay_ them aside,--with
gentleness!) and hope one day actually to see a thing or two.
Man _lives_ by Belief (as it was well written of old); by logic
he can only at best long to live. Oh, I am dreadfully, afflicted
with Logic here, and wish often (in my haste) that I had the
besom of destruction to lay to it for a little!
"Why? and WHEREFORE? God wot, simply THEREFORE! Ask not WHY;
't is SITH thou hast to care for."
Since I wrote last to you, (which seems some three months ago,)
there has a great mischance befallen me: the saddest, I think,
of the kind called Accidents I ever had to front. By dint of
continual endeavor for many weary weeks, I had got the first
volume of that miserable _French Revolution_ rather handsomely
finished: from amid infinite contradictions I felt as if my head
were fairly above water, and I could go on writing my poor Book,
defying the Devil and the World, with a certain degree of
assurance, and even of joy. A Friend borrowed this volume of
Manuscript,--a kind Friend but a careless one,--to write notes on
it, which he was well qualified to do. One evening about two
months ago he came in on us, "distraction (literally) in his
aspect"; the Manuscript, left carelessly out, had been torn up
as waste paper, and all but three or four tatters was clean gone!
I could not complain, or the poor man seemed as if he would have
shot himself: we had to gather ourselves together, and show a
smooth front to it; which happily, though difficult, was not
impossible to do. I began again at the beginning; to such a
wretched paralyzing torpedo of a task as my hand never found to
do: at which I have worn myself these two months to the hue of
saffron, to the humor of incipient desperation; and now, four
days ago, perceiving well that I was like a man swimming in an
element that grew ever rarer, till at last it became vacuum
(think of that!) I with a new effort of self-denial sealed up
all the paper fragments, and said to myself: In this mood thou
makest no way, writest _nothing_ that requires not to be erased
again; lay it by for one complete week! And so it lies, under
lock and key. I have digested the whole misery; I say, if thou
canst _never_ write this thing, why then never do write it:
God's Universe will go along _better_--without it. My Belief
in a special Providence grows yearly stronger, unsubduable,
impregnable: however, you see all the mad increase of entanglement
I have got to strive with, and will pity me in it. Bodily
exhaustion (and "Diana in the shape of bile")* I will at least
try to exclude from the controversy. By God's blessing, perhaps
the Book shall yet be written; but I find it will not do,
by sheer direct force; only by gentler side-methods. I have
much else to write too: I feel often as if with one year of
health and peace I could write something considerable;--the image
of which sails dim and great through my head. Which year of
health and peace, God, if He see meet, will give me yet; or
withhold from me, as shall be for the best.
---------
* This allusion to Diana as an obstruction was a favorite one
with Carlyle. "Sir Hudibras, according to Butler, was about to do
a dreadful homicide,--an all-important catastrophe,--and had
drawn his pistol with that full intent, and would decidedly have
done it, had not, says Butler, 'Diana in the shape of rust'
imperatively intervened. A miracle she has occasionally wrought
upon me in other shapes." So wrote Carlyle in a letter in 1874.
---------
I have dwelt and swum now for about a year in this World-Maelstrom
of London; with much pain, which however has given me many
thoughts, more than a counterbalance for that. Hitherto there
is no outlook, but confusion, darkness, innumerable things
against which a man must "set his face like a flint." Madness
rules the world, as it has generally done: one cannot,
unhappily, without loss, say to it, Rule then; and yet must say
it.--However, in two months more I expect my good Brother from
Italy (a brave fellow, who is a great comfort to me); we are
then for Scotland to gather a little health, to consider
ourselves a little. I must have this Book done before anything
else will prosper with me.
Your American Pamphlets got to hand only a few days ago; worthy
old Rich had them not originally; seemed since to have been
oblivious, out of Town, perhaps unwell. I called one day, and
unearthed them. Those papers you marked I have read. Genuine
endeavor; which may the Heavens forward!--In this poor Country
all is swallowed up in the barren Chaos of Politics: Ministries
tumbled out, Ministries tumbled in; all things (a fearful
substratum of "Ignorance and Hunger" weltering and heaving under
them) apparently in rapid progress towards--the melting-pot.
There will be news from England by and by: many things have
reached their term; Destiny "with lame foot" has overtaken them,
and there will be a reckoning. O blessed are you where,
what jargoning soever there be at Washington, the poor man
(_un_governed can govern himself) shoulders his age, and walks
into the Western Woods, sure of a nourishing Earth and an
overarching Sky! It is verily the Door of Hope to distracted
Europe; which otherwise I should see crumbling down into
blackness of darkness.--That too shall be for good.
I wish I had anything to send you besides these four poor
Pamphlets; but I fear there is nothing going. Our Ex-Chancellor
has been promulgating triticalities (significant as novelties,
when _he_ with his wig and lordhood utters them) against the
Aristocracy; whereat the upper circles are terribly scandalized.
In Literature, except a promised or obtained (but to me still
unknown) volume of Wordsworth, nothing nameworthy doing.--Did I
tell you that I _saw_ Wordsworth this winter? Twice, at
considerable length; with almost no disappointment. He is a
_natural_ man (which means whole immensities here and now);
flows like a natural well yielding mere wholesomeness,--though,
as it would not but seem to me, in _small_ quantity, and
astonishingly _diluted._ Franker utterance of mere garrulities
and even platitudes I never heard from any man; at least never,
whom I could _honor_ for uttering them. I am thankful for
Wordsworth; as in great darkness and perpetual _sky-rockets_ and
_coruscations,_ one were for the smallest clear-burning farthing
candle. Southey also I saw; a far _cleverer_ man in speech, yet
a considerably smaller man. Shovel-hatted; the shovel-hat is
_grown_ to him: one must take him as he is.
The second leaf is done; I must not venture on another. God
bless you, my worthy Friend; you and her who is to be yours! My
Wife bids me send heartiest wishes and regards from her too
across the Sea. Perhaps we shall all meet one another some day,
--if not Here, then Yonder!
Faithfully always,
T. Carlyle
VIII. Carlyle to Emerson
Chelsea, London, 27 June, 1835
My Dear Friend,--Your very kind Letter has been in my hand these
four weeks,--the subject of much meditation, which has not yet
cleared itself into anything like a definite practical issue.
Indeed, the conditions of the case are still not wholly before
me: for if the American side of it, thanks to your perspicuous
minuteness, is now tolerably plain, the European side continues
dubious, too dim for a decision. So much in my own position here
is vague, not to be measured; then there is a Brother, coming
home to me from Italy, almost daily expected now; whose ulterior
resolutions cannot but be influential on mine; for we are
Brothers in the old good sense, and have one heart and one
interest and object, and even one purse; and Jack is a _good
man,_ for whom I daily thank Heaven, as for one of its principal
mercies. He is Traveling Physician to the Countess of Clare,
well entreated by her and hers; but, I think, weary of that
inane element of "the English Abroad," and as good as determined
to have done with it; to seek _work_ (he sees not well how), if
possible, with wages; but even almost _without,_ or with the
lowest endurable, if need be. Work and wages: the two prime
necessities of man! It is pity they should ever be disjoined;
yet of the two, if one _must,_ in this mad Earth, be dispensed
with, it is really wise to say at all hazards, Be it the wages
then. This Brother (if the Heavens have been kind to me) must be
in Paris one of these days; then here speedily; and "the House
must resolve itself into a Committee"--of ways and means. Add to
all this, that I myself have been and am one of the stupidest of
living men; in one of my vacant, interlunar conditions, unfit
for deciding on anything: were I to give you my actual _view_ of
this case, it were a view such as Satan had from the pavilion of
the Anarch old. Alas! it is all too like Chaos: confusion of
dense and rare: I also know what it is to drop _plumb,_
fluttering my pennons vain,--for a series of weeks.
One point only is clear: that you, my Friend, are very friendly
to me; that New England is as much my country and home as Old
England. Very singular and very pleasant it is to me to feel as
if I had a _house of my own_ in that far country: so many
leagues and geographical degrees of wild-weltering "unfruitful
brine"; and then the hospitable hearth and the smiles of
brethren awaiting one there! What with railways, steamships,
printing presses, it has surely become a most _monstrous_
"tissue," this life of ours; if evil and confusion in the one
Hemisphere, then good and order in the other, a man knows not
how: and so it rustles forth, immeasurable, from "that roaring
Loom of Time,"--miraculous ever as of old! To Ralph Waldo
Emerson, however, and those that love me as he, be thanks always,
and a sure place in the sanctuary of the mind. Long shall we
remember that Autumn Sunday that landed him (out of Infinite
Space) on the Craigenputtock wilderness, not to leave us as he
found us. My Wife says, whatever I decide on, I cannot thank you
too heartily;--which really is very sound doctrine. I write to
tell you so much; and that you shall hear from me again when
there is more to tell.
It does seem next to certain to me that I could preach a very
considerable quantity of things from that Boston Pulpit, such as
it is,--were I once fairly started. If so, what an unspeakable
relief were it too! Of the whole mountain of miseries one
grumbles at in this life, the central and parent one, as I often
say, is that you cannot utter yourself. The poor soul sits
struggling, impatient, longing vehemently out towards all corners
of the Universe, and cannot get its hest delivered, not even so
far as the voice might do it. Imprisoned, enchanted, like the
Arabian Prince with half his body marble: it is really bad work.
Then comes bodily sickness; to act and react, and double the
imbroglio. Till at last, I suppose, one does rise, like Eliphaz
the Temanite; states that his inner man is bursting (as if
filled with carbonic acid and new wine), that by the favor of
Heaven he will speak a word or two. Would it were come so far,--
if it be ever to come!
On the whole I think the odds are that I shall some time or other
get over to you; but that for this winter I ought not to go. My
London expedition is not decided hitherto; I have begun various
relations and arrangements, which it were questionable to cut
short so soon. That beggarly Book, were there nothing else,
hampers me every way. To fling it once for all into the fire
were perhaps the best; yet I grudge to do that. To finish it,
on the other hand, is denied me for the present, or even so much
as to work at it. What am I to do? When my Brother arrives, we
go all back to Scotland for some weeks: there, in seclusion,
with such calmness as I can find or create, the plan for the
winter must be settled. You shall hear from me then; let us
hope something more reasonable than I can write at present. For
about a month I have gone to and fro utterly _idle:_ understand
that, and I need explain no more. The wearied machine refused to
be urged any farther; after long spasmodic struggling comes
collapse. The burning of that wretched Manuscript has really
been a sore business for me. Nevertheless that too shall clear
itself, and prove a _favor_ of the Upper Powers: _tomorrow_ to
fresh fields and pastures new! This monstrous London has taught
me several things during the past year; for if its Wisdom be of
the most uninstructive ever heard of by that name of wisdom, its
Folly abounds with lessons,--which one ought to learn. I feel
(with my burnt manuscript) as if defeated in this campaign;
defeated, yet not altogether disgraced. As the great Fritz said,
when the battle had gone against him, "Another time we will
do better."
As to Literature, Politics, and the whole multiplex aspect of
existence here, expect me not to say one word. We are a singular
people, in a singular condition. Not many nights ago, in one of
those phenomenal assemblages named routs, whither we had gone to
see the countenance of O'Connell and Company (the Tail was a
Peacock's tail, with blonde muslin women and heroic Parliamentary
men), one of the company, a "distinguished female" (as we call
them), informed my Wife "O'Connell was the master-spirit of this
age." If so, then for what we have received let us be thankful,
--and enjoy it _without_ criticism.--It often painfully seems to
me as if much were coming fast to a crisis here; as if the
crown-wheel had given way, and the whole horologe were rushing
rapidly down, down, to its end! Wreckage is swift; rebuilding
is slow and distant. Happily another than we has charge of it.
My new American Friends have come and gone. Barnard went off
northward some fortnight ago, furnished with such guidance and
furtherance as I could give him. Professor Longfellow went about
the same time; to Sweden, then to Berlin and Germany: we saw
him twice or thrice, and his ladies, with great pleasure; as one
sees worthy souls from a far country, who cannot abide with you,
who throw you a kind greeting as they pass. I inquired
considerably about Concord, and a certain man there; one of the
fair pilgrims told me several comfortable things. By the bye,
how very good you are, in regard to this of Unitarianism! I
declare, I am ashamed of my intolerance:--and yet you have ceased
to be a Teacher of theirs, have you not? I mean to address you
this time by the secular title of Esquire; as if I liked you
better so. But truly, in black clothes or in white, by this
style or by that, the man himself can never be other than welcome
to me. You will further allow me to fancy that you are now
wedded; and offer our united congratulations and kindest good
wishes to that new fair Friend of ours, whom one day we shall
surely know more of,--if the Fates smile.
My sheet is ending, and I must not burden you with double postage
for such stuff as this. By dint of some inquiry I have learnt
the law of the American Letter-carrying; and I now mention it
for our mutual benefit. There are from New York to London three
packets monthly (on the 1st, on the 10th, on the 20th); the
masters of these carry Letters gratis for all men; and put the
same into the Post-Office; there are some pence charged on the
score of "Ship-letter" there, and after that, the regular postage
of the country, if the Letter has to go farther. I put this,
for example, into a place called North and South American
Coffee-house in the City here, and pay twopence for it, and it
flies. Doubtless there is some similar receiving-house with its
"leather bag" somewhere in New York, and fixed days (probably the
same as our days) for emptying, or rather for tying and despatching,
said leather bag: if you deal with the London Packets (so long as
I am here) in preference to the Liverpool ones, it will all be
well. As for the next Letter, (if you write as I hope you may
before hearing from me again,) pray direct it, "Care of John
Mill, Esq., India House, London"; and he will forward it
directly, should I even be still absent in the North.--Now will
you write? and pray write something about yourself. We both love
you here, and send you all good prayers. _Vale faveque!_
Yours ever,
T. Carlyle
IX. Emerson to Carlyle*
Concord, 7 October, 1835
My Dear Friend,--Please God I will never again sit six weeks of
this short human life over a letter of yours without answering it.
-----------
* The original of this letter is missing; what is printed here
is from the rough draft.
-----------
I received in August your letter of June, and just then hearing
that a lady, a little lady with a mighty heart, Mrs. Child,* whom
I scarcely know but do much respect, was about to visit England
(invited thither for work's sake by the African or Abolition
Society) and that she begged an introduction to you, I used
the occasion to say the godsend was come, and that I would
acknowledge it as soon as three then impending tasks were ended.
I have now learned that Mrs. Child was detained for weeks in New
York and did not sail. Only last night I received your letter
written in May, with the four copies of the _Sartor,_ which by a
strange oversight have been lying weeks, probably months, in the
Custom-House. On such provocation I can sit still no longer.
------------
* The excellent Mrs. Lydia Maria Child, whose romance of
_Philothea_ was published in this year, 1835.
"If her heart at high floods swamps her brain now and then,
'T is but richer for that when the tide ebbs agen."
says Lowell, in his _Fable for Critics._
-----------
The three tasks were, a literary address; a historical discourse
on the two-hundredth anniversary of our little town of Concord*
(my first adventure in print, which I shall send you); the
third, my marriage, now happily consummated. All three, from the
least to the greatest, trod so fast upon each other's heel as to
leave me, who am a slow and awkward workman, no interstice big
enough for a letter that should hope to convey any information.
Again I waited that the Discourse might go in his new jacket to
show how busy I had been, but the creeping country press has not
dressed it yet. Now congratulate me, my friend, as indeed you
have already done, that I live with my wife in my own house,
waiting on the good future. The house is not large, but
convenient and very elastic. The more hearts (specially great
hearts) it holds, the better it looks and feels. I have not had
so much leisure yet but that the fact of having ample space to
spread my books and blotted paper is still gratifying. So know
now that your rooms in America wait for you, and that my wife is
making ready a closet for Mrs. Carlyle.
----------
* "A Historical Discourse, delivered before the Citizens of
Concord, 12th September, 1835, on the Second Centennial
Anniversary of the Incorporation of the Town. By Ralph Waldo
Emerson. Published by Request. Concord: G.F. Bemis, Printer.
1835." 8vo, pp. 52.--A discourse worthy of the author and of the
town. It is reprinted in the eleventh volume of Emerson's Works,
Boston, 1883.
-----------
I could cry at the disaster that has befallen you in the loss of
the book. My brother Charles says the only thing the friend
could do on such an occasion was to shoot himself, and wishes to
know if he have done so. Such mischance might well quicken one's
curiosity to know what Oversight there is of us, and I greet you
well upon your faith and the resolution issuing out of it. You
have certainly found a right manly consolation, and can afford to
faint and rest a month or two on the laurels of such endeavor. I
trust ere this you have re-collected the entire creation out of
the secret cells where, under the smiles of every Muse, it first
took life. Believe, when you are weary, that you who stimulate
and rejoice virtuous young men do not write a line in vain. And
whatever betide us in the inexorable future, what is better than
to have awaked in many men the sweet sense of beauty, and to
double the courage of virtue. So do not, as you will not, let
the imps from all the fens of weariness and apathy have a minute
too much. To die of feeding the fires of others were sweet,
since it were not death but multiplication. And yet I hold to a
more orthodox immortality too.
This morning in happiest time I have a letter from George Ripley,
who tells me you have written him, and that you say pretty
confidently you will come next summer. _Io paean!_ He tells me
also that Alexander Everett (brother of Edward) has sent you the
friendly notice that has just appeared in the _North American
Review,_ with a letter.* All which I hope you have received. I
am delighted, for this man represents a clique to which I am a
stranger, and which I supposed might not love you. It must be
you shall succeed when Saul prophesies. Indeed, I have heard
that you may hear the _Sartor_ preached from some of our best
pulpits and lecture-rooms. Don't think I speak of myself, for I
cherish carefully a salutary horror at the German style, and hold
off my admiration as long as ever I can. But all my importance
is quite at an end. For now that Doctors of Divinity and the
solemn Review itself have broke silence to praise you, I have
quite lost my plume as your harbinger.
-----------
* Mr. A.H. Everett's paper on _Sartor Resartus_ was published in
the _North American Review_ for October, 1835.
-----------
