5 Great Cheyne Row, Chelsea, London
12 August, 1834
My Dear Sir,--Some two weeks ago I received your kind gift from
Fraser. To say that it was welcome would be saying little: is
it not as a voice of affectionate remembrance, coming from beyond
the Ocean waters, first decisively announcing for me that a whole
New Continent _exists,_--that I too have part and lot there!
"Not till we can think that here and there one is thinking of us,
one is loving us, does this waste Earth become a peopled Garden."
Among the figures I can recollect as visiting our Nithsdale
hermitage,--all like _Apparitions_ now, bringing with them airs
from Heaven or else blasts from the other region,--there is
perhaps not one of a more undoubtedly supernal character than
yourself: so pure and still, with intents so charitable; and
then vanishing too so soon into the azure Inane, as an Apparition
should! Never has your Address in my Notebook met my eye but
with a friendly influence. Judge if I am glad to know that
there, in Infinite Space, you still hold by me.
I have read in both your books at leisure times, and now nearly
finished the smaller one. He is a faithful thinker, that
Swedenborgian Druggist of yours, with really deep ideas, who
makes me too pause and think, were it only to consider what
manner of man he must be, and what manner of thing, after all,
Swedenborgianism must be. "Through the smallest window look
well, and you can look out into the Infinite." Webster also I
can recognize a sufficient, effectual man, whom one must wish
well to, and prophesy well of. The sound of him is nowise
poetic-rhythmic; it is clear, one-toned, you might say metallic,
yet distinct, significant, not without melody. In his face,
above all, I discern that "indignation" which, if it do not make
"verses," makes _useful_ way in the world. The higher such a man
rises, the better pleased I shall be. And so here, looking
over the water, let me repeat once more what I believe is
already dimly the sentiment of all Englishmen, Cisoceanic and
Transoceanic, that we and you are not two countries, and cannot
for the life of us be; but only two _parishes_ of one country,
with such wholesome parish hospitalities, and dirty temporary
parish feuds, as we see; both of which brave parishes _Vivant!
vivant!_ And among the glories of _both_ be Yankee-doodle-doo,
and the Felling of the Western Forest, proudly remembered; and
for the rest, by way of parish constable, let each cheerfully
take such George Washington or George Guelph as it can get, and
bless Heaven! I am weary of hearing it said, "We love the
Americans," "We wish well," &c., &c. What in God's name should
we do else?
You thank me for _Teufelsdrockh;_ how much more ought I to thank
you for your hearty, genuine, though extravagant acknowledgment
of it! Blessed is the voice that amid dispiritment, stupidity,
and contradiction proclaims to us, _Euge!_ Nothing ever was more
ungenial than the soil this poor Teufelsdrockhish seed-corn has
been thrown on here; none cries, Good speed to it; the sorriest
nettle or hemlock seed, one would think, had been more welcome.
For indeed our British periodical critics, and especially
the public of _Fraser's_ Magazine (which I believe I have now
done with), exceed all speech; require not even contempt,
only oblivion. Poor Teufelsdrockh!--Creature of mischance,
miscalculation, and thousand-fold obstruction! Here nevertheless
he is, as you see; has struggled across the Stygian marshes, and
now, as a stitched pamphlet "for Friends," cannot be _burnt_ or
lost before his time. I send you one copy for your own behoof;
three others you yourself can perhaps find fit readers for: as
you spoke in the plural number, I thought there might be three;
more would rather surprise me. From the British side of the
water I have met simply one intelligent response,--clear, true,
though almost enthusiastic as your own. My British Friend too is
utterly a stranger, whose very name I know not, who did not
print, but only write, and to an unknown third party.* Shall I
say then, "In the mouth of two witnesses"? In any case, God be
thanked, I am done with it; can wash my hands of it, and send it
forth; sure that the Devil will get his full share of it,
and not a whit more, clutch as he may. But as for you, my
Transoceanic brothers, read this earnestly, for it _was_
earnestly meant and written, and contains no _voluntary_
falsehood of mine. For the rest, if you dislike it, say that I
wrote it four years ago, and could not now so write it, and on
the whole (as Fritz the Only said) "will do better another time."
With regard to style and so forth, what you call your "saucy"
objections are not only most intelligible to me, but welcome and
instructive. You say well that I take up that attitude because I
have no known public, am alone under the heavens, speaking into
friendly or unfriendly space; add only, that I will not defend
such attitude, that I call it questionable, tentative, and only
the best that I, in these mad times, could conveniently hit upon.
For you are to know, my view is that now at last we have lived to
see all manner of Poetics and Rhetorics and Sermonics, and one
may say generally all manner of _Pulpits_ for addressing mankind
from, as good as broken and abolished: alas, yes! if you have
any earnest meaning which demands to be not only listened to, but
_believed_ and _done,_ you cannot (at least I cannot) utter it
_there,_ but the sound sticks in my throat, as when a solemnity
were _felt_ to have become a mummery; and so one leaves the
pasteboard coulisses, and three unities, and Blair's Lectures,
quite behind; and feels only that there is _nothing sacred,_
then, but the _Speech of Man_ to believing Men! This, come what
will, was, is, and forever must be _sacred;_ and will one day,
doubtless, anew environ itself with fit modes; with solemnities
that are _not_ mummeries. Meanwhile, however, is it not
pitiable? For though Teufelsdrockh exclaims, "Pulpit! canst thou
not make a pulpit by simply _inverting the nearest tub?_" yet,
alas! he does not sufficiently reflect that it is still only a
tub, that the most inspired utterance will come from _it,_
inconceivable, misconceivable, to the million; questionable (not
of _ascertained_ significance) even to the few. Pity us
therefore; and with your just shake of the head join a
sympathetic, even a hopeful smile. Since I saw you I have been
trying, am still trying, other methods, and shall surely get
nearer the truth, as I honestly strive for it. Meanwhile, I know
no method of much consequence, except that of _believing,_ of
being _sincere:_ from Homer and the Bible down to the poorest
Burns's Song, I find no other Art that promises to be perennial.
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* In his Diary, July 26, 1834, Carlyle writes--"In the midst of
innumerable discouragements, all men indifferent or finding fault,
let me mention two small circumstances that are comfortable.
The first is a letter from some nameless Irishman in Cork
to another here, (Fraser read it to me without names,) actually
containing a _true_ and one of the friendliest possible recognitions
of me. One mortal, then, says I am _not_ utterly wrong.
Blessings on him for it! The second is a letter I got today
from Emerson, of Boston in America; sincere, not baseless,
of most exaggerated estimation. Precious is man to man."
Fifteen years later, in his _Reminiscences of My Irish
Journey,_ he enters, under date of July 16, 1849: "Near eleven
o'clock [at night] announces himself 'Father O'Shea'! (who I
thought had been _dead_); to my astonishment enter a little
gray-haired, intelligent-and-bred-looking man, with much
gesticulation, boundless loyal welcome, red with dinner and some
wine, engages that we are to meet tomorrow,--and again with
explosions of welcomes goes his way. This Father O'Shea, some
fifteen years ago, had been, with Emerson of America, one of the
_two_ sons of Adam who encouraged poor bookseller Fraser, and
didn't discourage him, to go on with Teufelsdrockh. I had often
remembered him since; had not long before _re_-inquired his
name, but understood somehow that he was dead--and now."
---------------
But now quitting theoretics, let me explain what you long to
know, how it is that I date from London. Yes, my friend, it is
even so: Craigenputtock now stands solitary in the wilderness,
with none but an old woman and foolish grouse-destroyers in it;
and we for the last ten weeks, after a fierce universal
disruption, are here with our household gods. Censure not; I
came to London for the best of all reasons,--to seek bread and
work. So it literally stands; and so do I literally stand with
the hugest, gloomiest Future before me, which in all sane moments
I good-humoredly defy. A strange element this, and I as good as
an Alien in it. I care not for Radicalism, for Toryism, for
Church, Tithes, or the "Confusion" of useful Knowledge. Much
as I can speak and hear, I am alone, alone. My brave Father,
now victorious from his toil, was wont to pray in evening
worship: "Might we say, We are not alone, for God is with us!"
Amen! Amen!
I brought a manuscript with me of another curious sort, entitled
_The Diamond Necklace._ Perhaps it will be printed soon as an
Article, or even as a separate Booklet,--a _queer_ production,
which you shall see. Finally, I am busy, constantly studying
with my whole might for a Book on the French Revolution. It is
part of my creed that the Only Poetry is History, could we tell
it right. This truth (if it prove one) I have not yet got to the
limitations of; and shall in no way except by _trying_ it in
practice. The story of the Necklace was the first attempt at
an experiment.
My sheet is nearly done; and I have still to complain of you for
telling me nothing of yourself except that you are in the
country. Believe that I want to know much and all. My wife too
remembers you with unmixed friendliness; bids me send you her
kindest wishes. Understand too that your old bed stands in a new
room here, and the old welcome at the door. Surely we shall see
you in London one day. Or who knows but Mahomet may go to the
mountain? It occasionally rises like a mad prophetic dream in
me, that I might end in the Western Woods!
From Germany I get letters, messages, and even visits; but now
no tidings, no influences, of moment. Goethe's Posthumous Works
are all published; and Radicalism (poor hungry, yet inevitable
Radicalism!) is the order of the day. The like, and even more,
from France. Gustave d'Eichthal (did you hear?) has gone over to
Greece, and become some kind of Manager under King Otho.*
-----------
* Gustave d'Eichthal, whose acquaintance Emerson had made at
Rome, and who had given him an introduction to Carlyle, was one
of a family of rich Jewish bankers at Paris. He was an ardent
follower of Saint-Simon, and an associate of Enfantin. After the
dispersion of the Saint-Simonians in 1832, he traveled much, and
continued to devote himself to the improvement of society.
----------
Continue to love me, you and my other friends; and as packets
sail so swiftly, let me know it frequently. All good be
with you!
Most faithfully,
T. Carlyle
Coleridge, as you doubtless hear, is gone. How great a Possibility,
how small a realized Result! They are delivering Orations about
him, and emitting other kinds of froth, _ut mos est._ What hurt
can it do?