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