Scotsbrig, Ecclefechan, (Annandale, Scotland)
25 September, 1838
My Dear Emerson,--There cannot any right answer be written you
here and now; yet I must write such answer as I can. You said,
"by steamship"; and it strikes me with a kind of remorse, on
this my first day of leisure and composure, that I have delayed
so long. For you must know, this is my Mother's house,--a place
to me unutterable as Hades and the Land of Spectres were;
likewise that my Brother is just home from Italy, and on the wing
thitherward or somewhither swiftly again; in a word, that all is
confusion and flutter with me here,--fit only for _silence!_ My
Wife sent me off hitherward, very sickly and unhappy, out of the
London dust, several weeks ago; I lingered in Fifeshire, I was
in Edinburgh, in Roxburghshire; have some calls to Cumberland,
which I believe I must refuse; and prepare to creep homeward
again, refreshed in health, but with a head and heart all
seething and tumbling (as the wont is, in such cases), and averse
to pens beyond all earthly implements. But my Brother is off
for Dumfries this morning; you before all others deserve an
hour of my solitude. I will abide by business; one must write
about that.
Your Bill and duplicate of a Bill for L50, with the two Letters
that accompanied them, you are to know then, did duly arrive at
Chelsea; and the larger Letter (of the 6th of August) was
forwarded to me hither some two weeks ago. I had also, long
before that, one of the friendliest of Letters from you, with a
clear and most inviting description of the Concord Household, its
inmates and appurtenances; and the announcement, evidently
authentic, that an apartment and heart's welcome was ready there
for my Wife and me; that we were to come quickly, and stay for a
twelvemonth. Surely no man has such friends as I. We ought to
say, May the Heavens give us thankful hearts! For, in truth,
there are blessings which do, like sun-gleams in wild weather,
make this rough life beautiful with rainbows here and there.
Indicating, I suppose, that there is a Sun, and general Heart of
Goodness, behind all that;--for which, as I say again, let us be
thankful evermore.
My Wife says she received your American Bill of so many pounds
sterling for the Revolution Book, with a "pathetic feeling" which
brought "tears" to her eyes. From beyond the waters there is a
hand held out; beyond the waters too live brothers. I would
only the Book were an Epic, a _Dante,_ or undying thing, that New
England might boast in after times of this feat of hers; and put
stupid, poundless, and penniless Old England to the blush about
it! But after all, that is no matter; the feebler the well-
meant Book is, the more "pathetic" is the whole transaction: and
so we will go on, fuller than ever of "desperate hope" (if you
know what that is), with a feeling one would not give and could
not get for several money-bags; and say or think, Long live true
friends and Emersons, and (in Scotch phrase) "May ne'er waur be
amang us!"--I will buy something permanent, I think, out of this
L50, and call it either _Ebenezer_ or _Yankee-doodle-doo._ May
good be repaid you manifold, my kind Brother! may good be ever
with you, my kind Friends all!
But now as to this edition of the _Miscellanies_ (poor things), I
really think my Wife is wisest, who says I ought to leave you
altogether to your own resources with it, America having an art
of making money out of my Books which England is unfortunately
altogether without. Besides, till I once see the Two Volumes now
under way, and can let a Bookseller see them, there could no
bargain be made on the subject. We will let it rest there,
therefore. Go on with your second Two Volumes, as if there were
no England extant, according to your own good judgment. When I
get to London, I will consult some of the blockheads with the
Book in my hand: if we do want Two Hundred copies, you can give
us them with a trifling loss. It is possible they may make some
better proposal about an Edition here: that depends on the fate
of _Sartor_ here, at present trying itself; which I have not in
the least ascertained. For the present, thank as is meet all
friends in your world that have interested themselves for me.
Alas! I have nothing to give them but thanks. Henry McKean,
Charles Wheeler, Convers Francis; these Names shall, if it
please Heaven, become Persons for me, one day. Well!--But I will
say nothing more. That too is of the things on which all Words
are poor to Silence. Good to the Good and Kind!
A Letter from me must have crossed that _descriptive_ Concord
one, on the Ocean, I think. Our correspondence is now standing
on its feet. I will write to you again, whether I hear from you
or not, so soon as my hand finds its cunning again in London,--so
soon as I can see there what is to be done or said. All goes
decidedly better, I think. My Wife was and is much healthier
than last year, than in any late year. I myself get visibly
quieter my preternatural _Meditations in Hades,_ apropos of this
Annandale of mine, are calm compared with those of last year. By
another Course of Lectures I have a fair prospect of living for
another season; nay, people call it a "new profession" I have
devised for myself, and say I may live by it as many years as I
like. This too is partly the fruit of my poor Book; one should
not say that it was worth nothing to me even in money. Last year
I fancied my Audience mainly the readers of it; drawn round me,
in spite of many things, by force of it. Let us be content. I
have Jesuits, Swedenborgians, old Quakeresses, _omne cum Proteus,_
--God help me, no man ever had so confused a public!--I
salute you, my dear Friend, and your hospitable circle. May
blessings be on your kind household, on your kind hearts!
--T. Carlyle
A copy of the English _Teufelsdrockh_ has lain with your name on
it these two months in Chelsea; waiting an opportunity. It is
worth nothing to you: a dingy, ill-managed edition; but correct
or nearly correct as to printing; it is right that such should
be in your hands in case of need. The New England Pamphlets will
be greedily expected. More than one inquires of me, Has that
Emerson of yours written nothing else? And I have lent them the
little Book _Nature,_ till it is nearly thumbed to pieces.
Sterling is gone to Italy for the winter since I left town;
swift as a flash! I cannot teach him the great art of _sitting
still;_ his fine qualities are really like to waste for want
of that.
I read your paragraph to Miss Martineau; she received it, as she
was bound, with a good grace. But I doubt, I doubt, O Ralph
Waldo Emerson, thou hast not been sufficiently ecstatic about
her,--thou graceless exception, confirmatory of a rule! In truth
there _are_ bores, of the first and of all lower magnitudes.
Patience and shuffle the cards.