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