Dear Emerson,--Now that there begins again to be some program
possible of my future motions for some time, I hastily despatch
you some needful outline of the same.
After infinite confused uncertainty, I learn yesternight that
there has been a kind of country-house got for us, at a place
called Annan, on the north shore of the Solway Frith, in my
native County of Dumfries. You passed through the little Burgh,
I suppose, in your way homeward from Craigenputtock: it stands
about midway, on the great road, between Dumfries and Carlisle.
It is the place where I got my schooling;--consider what a
_preter_natural significance such a scene has now got for me! It
is within eight miles of my aged Mother's dwelling-place; within
riding distance, in fact, of almost all the Kindred I have in the
world.--The house, which is built since my time, and was never
yet seen by me, is said to be a reasonable kind of house. We get
it for a small sum in proportion to its value (thanks to kind
accident); the three hundred miles of travel, very hateful to
me, will at least entirely obliterate all traces of _this_ Dust-
Babel; the place too being naturally almost ugly, as far as a
green leafy place in sight of sea and mountains can be so
nicknamed, the whole gang of picturesque Tourists, Cockney
friends of Nature, &c., &c., who penetrate now by steam, in
shoals every autumn, into the very centre of the Scotch Highlands,
will be safe over the horizon! In short, we are all bound
thitherward in few days; must cobble up some kind of gypsy
establishment; and bless Heaven for solitude, for the sight of
green fields, heathy moors; for a silent sky over one's head,
and air to breathe which does not consist of coal-smoke, finely
powdered flint, and other beautiful _etceteras_ of that kind
among others! God knows I have need enough to be left altogether
alone for some considerable while (_forever,_ as it at present
seems to me), to get my inner world, and my poor bodily nerves,
both all torn to pieces, set in order a little again! After much
vain reluctance therefore; disregarding many considerations,--
disregarding _finance_ in the front of these,--I am off; and
calculate on staying till I am heartily _sated_ with country,
till at least the last gleam of summer weather has departed. My
way of life has all along hitherto been a resolute _staying at
home:_ I find now, however, that I must alter my habits, cost
what it may; that I cannot live all the year round in London,
under pain of dying or going rabid;--that I must, in fact, learn
to travel, as others do, and be hanged to me! Wherefore, in
brief, my Friend, our address for the next two or three months is
"Newington Lodge, Annan, Scotland,"--where a letter from Emerson
will be a right pleasant visitor! _Faustum sit._
My second piece of news, not less interesting I hope, is that
_Emerson's Essays,_ the Book so called, is to be reprinted here;
nay, I think, is even now at press,--in the hands of that
invaluable Printer, Robson, who did the _Miscellanies._ Fraser
undertakes it, "on _half-profits_";--T. Carlyle writing a
Preface,*--which accordingly he did (in rather sullen humor,--not
with you!) last night and the foregoing days. Robson will stand
by the text to the very utmost; and I also am to read the Proof
sheets. The edition is of Seven Hundred and Fifty; which Fraser
thinks he will sell. With what joy shall I then sack up the
small Ten Pounds Sterling perhaps of "Half-Profits," and remit
them to the man Emerson; saying: There, Man! Tit for tat, the
reciprocity _not_ all on one side!--I ought to say, moreover,
that this was a volunteer scheme of Fraser's; the risk is all
his, the origin of it was with him: I advised him to have it
reviewed, as being a really noteworthy Book; "Write you a
Preface," said he, "and I will reprint it";--to which, after due
delay and meditation; I consented. Let me add only, on this
subject, the story of a certain Rio,** a French Breton, with
long, distracted, black hair. He found your Book at Richard
Milnes's, a borrowed copy, and could not borrow it; whereupon he
appeals passionately to me; carries off my Wife's copy, this
distracted Rio; and is to "read it _four_ times" during this
current autumn, at Quimperle, in his native Celtdom! The man
withal is a _Catholic,_ eats fish on Friday;--a great lion here
when he visits us; one of the _naivest_ men in the world:
concerning whom nevertheless, among fashionables, there is a
controversy, "Whether he is an Angel, or partially a Windbag and
_Humbug?_" Such is the lot of loveliness in the World! A truer
man I never saw; how _wind_less, how windy, I will not compute
at present. Me he likes greatly (in spite of my unspeakable
contempt for his fish on Friday); likes,--but withal is apt
to bore.
----------
* The greater part of this interesting Preface is reprinted in
Mr. George Willis Cooke's excellent book on the _Life, Writings,
and Philosophy of Emerson,_ Boston, 1881, p. 109.
** The author of a book once much admired, _De 'l'Art Chretien._
In a later work entitled _Epilogue a l'Art Chretien,_ but
actually a sort of autobiography, written in the naivest spirit
of personal conceit and pious sentimentalism, M. Rio gives an
exceedingly entertaining account of his intercourse with Carlyle.
----------
Enough, dear Emerson; and more than enough for a day so hurried.
Our Island is all in a ferment electioneering: Tories to come
in;--perhaps not to come in; at all events not to stay long,
without altering their figure much! I sometimes ask myself
rather earnestly, What is the duty of a citizen? To be as I have
been hitherto, a pacific _Alien?_ That is the _easiest,_ with my
humor!--Our brave Dame here, just rallying for the _remove,_
sends loving salutations. Good be with you all always. Adieu,
dear Emerson.
--T. Carlyle
Appleton's Book of _Hero-Worship_ has come; for which pray thank
Mr. Munroe for me: it is smart on the surface; but printed
altogether scandalously!