My Dear Emerson,--I have had two Letters from you since I wrote
any; the latest of them was lying here for me when I returned,
about three weeks ago; the other I had received in Scotland: it
was only the last that demanded a special answer;--which, alas, I
meant faithfully to give it, but did not succeed! With meet
despatch I made the Bookseller get ready for you a Copy of the
unpublished _Cromwell_ Book; hardly complete as yet, it was
nevertheless put together, and even some kind of odious rudiments
of a _Portrait_ were bound up with it; and the Packet inscribed
with your address was put into Wiley and Putnam's hands in time
for the Mail Steamer;--and I hope has duly arrived? If it have
not, pray set the Booksellers a-hunting. Wiley and Putnam was
the Carrier's name; this is all the indication I can give, but
this, I hope, if indeed any prove needful, will be enough. One
may hope you have the Book already in your hands, a fortnight
before this reaches you, a month before any other Copy can reach
America. In which case the Parcel, _without_ any Letter, must
have seemed a little enigmatic to you! The reason was this: I
miscounted the day of the month, unlucky that I was. Sitting
down one morning with full purpose to write at large, and
all my tools round me, I discover that it is no longer
the third of November; that it is already the _fourth,_
and the American Mail-Packet has already lifted anchor!
Irrevocable, irremediable! Nothing remained but to wait for
the 18th;--and now, as you see, to take Time by the forelock,--
_queue,_ as we all know, he has none.
My visit to Scotland was wholesome for me, tho' full of sadness,
as the like always is. Thirty years mow away a Generation of
Men. The old Hills, the old Brooks and Houses, are still there;
but the Population has marched away, almost all; it is not there
any more. I cannot enter into light talk with the survivors and
successors; I withdraw into silence, and converse with the old
dumb crags rather, in a melancholy and abstruse manner.--Thank
God, my good old Mother is still there; old and frail, but still
young of heart; as young and strong _there,_ I think, as ever.
It is beautiful to see affection survive where all else is
submitting to decay; the altar with its sacred fire still
burning when the outer walls are all slowly crumbling; material
Fate saying, "_They_ are mine!"--I read some insignificant Books;
smoked a great deal of tobacco; and went moping about among the
hills and hollow water-courses, somewhat like a shade in Hades.
The Gospel which this World of Fact does preach to one differs
considerably from the sugary twaddle one gets the offer of in
Exeter-Hall and other Spouting-places! Of which, in fact, I am
getting more and more weary; sometimes really impatient. It
seems to me the reign of Cant and Spoonyism has about lasted long
enough. Alas, in many respects, in this England I too often feel
myself sorrowfully in a "minority of one";--if in the whole
world, it amount to a minority of two, that is something! These
words of Goethe often come into my mind, _"Verachtung ja Nicht-
achtung."_ Lancashire, with its Titanic Industries, with its
smoke and dirt, and brutal stupor to all but money and the five
mechanical Powers, did not excite much admiration in me;
considerably less, I think, than ever! Patience, and shuffle
the cards!
The Book on Cromwell is not to come out till the 22d of this
month. For many weeks it has been a real weariness to me; my
hope, always disappointed, that now is the last time I shall have
any trade with it. Even since I began writing, there has been an
Engraver here, requiring new indoctrination,--poor fellow! Nay,
in about ten days it _must_ be over: let us not complain. I
feel it well to be worth _nothing,_ except for the little
fractions or intermittent fits of pious industry there really
were in it; and my one wish is that the human species would be
pleased to take it off my hands, and honestly let me hear no more
about it! If it please Heaven, I will rest awhile still, and
then try something better.
In three days hence, my Wife and I are off to the Hampshire coast
for a winter visit to kind friends there, if in such a place it
will prosper long with us. The climate there is greatly better
than ours; they are excellent people, well affected to us; and
can be lived with, though of high temper and ways! They are the
Lord Ashburtons, in fact; more properly the younger stratum of
that house; partly a kind of American people,--who know Waldo
Emerson, among other fine things, very well! I think we are to
stay some three weeks: the bustle of moving is already begun.
You promise us a new Book soon? Let it be soon, then. There are
many persons here that will welcome it now. To one man here it
is ever as an _articulate voice_ amid the infinite cackling and
cawing. That remains my best definition of the effect it has on
me. Adieu, my friend. Good be with you and your Household
always. _Vale._
--T.C.