Dear Emerson,--Your two Letters* have both come to hand, the last
of them only three days ago. One word in answer before the
Packet sail; one very hasty word, rather than none.
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* Missing.
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You have made the best of Bargains for me; once again, with the
freest contempt of trouble on my behalf; which I cannot
sufficiently wonder at! Apparently it is a fixed-idea of yours
that the Bibliopolic Genus shall not cheat me; and you are
decided to make it good. Very well: let it be so, in as far as
the Fates will.
Certainly I will conform in all points to this Wiley-and-Putnam
Treaty, and faithfully observe the same. The London Wileys have
not yet sent me any tidings; but when they do, I will say Your
terms on the other side of the sea are the Law to us, and it is a
finished thing.--No sheets, I think, will go by this mid-month
Packet, the Printer and Bookseller were bidden not mind that:
but by the Packet of May 3d, I hope the Second Volume will go
complete; and, if the Printers make speed, almost the whole
remainder may go by the June one. There is to be a "Supplement
to the First Edition," containing all the new matter that is
_separable:_ of this too the Wileys shall have their due Copy to
reprint: it is what I could do to keep my faith with purchasers
of the First Edition here; but, on the whole, there will be no
emulating of the Second Edition except by a reprint of the whole
of it; changes great and small have had to introduce themselves
everywhere, as these new Letters were woven in.--I hope before
May 3d I shall have ascertained whether it will not be the
simplest way (as with my present light it clearly appears) to
give the sheets direct to the Wiley and Putnam here, and let
_them_ send them? In any case, the cargo shall come one way
or other.
Furthermore,--Yes, you shall have that sun-shadow, a
Daguerreotype likeness, as the sun shall please to paint it:
there has often been talk of getting me to that establishment,
but I never yet could go. If it be possible, we will have this
also ready for the 3d of May. _Provided_ you, as you promise, go
and do likewise! A strange moment that, when I look upon your
dead shadow again; instead of the living face, which remains
unchanged within me, enveloped in beautiful clouds, and emerging
now and then into strange clearness! Has your head grown
grayish? On me are "gray hairs here and there,"--and I do "know
it." I have lived half a century in this world, fifty years
complete on the 4th of December last: that is a solemn fact
for me! Few and evil have been the days of the years of
thy servant,--few for any good that was ever done in them.
_Ay de mi!_
Within late weeks I have got my Horse again; go riding through
the loud torrent of vehiculatory discords, till I get into the
fields, into the green lanes; which is intrinsically a great
medicine to me. Most comfortless riding it is, with a horse of
such _kangaroo_ disposition, till I do get to the sight of my old
ever-young green-mantled mother again; but for an hour there, it
is a real blessing to me. I have company sometimes, but
generally prefer solitude, and a dialogue with the trees and
clouds. Alas, the speech of men, especially the witty-speech of
men, is oftentimes afflictive to me: "in the wide Earth," I say
sometimes with a sigh, "there is none but Emerson that responds
to me with a voice wholly human!" All "Literature" too is become
I cannot tell you how contemptible to me. On the whole, one's
blessedness is to do as Oliver: Work while the sun is up; work
_well_ as if Eternities depended on it; and then sleep,--if
under the guano-mountains of Human Stupor, if handsomely
_forgotten_ all at once, that latter is the handsome thing! I
have often thought what W. Shakespeare would say, were he to sit
one night in a "Shakespeare Society," and listen to the empty
twaddle and other long-eared melody about him there!--Adieu, my
Friend. I fear I have forgotten many things: at all events, I
have forgotten the inexorable flight of the minutes, which are
numbered out to me at present.
Ever yours,
T. Carlyle
I think I recognize the Inspector of Wild-beasts, in the
little Boston Newspaper you send!* A small hatchet-faced, gray-
eyed, good-humored Inspector, who came with a Translated
Lafontaine; and took his survey not without satisfaction?
Comfortable too how rapidly he fathomed the animal, having just
poked him up a little. _Ach Gott!_ Man is forever interesting
to men;--and all men, even Hatchet-faces, are globular and complete!
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* This probably refers to a letter of Mr. Elizur Wright's,
describing a visit to Carlyle.
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