Dear Emerson,--By all laws of human computation, I owe you a
letter, and have owed, any time these seven weeks: let me now
pay a little, and explain. Your _second_ Barrel of Indian Corn
arrived also perfectly fresh, and of admirable taste and quality;
the very bag of new-ground meal was perfect; and the "popped
corn" ditto, when it came to be discovered: with the whole of
which admirable materials such order was taken as promised to
secure "the greatest happiness to the greatest number"; and due
silent thanks were tendered to the beneficence of the unwearied
Sender:--but all this, you shall observe, had to be done in the
thick of a universal packing and household bustle; I just on the
wing for a "Tour in Ireland," my Wife too contemplating a run to
Scotland shortly after, there to meet me on my return. All this
was seven good weeks ago: I hoped somewhere in my Irish
wayfarings to fling you off a Letter; but alas, I reckoned there
quite without my host (strict "host," called _Time_), finding
nowhere half a minute left to me; and so now, having got home to
my Mother, not to see my Wife yet for some days, it is my
_earliest_ leisure, after all, that I employ in this purpose. I
have been terribly knocked about too,--jolted in Irish cars,
bothered almost to madness with Irish balderdash, above all kept
on dreadfully short allowance of sleep;--so that now first, when
fairly down to rest, all aches and bruises begin to be fairly
sensible; and my clearest feeling at this present is the
uncomfortable one, "that I am not Caliban, but a Cramp":
terribly cramped indeed, if I could tell you everything!
What the other results of this Irish Tour are to be for me I
cannot in the least specify. For one thing, I seem to be farther
from _speech_ on any subject than ever: such masses of chaotic
ruin everywhere fronted me, the general fruit of long-continued
universal falsity and folly; and such mountains of delusion yet
possessing all hearts and tongues I could do little that was not
even _noxious,_ except _admire_ in silence the general
"Bankruptcy of Imposture" as one there finds and sees it come to
pass, and think with infinite sorrow of the tribulations, futile
wrestlings, tumults, and disasters which yet await that
unfortunate section of Adam's Posterity before any real
improvement can take place among them. Alas, alas! The Gospels
of Political Economy, of _Laissez-faire,_ No-Government, Paradise
to all comers, and so many fatal Gospels,--generally, one may
say, all the Gospels of this blessed "New Era,"--will first have
to be tried, and found wanting. With a quantity of written and
uttered nonsense, and of suffered and inflicted misery, which one
sinks fairly dumb to estimate! A kind of comfort it is, however,
to see that "Imposture" _has_ fallen openly "bankrupt," here as
everywhere else in our old world; that no dexterity of human
tinkering, with all the Parliamentary Eloquence and Elective
Franchises in nature, will ever set it on its feet again, to go
many yards more; but that _its_ goings and currencies in this
Earth have as good as ceased for ever and ever! God is great;
all Lies do now, as from the first, travel incessantly towards
Chaos, and there at length lodge! In some parts of Ireland (the
Western "insolvent Unions," some twenty-seven of them in all),
within a trifle of _one half_ of the whole population are on
Poor-Law rations (furnished by the British Government, L1,100 a
week furnished here, L1,300 there, L800 there); the houses stand
roofless, the lands unstocked, uncultivated, the landlords hidden
from bailiffs, living sometimes "on the hares of their domain":
such a state of things was never witnessed under this sky before;
and, one would humbly expect, cannot last long!--What is to be
done? asks every one; incapable of _hearing_ any answer, were
there even one ready for imparting to him. "_Blacklead_ these
two million idle beggars," I sometimes advised, "and sell them in
Brazil as Niggers,--perhaps Parliament, on sweet constraint, will
allow you to advance them to be Niggers!" In fact, the
Emancipation Societies should send over a deputation or two to
look at _these_ immortal Irish "Freemen," the _ne plus ultra_ of
their class it would perhaps moderate the windpipe of much
eloquence one hears on that subject! Is not this the most
illustrious of all "ages"; making progress of the species at a
grand rate indeed? Peace be with it.
Waiting for me here, there was a Letter from Miss Fuller in Rome,
written about a month ago; a dignified and interesting Letter;
requesting help with Booksellers for some "History of the late
Italian Revolution" she is about writing; and elegiacally
recognizing the worth of Mazzini and other cognate persons and
things. I instantly set about doing what little seemed in my
power towards this object,--with what result is yet hidden, and
have written to the heroic Margaret: "More power to her elbow!"
as the Irish say. She has a beautiful enthusiasm; and is
perhaps in the right stage of insight for doing that piece of
business well.--Of other persons or interests I will say nothing
till a calmer opportunity; which surely cannot be very long
in coming.
In four days I am to rejoin my wife; after which some bits of
visits are to be paid in this North Country; necessary most of
them, not likely to be profitable almost any. In perhaps a month
I expect to be back in Chelsea; whither direct a word if you are
still beneficent enough to think of such a Castaway!
Yours ever,
T. Carlyle
I got Thoreau's Book; and meant well to read it, but have not
yet succeeded, though it went with me through all Ireland: tell
him so, please. Too Jean-Paulish, I found it hitherto.
CXLII. Carlyle to Emerson
Chelsea, 19 July, 1850
My Dear Emerson, My Friend, my Friend,--You behold before you a
remorseful man! It is well-nigh a year now since I despatched
some hurried rag of paper to you out of Scotland, indicating
doubtless that I would speedily follow it with a longer letter;
and here, when gray Autumn is at hand again, I have still written
nothing to you, heard nothing from you! It is miserable to think
of:--and yet it is a fact, and there is no denying of it; and so
we must let it lie. If it please Heaven, the like shall not
occur again. "Ohone Arooh!" as the Irish taught me to say,
"Ohone Arooh!"
The fact is, my life has been black with care and toil,--labor
above board and far worse labor below;--I have hardly had a
heavier year (overloaded too with a kind of "health" which may be
called frightful): to "burn my own smoke" in some measure, has
really been all I was up to; and except on sheer immediate
compulsion I have not written a word to any creature.--
Yesternight I finished the last of these extraordinary
_Pamphlets;_ am about running off somewhither into the deserts,
of Wales or Scotland, Scandinavia or still remoter deserts;--and
my first signal of revived reminiscence is to you.
Nay I have not at any time forgotten you, be that justice done
the unfortunate: and though I see well enough what a great deep
cleft divides us, in our ways of practically looking at this
world,--I see also (as probably you do yourself) where the rock-
strata, miles deep, unite again; and the two poor souls are at
one. Poor devils!--Nay if there were no point of agreement at
all, and I were more intolerant "of ways of thinking" than I even
am,--yet has not the man Emerson, from old years, been a Human
Friend to me? Can I ever forget, or think otherwise than
lovingly of the man Emerson? No more of this. Write to me in
your first good hour; and say that there is still a brother-soul
left to me alive in this world, and a kind thought surviving far
over the sea!--Chapman, with due punctuality at the time of
publication, sent me the _Representative Men;_ which I read in
the becoming manner: you now get the Book offered you for a
shilling, at all railway stations; and indeed I perceive the
word "representative man"' (as applied to the late tragic loss we
have had in Sir Robert Peel) has been adopted by the Able-
Editors, and circulates through Newspapers as an appropriate
household word, which is some compensation to you for the piracy
you suffer from the Typographic Letter-of-marque men here. I
found the Book a most finished clear and perfect set of
_Engravings in the line manner;_ portraitures full of
_likeness,_ and abounding in instruction and materials for
reflection to me: thanks always for such a Book; and Heaven
send us many more of them. _Plato,_ I think, though it is the
most admired by many, did least for me: little save Socrates
with his clogs and big ears remains alive with me from it.
_Swedenborg_ is excellent in _likeness;_ excellent in many
respects;--yet I said to myself, on reaching your general
conclusion about the man and his struggles: "_Missed_ the
consummate flower and divine ultimate elixir of Philosophy, say
you? By Heaven, in clutching at _it,_ and almost getting it, he
has tumbled into Bedlam,--which is a terrible _miss,_ if it were
never so _near!_ A miss fully as good as a mile, I should say!"
--In fact, I generally dissented a little about the _end_ of all
these Essays; which was notable, and not without instructive
interest to me, as I had so lustily shouted "Hear, hear!" all the
way from the beginning up to that stage.--On the whole, let us
have another Book with your earliest convenience: that is the
modest request one makes of you on shutting this.
I know not what I am now going to set about: the horrible
barking of the universal dog-kennel (awakened by these
_Pamphlets_) must still itself again; my poor nerves must
recover themselves a little:--I have much more to say; and
by Heaven's blessing must try to get it said in some way if
I live.--
Bostonian Prescott is here, infinitely _lionized_ by a mob of
gentlemen; I have seen him in two places or three (but forbore
speech): the Johnny-cake is good, the twopence worth of currants
in it too are good; but if you offer it as a bit of baked
Ambrosia, _Ach Gott!_--
Adieu, dear Emerson, forgive, and love me a little.
Yours ever,
T. Carlyle