Dear Emerson,--Don't you still remember very well that there is
such a man? I know you do, and will do. But it is a ruinously
long while since we have heard a word from each other;--a state
of matters that ought immediately to _cease._ It was your turn,
I think, to write? It was somebody's turn! Nay I heard lately
you complained of bad eyes; and were grown abstinent of writing.
Pray contradict me this. I cannot do without some regard from
you while we are both here. Spite of your many sins, you are
among the most human of all the beings I now know in the world;--
who are a very select set, and are growing ever more so, I can
inform you!
In late months, feeling greatly broken and without heart for
anything weighty, I have been upon a _Life of John Sterling;_
which will not be good for much, but will as usual gratify me by
taking itself off my hands: it was one of the things I felt a
kind of obligation to do, and so am thankful to have done. Here
is a patch of it lying by me, if you will look at a specimen.
There are four hundred or more pages (prophesies the Printer), a
good many _Letters_ and Excerpts in the latter portion of the
volume. Already half printed, wholly written; but not to come
out for a couple of months yet,--all trade being at a stand till
this sublime "Crystal Palace" go its ways again.--And now since
we are upon the business, I wish you would mention it to E.P.
Clark (is not that the name?) next time you go to Boston: if
that friendly clear-eyed man have anything to say in reference to
it and American Booksellers, let him say and do; he may have a
Copy for anybody in about a month: if _he_ have nothing to say,
then let there be nothing anywhere said. For, mark O
Philosopher, I expressly and with emphasis prohibit _you_ at this
stage of our history, and henceforth, unless I grow poor again.
Indeed, indeed, the commercial mandate of the thing (Nature's
little order on that behalf) being once fulfilled (by speaking to
Clark), I do not care a snuff of tobacco how it goes, and will
prefer, here as elsewhere, my night's rest to any amount of
superfluous money.
This summer, as you may conjecture, has been very noisy with us,
and productive of little,--the "Wind-dust-ry of all Nations"
involving everything in one inane tornado. The very shopkeepers
complain that there is no trade. Such a sanhedrim of windy fools
from all countries of the Globe were surely never gathered in one
city before. But they will go their ways again, they surely
will! One sits quiet in that faith;--nay, looks abroad with a
kind of pathetic grandfatherly feeling over this universal
Children's Ball which the British Nation in these extraordinary
circumstances is giving it self! Silence above all, silence is
very behoveful! I read lately a small old brown French
duodecimo, which I mean to send you by the first chance there is.
The writer is a Capitaine Bossu; the production, a Journal of
his experiences in "La Louisiane," "Oyo" (_Ohio_), and those
regions, which looks very genuine, and has a strange interest to
me, like some fractional Odyssey or letter.* Only a hundred
years ago, and the Mississippi has changed as never valley did:
in 1751 older and stranger, looked at from its present date, than
Balbec or Nineveh! Say what we will, Jonathan is doing miracles
(of a sort) under the sun in these times now passing.--Do you
know _Bartram's Travels?_ This is of the Seventies (1770) or so;
treats of _Florida_ chiefly, has a wondrous kind of floundering
eloquence in it; and has also grown immeasurably _old._ All
American libraries ought to provide themselves with that kind of
book; and keep them as a kind of future _biblical_ article.--
Finally on this head, can you tell me of any _good_ Book on
California? Good: I have read several bad. But that too is
worthy of some wonder; that too, like the Old Bucaniers, hungers
and thirsts (in ingenuous minds) to have some true record and
description given of it.
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* Bossu wrote two books which are known to the student of the
history of the settlement of America; one, "Nouveaux Voyages aux
Indes occidentales," Paris, 1768; the other, "Nouveaux Voyages
dans l'Amerique septentrionale," Amsterdam (Paris), 1777.
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And poor Miss Fuller, was there any _Life_ ever published of her?
or is any competent hand engaged on it? Poor Margaret, I often
remember her; and think how she is asleep now under the surges
of the sea. Mazzini, as you perhaps know, is with us this
summer; comes across once in the week or so, and tells me, or at
least my Wife, all his news. The Roman revolution has made a man
of him,--quite brightened up ever since;--and the best friend
_he_ ever saw, I believe, was that same Quack-President of
France, who relieved him while it was still time.
My Brother is in Annandale, working hard over _Dante_ at last;
talks of coming up hither shortly; I am myself very ill and
miserable in the _liver_ regions; very tough otherwise,--though
I have now got spectacles for small print in the twilight. _Eheu
fugaces,_--and yet why _Eheu?_ In fact it is better to be
silent.--Adieu, dear Emerson; I expect to get a great deal
brisker by and by,--and in the first place to have a Missive from
Boston again. My Wife sends you many regards. I am as ever,--
affectionately Yours,
--T. Carlyle