Dear Emerson,--Your Letter came ten days ago; very kind, and
however late, surely right welcome! You ought to stir yourself
up a little, and actually begin to speak to me again. If we are
getting old, that is no reason why we should fall silent, and
entirely abstruse to one another. Alas, I do not find as I grow
older that the number of articulate-speaking human souls
increases around me, in proportion to the inarticulate and
palavering species! I am often abundantly solitary in heart;
and regret the old days when we used to speak oftener together.
I have not quitted Town this year at all; have resisted calls to
Scotland both of a gay and a sad description (for the Ashburtons
are gone to John of Groat's House, or the Scottish _Thule,_ to
rusticate and hunt; and, alas, in poor old Annandale a tragedy
seems preparing for me, and the thing I have dreaded all my days
is perhaps now drawing nigh, ah me!)--I felt so utterly broken
and disgusted with the jangle of last year's locomotion, I judged
it would be better to sit obstinately still, and let my thoughts
_settle_ (into sediment and into clearness, as it might be); and
so, in spite of great and peculiar noises moreover, here I am and
remain. London is not a bad place at all in these months,--with
its long clean streets, green parks, and nobody in them, or
nobody one has ever seen before. Out of La Trappe, which does
not suit a Protestant man, there is perhaps no place where one
can be so perfectly alone. I might study even but, as I said,
there are noises going on; a _last_ desperate spasmodic effort
of building,--a new top-story to the house, out of which is to be
made one "spacious room" (so they call it, though it is under
twenty feet square) where there shall be air _ad libitum,_ light
from the sky, and no _sound,_ not even that of the Cremorne
Cannons, shall find access to me any more! Such is the prophecy;
may the gods grant it! We shall see now in about a month;--then
adieu to mortar-tubs to all Eternity:--I endure the thing,
meanwhile, as well as I can; might run to a certain rural
retreat near by, if I liked at any time; but do not yet: the
worst uproar here is but a trifle to that of German inns, and
horrible squeaking, choking railway trains; and one does not go
to seek this, _this_ is here of its own will, and for a purpose!
Seriously, I had for twelve years had such a sound-proof
inaccessible apartment schemed out in my head; and last year,
under a poor, helpless builder, had finally given it up: but
Chelsea, as London generally, swelling out as if it were mad,
grows every year noisier; a _good_ builder turned up, and with a
last paroxysm of enthusiasm I set him to. My notion is, he will
succeed; in which case, it will be a great possession to me for
the rest of my life. Alas, this is not the kind of _silence_ I
could have coveted, and could once get,--with green fields and
clear skies to accompany it! But one must take such as can be
had,--and thank the gods. Even so, my friend. In the course of
about a year of that garret sanctuary, I hope to have swept away
much litter from my existence: in fact I am already, by dint of
mere obstinate quiescence in such circumstances as there are,
intrinsically growing fairly sounder in nerves. What a business
a poor human being has with those nerves of his, with that crazy
clay tabernacle of his! Enough, enough; there will be all
Eternity to rest in, as Arnauld said: "Why in such a fuss,
little sir?"
You "apologize" for sending people to me: O you of little faith!
Never dream of such a thing nay, whom _did_ you send? The
Cincinnati Lecturer* I had provided for with Owen; they would
have been glad to hear him, on the Cedar forests, on the pigs
making rattlesnakes into bacon, and the general adipocere
question, under any form, at the Albemarle Street rooms;--and he
never came to hand. As for Miss Bacon, we find her, with her
modest shy dignity, with her solid character and strange
enterprise, a real acquisition; and hope we shall now see more
of her, now that she has come nearer to us to lodge. I have not
in my life seen anything so tragically _quixotic_ as her
Shakespeare enterprise: alas, alas, there can be nothing but
sorrow, toil, and utter disappointment in it for her! I do
cheerfully what I can;--which is far more than she _asks_ of me
(for I have not seen a prouder silent soul);--but there is not
the least possibility of truth in the notion she has taken up:
and the hope of ever proving it, or finding the least document
that countenances it, is equal to that of vanquishing the
windmills by stroke of lance. I am often truly sorry about the
poor lady: but she troubles nobody with her difficulties, with
her theories; she must try the matter to the end, and charitable
souls must further her so far.
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* Mr. O.M. Mitchell, the astronomer.
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Clough is settled in his Office; gets familiarized to it rapidly
(he says), and seems to be doing well. I see little of him
hitherto; I did not, and will not, try to influence him in his
choice of countries; but I think he is now likely to continue
here, and here too he may do us some good. Of America, at least
of New England, I can perceive he has brought away an altogether
kindly, almost filial impression,--especially of a certain man
who lives in that section of the Earth. More power to his
elbow!--Thackeray has very rarely come athwart me since his
return: he is a big fellow, soul and body; of many gifts and
qualities (particularly in the Hogarth line, with a dash of
Sterne superadded), of enormous _appetite_ withal, and very
uncertain and chaotic in all points except his _outer breeding,_
which is fixed enough, and _perfect_ according to the modern
English style. I rather dread explosions in his history. A
_big,_ fierce, weeping, hungry man; not a strong one. _Ay de
mi!_ But I must end, I must end. Your Letter awakened in me,
while reading it, one mad notion. I said to myself: Well, if I
live to finish this Frederic impossibility, or even to fling it
fairly into the fire, why should not I go, in my old days, and
see Concord, Yankeeland, and that man again, after all!--Adieu,
dear friend; all good be with you and yours always.
--T. Carlyle