Dear Emerson,--I am really grieved to have hurt the feelings of
Mr. Phillips;* a gentleman to whom I, on my side, had no
feelings but those of respect and good will! I pray you smooth
him down again, by all wise methods, into at least good-natured
indifference to me. He may depend upon it I could not mean to
irritate him; there lay no gain for me in that! Nor is there
anything of business left now between us. It is doubly and
trebly evident those Stereotype Plates are not to him worth their
prime cost here, still less, their prime cost plus any vestige of
definite motive for me to concern myself in them:--whereupon the
Project falls on its face, and vanishes forever, with apologies
all round. For as to that other method, that is a game I never
thought, and never should think of playing at! You may also tell
him this little Biographical fact, if you think it will any way
help. Some ten or more years ago, I made a similar Bargain with
a New York House (known to you, and now I believe extinct): "10"
or something "percent," of selling price on the Copies Printed,
was to be my return--not for four or five hundred pounds money
laid out, but for various things I did, which gratis would by no
means have been done; in fine, it was their own Offer, made and
accepted in due form; "10 percent on the copies printed."
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* This refers to a proposed arrangement, which fell through, for
the publication in America by Messrs. Phillips and Sampson, of
Boston, of a complete edition of Carlyle's works, to be printed
from the stereotype plates of the English edition then in course
of issue by Messrs. Chapman and Hall.
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And how many were "printed," thinks Mr. Phillips? I saw one set;
dreadfully ugly Books, errors in every page;--and to this hour I
have never heard of any other! The amount remains zero net; and
it would appear there was simply one copy "printed," the ugly one
sent to myself, which I instantly despatched again somewhither!
On second thought perhaps you had better _not_ tell Mr. Phillips
this story, at least not in this way. _His_ integrity I would
not even question by insinuation, nor need I, at the point where
we now are. I perceive he sees in extraordinary brilliancy of
illumination his own side of the bargain; and thinks me ignorant
of several things which I am well enough informed about. In
brief, make a perfect peace between us, O friend, and man of
peace; and let the wampums be all wrapped up, and especially the
tomahawks entirely buried, and the thing end forever! To you
also I owe apologies; but not to you do I pay them, knowing from
of old what you are to me. Enough, enough!
I got your Book by post in the Highlands; and had such a day
over it as falls rarely to my lot! Not for seven years and more
have I got hold of such a Book;--Book by a real man, with eyes in
his head; nobleness, wisdom, humor, and many other things, in
the heart of him. Such Books do not turn up often in the decade,
in the century. In fact I believe it to be worth all the Books
ever written by New England upon Old. Franklin might have
written such a thing (in his own way); no other since! We do
very well with it here, and the wise part of us _best._ That
Chapter on the Church is inimitable; "the Bishop asking a
troublesome gentleman to take wine,"--you should see the kind of
grin it awakens here on our best kind of faces. Excellent the
manner of that, and the matter too dreadfully _true_ in every
part. I do not much seize your idea in regard to "Literature,"
though I do details of it, and will try again. Glad of that too,
even in its half state; not "sorry" at _any_ part of it,--you
Sceptic! On the whole, write _again,_ and ever again at greater
length: there lies your only fault to me. And yet I know, that
also is a right noble one, and rare in our day.
O my friend, save always for me some corner in your memory; I am
very lonely in these months and years,--sunk to the centre of the
Earth, like to be throttled by the Pythons and Mudgods in my old
days;--but shall get out again, too; and be a better boy! No
"hurry" equals mine, and it is in permanence.
Yours ever,
T. Carlyle