The Correspondence of Thomas Carlyle and Ralph Waldo Emerson, 1834-1872, Vol. I LVI. Emerson to Carlyle
by John Stuart Mill
Concord, 30 August, 1840
My Dear Carlyle,--I fear, nay I know, that when I wrote last to
you, about the 1st of July, I promised to follow my sheet
immediately with a bookseller's account. The bookseller did
presently after render his account, but on its face appeared the
fact--which with many and by me unanswerable reasons they
supported--that the balance thereon credited to you was not
payable until the 1st of October. The account is footed "Net
sales of French Revolution to 1 July, 1840, due October 1,
$249.77." Let us hope then that we shall get, not only a new
page of statement, but also some small payment in money a month
hence. Having no better story to tell, I told nothing.
But I will not let the second of the Cunard boats leave Boston
without a word to you. Since I wrote by Calvert came your letter
describing your lectures and their success: very welcome news,
for a good London newspaper, which I consulted, promised reports,
but gave none. I have heard so oft of your projected trip to
America, that my ear would now be dull, and my faith cold, but
that I wish it so much. My friend, your audience still waits for
you here willing and eager, and greatly larger no doubt than it
would have been when the matter was first debated.
Our community begin to stand in some terror of Transcendentalism,
and the Dial, poor little thing, whose first number contains
scarce anything considerable or even visible, is just now honored
by attacks from almost every newspaper and magazine; which at
least betrays the irritability and the instincts of the good
public. But they would hardly be able to fasten on so huge a man
as you are any party badge. We must all hear you for ourselves.
But beside my own hunger to see and know you, and to hear you
speak at ease and at large under my own roof, I have a growing
desire to present you to three or four friends, and them to you.
Almost all my life has been passed alone. Within three or four
years I have been drawing nearer to a few men and women whose
love gives me in these days more happiness than I can write of.
How gladly I would bring your Jovial light upon this friendly
constellation, and make you too know my distant riches! We have
our own problems to solve also, and a good deal of movement and
tendency emerging into sight every day in church and state, in
social modes and in letters. I sometimes fancy our cipher is
larger and easier to read than that of your English society.
You will naturally ask me if I try my hand at the history of all
this,--I who have leisure, and write. No, not in the near and
practical way in which they seem to invite. I incline to write
philosophy, poetry, possibility,--anything but history. And yet
this phantom of the next age limns himself sometimes so large and
plain that every feature is apprehensible, and challenges a
painter. I can brag little of my diligence or achievement this
summer. I dot evermore in my endless journal, a line on every
knowable in nature; but the arrangement loiters long, and I get
a brick kiln instead of a house.--Consider, however, that all
summer I see a good deal of company,--so near as my fields are to
the city. But next winter I think to omit lectures, and write
more faithfully. Hope for me that I shall get a book ready to
send you by New-Year's-day.
Sumner came to see me the other day. I was glad to learn all the
little that he knew of you and yours. I do not wonder you set so
lightly by my talkative countryman. He has brought nothing home
but names, dates, and prefaces. At Cambridge last week I saw
Brown for the first time. I had little opportunity to learn what
he knew. Mr. Hume has never yet shown his face here. He sent me
his Poems from New York, and then went South, and I know no more
of him.
My Mother and Wife send you kind regards and best wishes,--to you
and all your house. Tell your wife that I hate to hear that she
cannot sail the seas. Perhaps now she is stronger she will be a
better sailor. For the sake of America will she not try the trip
to Leith again? It is only twelve days from Liverpool to Boston.
Love, truth, and power abide with you always!
