The Correspondence of Thomas Carlyle and Ralph Waldo Emerson, 1834-1872, Vol II. XCIX. Carlyle to Emerson
by Thomas Carlyle
Chelsea, 16 February, 1845
Dear Emerson,--By the last Packet, which sailed on the 3d of the
month, I forgot to write to you, though already in your debt
one Letter; and there now has another Letter arrived, which on
the footing of mere business demands to be answered. I write
straightway; not knowing how the Post-Office people will
contrive the conveyance, or whether it can be sooner than by the
next Steam ship, but willing to give them a chance.
You have made another brave bargain for me with the Philadelphia
people; to all of which I can say nothing but "Euge! Papae!"
It seems to me strange, in the present state of Copyright, how my
sanction or the contrary can be worth L50 to any American
Bookseller; but so it is, to all appearance; let it be so,
therefore, with thanks and surprise. The Messrs. Carey and Lea
distinguish themselves by the beauty of their Editions; a poor
Author does not go abroad among his friends in dirty paper, full
of misprints, under their guidance; this is as handsome an item
of the business as any. As to the Portrait too, I will be as
"amiable" as heart could wish; truly it will be worth my while
to take a little pains that the kind Philadelphia Editors do once
for all get a faithful Portrait of me, since they are about it,
and so prevent counterfeits from getting into circulation. I
will endeavor to do in that matter whatsoever they require of me;
to the extent even of sitting two days for a Crayon Sketch such
as may be engraved,--though this new sacrifice of patience will
not be needed as matters are. It stands thus: there is no
Painter, of the numbers who have wasted my time and their own
with trying, that has indicated any capability of catching a true
Likeness, but one Samuel Lawrence; a young Painter of real
talent, not quite so young now, but still only struggling for
complete mastership in the management of colors. He does crayon
sketches in a way to please almost himself; but his oil
paintings, at least till within a year or two, have indicated
only a great faculty still crude in that particular. His oil
portrait of me, which you speak of, is almost terrible to behold!
It has the look of a Jotun, of a Scandinavian Demon, grim, sad,
as the angel of Death;--and the coloring is so brickish, the
finishing so coarse, it reminds you withal of a flayed horse's
head! "Dinna speak o't." But the preparatory crayon-sketch of
this, still in existence, is admired by some judges; poor John
Sterling bought it from the Painter, and it is now here in the
hands of his Brother, who will readily allow any authorized
person to take a drawing of it. Lawrence himself, I imagine,
would be the fittest man to employ; or your Mr. Ingham [Inman],
if he be here and a capable person: one or both of these might
superintend the Engraving of it here, and not part with the plate
till it were pronounced satisfactory. In short, I am willing to
do "anything in reason"! Only if a Portrait is to be, I confess
I should rather avoid going abroad under the hands of bunglers,
at least of bunglers sanctioned by myself. There is a Portrait
of me in some miserable farrago called Spirit of the Age;* a
farrago unknown to me, but a Portrait known, for poor Lawrence
brought it down to me with sorrow in his face; it professes to
be from his painting; is a "Lais without the beauty" (as
Charles Lamb used to say); a flayed horse's head without the
spiritualism, good or bad,--and simply figures on my mind as a
detestability; which I had much rather never have seen. These
poor Spirit of the Age people applied to me; I described
myself as "busy," &c.; shoved them off me; and this monster of
iniquity, resembling Nothing in the Earth or under it, is the
result. In short, I am willing, I am willing; and so let us not
waste another drop of ink on it at present!--On the whole, are
not you a strange fellow? You apologize as if with real pain for
"trouble" I had, or indeed am falsely supposed to have had, with
Chapman here; and forthwith engage again in correspondences, in
speculations, and negotiations, and I know not what, on my
behalf! For shame, for shame! Nay, you have done one very
ingenious thing; to set Clark upon the Boston Booksellers'
accounts: it is excellent; Michael Scott setting the Devil
to twist ropes of sand, "There, my brave one; see if you don't
find work there for a while!" I never think of this Clark
without love and laughter. Once more, Euge! Chapman is fast
selling your Books here; striking off a new Five Hundred from
his Stereotypes. You are wrong as to your Public in this
Country; it is a very pretty public; extends pretty much,
I believe, through all ranks, and is a growing one,--and a truly
aristocratic, being of the bravest inquiring minds we have.
All things are breaking up here, like Swedish Frost in the end of
March; gachis epouvantable. Deep, very serious eternal
instincts, are at work; but as yet no serious word at all that I
hear, except what reaches me from Concord at intervals. Forward,
forward! And you do not know what I mean by calling you
"unpractical," "theoretic." 0 caeca corda! But I have no room
for such a theme at present.
* "A new Spirit of the Age. Edited by R.H. Horne." In Two
Volumes. London, 1844.
The reason I tell you nothing about Cromwell is, alas, that there
is nothing to be told. I am day and night, these long months and
years, very miserable about it,--nigh broken-hearted often. Such
a scandalous accumulation of Human Stupidity in every form never
lay before on such a subject. No history of it can be written to
this wretched, fleering, sneering, canting, twaddling, God-
forgetting generation. How can you explain men to Apes by the
Dead Sea?* And I am very sickly too, and my Wife is ill all this
cold weather,--and I am sunk in the bowels of Chaos, and scarce
once in the three months or so see so much as a possibility of
ever getting out! Cromwell's own Letters and Speeches I have
gathered together, and washed clean from a thousand ordures:
these I do sometimes think of bringing out in a legible shape;--
perhaps soon. Adieu, dear friend, with blessings always.
--T. Carlyle
Poor Sydney Smith is understood to be dying; water on the chest;
past hope of Doctors. Alas!
* The dwellers by the Dead Sea who were changed to apes are
referred to in various places by Carlyle. He tells the story of
the metamorphosis, which he got from the introduction to Sale's
Koran, in Past and Present, Book III. Ch. 3.
