The Correspondence of Thomas Carlyle and Ralph Waldo Emerson, 1834-1872, Vol II. CXLI. Carlyle to Emerson
by Thomas Carlyle
Scotsbrig, Ecclefechan, N.B., 13 August, 1849
Dear Emerson,--By all laws of human computation, I owe you a
letter, and have owed, any time these seven weeks: let me now
pay a little, and explain. Your second Barrel of Indian Corn
arrived also perfectly fresh, and of admirable taste and quality;
the very bag of new-ground meal was perfect; and the "popped
corn" ditto, when it came to be discovered: with the whole of
which admirable materials such order was taken as promised to
secure "the greatest happiness to the greatest number"; and due
silent thanks were tendered to the beneficence of the unwearied
Sender:--but all this, you shall observe, had to be done in the
thick of a universal packing and household bustle; I just on the
wing for a "Tour in Ireland," my Wife too contemplating a run to
Scotland shortly after, there to meet me on my return. All this
was seven good weeks ago: I hoped somewhere in my Irish
wayfarings to fling you off a Letter; but alas, I reckoned there
quite without my host (strict "host," called Time), finding
nowhere half a minute left to me; and so now, having got home to
my Mother, not to see my Wife yet for some days, it is my
earliest leisure, after all, that I employ in this purpose. I
have been terribly knocked about too,--jolted in Irish cars,
bothered almost to madness with Irish balderdash, above all kept
on dreadfully short allowance of sleep;--so that now first, when
fairly down to rest, all aches and bruises begin to be fairly
sensible; and my clearest feeling at this present is the
uncomfortable one, "that I am not Caliban, but a Cramp":
terribly cramped indeed, if I could tell you everything!
What the other results of this Irish Tour are to be for me I
cannot in the least specify. For one thing, I seem to be farther
from speech on any subject than ever: such masses of chaotic
ruin everywhere fronted me, the general fruit of long-continued
universal falsity and folly; and such mountains of delusion yet
possessing all hearts and tongues I could do little that was not
even noxious, except admire in silence the general
"Bankruptcy of Imposture" as one there finds and sees it come to
pass, and think with infinite sorrow of the tribulations, futile
wrestlings, tumults, and disasters which yet await that
unfortunate section of Adam's Posterity before any real
improvement can take place among them. Alas, alas! The Gospels
of Political Economy, of Laissez-faire, No-Government, Paradise
to all comers, and so many fatal Gospels,--generally, one may
say, all the Gospels of this blessed "New Era,"--will first have
to be tried, and found wanting. With a quantity of written and
uttered nonsense, and of suffered and inflicted misery, which one
sinks fairly dumb to estimate! A kind of comfort it is, however,
to see that "Imposture" has fallen openly "bankrupt," here as
everywhere else in our old world; that no dexterity of human
tinkering, with all the Parliamentary Eloquence and Elective
Franchises in nature, will ever set it on its feet again, to go
many yards more; but that its goings and currencies in this
Earth have as good as ceased for ever and ever! God is great;
all Lies do now, as from the first, travel incessantly towards
Chaos, and there at length lodge! In some parts of Ireland (the
Western "insolvent Unions," some twenty-seven of them in all),
within a trifle of one half of the whole population are on
Poor-Law rations (furnished by the British Government, L1,100 a
week furnished here, L1,300 there, L800 there); the houses stand
roofless, the lands unstocked, uncultivated, the landlords hidden
from bailiffs, living sometimes "on the hares of their domain":
such a state of things was never witnessed under this sky before;
and, one would humbly expect, cannot last long!--What is to be
done? asks every one; incapable of hearing any answer, were
there even one ready for imparting to him. "Blacklead these
two million idle beggars," I sometimes advised, "and sell them in
Brazil as Niggers,--perhaps Parliament, on sweet constraint, will
allow you to advance them to be Niggers!" In fact, the
Emancipation Societies should send over a deputation or two to
look at these immortal Irish "Freemen," the ne plus ultra of
their class it would perhaps moderate the windpipe of much
eloquence one hears on that subject! Is not this the most
illustrious of all "ages"; making progress of the species at a
grand rate indeed? Peace be with it.
Waiting for me here, there was a Letter from Miss Fuller in Rome,
written about a month ago; a dignified and interesting Letter;
requesting help with Booksellers for some "History of the late
Italian Revolution" she is about writing; and elegiacally
recognizing the worth of Mazzini and other cognate persons and
things. I instantly set about doing what little seemed in my
power towards this object,--with what result is yet hidden, and
have written to the heroic Margaret: "More power to her elbow!"
as the Irish say. She has a beautiful enthusiasm; and is
perhaps in the right stage of insight for doing that piece of
business well.--Of other persons or interests I will say nothing
till a calmer opportunity; which surely cannot be very long
in coming.
In four days I am to rejoin my wife; after which some bits of
visits are to be paid in this North Country; necessary most of
them, not likely to be profitable almost any. In perhaps a month
I expect to be back in Chelsea; whither direct a word if you are
still beneficent enough to think of such a Castaway!
Yours ever,
T. Carlyle
I got Thoreau's Book; and meant well to read it, but have not
yet succeeded, though it went with me through all Ireland: tell
him so, please. Too Jean-Paulish, I found it hitherto.
