The Correspondence of Thomas Carlyle and Ralph Waldo Emerson, 1834-1872, Vol II. CLXXII. Carlyle to Emerson
by Thomas Carlyle
Cummertrees, Annan, Scotland, 14 June, 1865
Dear Emerson,--Though my hand is shaking (as you sadly notice) I
determine to write you a little Note today. What a severance
there has been these many sad years past!--In the first days of
February I ended my weary Book; a totally worn-out man, got to
shore again after far the ugliest sea he had ever swam in. In
April or the end of March, when the book was published, I duly
handed out a Copy for Concord and you; it was to be sent by
mail; but, as my Publisher (a new Chapman, very unlike the
old) discloses to me lately an incredible negligence on such
points, it is quite possible the dog may not, for a long while,
have put it in the Post-Office (though he faithfully charged me
the postage of it, and was paid), and that the poor waif may
never yet have reached you! Patience: it will come soon
enough,--there are two thick volumes, and they will stand you a
great deal of reading; stiff rather than "light."
Since February last, I have been sauntering about in Devonshire,
in Chelsea, hither, thither; idle as a dry bone, in fact, a
creature sinking into deeper and deeper collapse, after twelve
years of such mulish pulling and pushing; creature now good for
nothing seemingly, and much indifferent to being so in
permanence, if that be the arrangement come upon by the Powers
that made us. Some three or four weeks ago, I came rolling down
hither, into this old nook of my Birthland, to see poor old
Annandale again with eyes, and the poor remnants of kindred and
loved ones still left me there; I was not at first very lucky
(lost sleep, &c.); but am now doing better, pretty much got
adjusted to my new element, new to me since about six years
past,--the longest absence I ever had from it before. My Work
was getting desperate at that time; and I silently said to
myself, "We won't return till it is done, or you are done,
my man!"
This is my eldest living sister's house; one of the most rustic
Farmhouses in the world, but abounding in all that is needful to
me, especially in the truest, silently-active affection, the
humble generosity of which is itself medicine and balm. The
place is airy, on dry waving knolls cheerfully (with such water
as I never drank elsewhere, except at Malvern) all round me are
the Mountains, Cheviot and Galloway (three to fifteen miles off),
Cumberland and Yorkshire (say forty and fifty, with the Solway
brine and sands intervening). I live in total solitude,
sauntering moodily in thin checkered woods, galloping about, once
daily, by old lanes and roads, oftenest latterly on the wide
expanses of Solway shore (when the tide is out!) where I see
bright busy Cottages far off, houses over even in Cumberland, and
the beautifulest amphitheatre of eternal Hills,--but meet no
living creature; and have endless thoughts as loving and as sad
and sombre as I like. My youngest Brother (whom on the whole I
like best, a rustic man, the express image of my Father in his
ways of living and thinking) is within ten miles of me; Brother
John "the Doctor" has come down to Dumfries to a sister (twelve
miles off), and runs over to me by rail now and then in few
minutes. I have Books; but can hardly be troubled with them.
Pitiful temporary babble and balderdash, in comparison to what
the Silences can say to one. Enough of all that: you perceive
me sufficiently at this point of my Pilgrimage, as withdrawn to
Hades for the time being; intending a month's walk there, till
the muddy semi-solutions settle into sediment according to what
laws they have, and there be perhaps a partial restoration of
clearness. I have to go deeper into Scotland by and by, perhaps
to try sailing, which generally agrees with me; but till the
end of September I hope there will be no London farther. My poor
Wife, who is again poorly since I left (and has had frightful
sufferings, last year especially) will probably join me in this
region before I leave it. And see here, This is authentically
the way we figure in the eye of the Sun; and something like what
your spectacles, could they reach across the Ocean into these
nooks, would teach you of us. There are three Photographs which
I reckon fairly like;these are properly what I had to send
you today,--little thinking that so much surplusage would
accumulate about them; to which I now at once put an end. Your
friend Conway,* who is a boundless admirer of yours, used to come
our way regularly now and then; and we always liked him well. A
man of most gentlemanly, ingenious ways; turn of thought always
loyal and manly, though tending to be rather winged than
solidly ambulatory. He talked of coming to Scotland too; but it
seems uncertain whether we shall meet. He is clearly rather a
favorite among the London people,--and tries to explain America
to them; I know not if with any success. As for me, I have
entirely lost count and reckoning of your enormous element, and
its enormous affairs and procedures for some time past; and can
only wish (which no man more heartily does) that all may issue in
as blessed a way as you hope. Fat--(if you know and his fat
commonplace at all) amused me much by a thing he had heard of
yours in some lecture a year or two ago. "The American Eagle is
a mighty bird; but what is he to the American Peacock." At
which all the audience had exploded into laughter. Very good.
Adieu, old Friend.
