The Correspondence of Thomas Carlyle and Ralph Waldo Emerson, 1834-1872 Volume I Part 13

* Lady Ashburton

Cx.x.xVIII. Carlyle to Emerson

Chelsea, 6 December, 1848

Dear Emerson,--We received your Letter* duly, some time ago, with many welcomes; and have as you see been too remiss in answering it. Not from forgetfulness, if you will take my word; no, but from many causes, too complicated to articulate, and justly producing an indisposition to put pen to paper at all! Never was I more silent than in these very months; and, with reason too, for the world at large, and my own share of it in small, are both getting more and more unspeakable with any convenience! In health we of this household are about as well as usual;--and look across to the woods of Concord with more light than we had, realizing for ourselves a most mild and friendly picture there.

Perhaps it is quite as well that you are left alone of foreign interference, even of a Letter from Chelsea, till you get your huge bale of English reminiscences a.s.sorted a little. n.o.body except me seems to have heard from you; at least the rest, in these parts, all plead dest.i.tution when I ask for news. What you saw and suffered and enjoyed here will, if you had once got it properly warehoused, be new wealth to you for many years. Of one impression we fail not here: admiration of your pacific virtues, of gentle and n.o.ble tolerance, often sorely tried in this place!

Forgive me my ferocities; you do not quite know what I suffer in these lat.i.tudes, or perhaps it would be even easier for you.

Peace for me, in a Mother of Dead Dogs like this, there is not, was not, will not be,--till the battle itself end; which, however, is a sure outlook, and daily growing a nearer one.

---------- * The letter is missing, but a fragment of the rough draft of it exists, dated Concord, 2 October, 1848. Emerson had returned home in July, and he begins: "'T is high time, no doubt, long since, that you heard from me, and if there were good news in America for you, you would be sure to hear. All goes at heavy trot with us... I fell again quickly into my obscure habits, more fit for me than the fine things I had seen. I made my best endeavor to praise the rich country I had seen, and its excellent, energetic, polished people. And it is very easy for me to do so. England is the country of success, and success has a great charm for me, more than for those I talk with at home.

But they were obstinate to know if the English were superior to their possessions, and if the old religion warmed their hearts, and lifted a little the mountain of wealth. So I enumerated the list of brilliant persons I had seen, and the [break in MS.].

But the question returned. Did you find kings and priests? Did you find sanct.i.ties and beauties that took away your memory, and sent you home a changed man with new aims, and with a discontent of your old pastures?"

Here the fragment ends. Emerson's answer to these questions may be found in the chapter ent.i.tled "Results," in his _English Traits._ ----------

Nay, there is another practical question,--but it is from the female side of the house to the female side,--and in fact concerns Indian meal, upon which Mrs. Emerson, or you, or the Miller of Concord (if he have any tincture of philosophy) are now to instruct us! The fact is, potatoes having vanished here, we are again, with motives large and small, trying to learn the use of Indian meal; and indeed do eat it daily to meat at dinner, though hitherto with considerable despair. Question _first,_ therefore: Is there by nature a _bitter_ final taste, which makes the throat smart, and disheartens much the apprentice in Indian meal;--or is it accidental, and to be avoided? We surely antic.i.p.ate the latter answer; but do not yet see how. At first we were taught the meal, all ground on your side of the water, had got fusty, _raw;_ an effect we are well used to in oaten and other meals but, last year, we had a bushel of it ground _here,_ and the bitter taste was there as before (with the addition of much dirt and sand, our millstones I suppose being too soft);-- whereupon we incline to surmise that there is, perhaps, as in the case of oats, some pellicle or hull that ought to be _rejected_ in making the meal? Pray ask some philosophic Miller, if Mrs.

Emerson or you do not know;--and as a corollary this _second_ question: What is the essential difference between _white_ (or brown-gray-white) Indian Meal and _yellow_ (the kind we now have; beautiful as new Guineas, but with an ineffaceable tastekin of _soot_ in it)?--And question _third,_ which includes all: How to cook _mush_ rightly, at least without bitter? _Long_-continued boiling seems to help the bitterness, but does not cure it. Let some oracle speak! I tell all people, our staff of life is in the Mississippi Valley henceforth;--and one of the truest benefactors were an American Minerva who could teach us to cook this meal; which our people at present (I included) are unanimous in finding nigh uneatable, and loudly exclaimable against! Elihu Burritt had a string of recipes that went through all newspapers three years ago; but never sang there oracle of longer ears than that,--totally dest.i.tute of practical significance to any creature here!

And now enough of questioning. Alas, alas, I have a quite other batch of sad and saddest considerations,--on which I must not so much as enter at present! Death has been very busy in this little circle of ours within these few days. You remember Charles Buller, to whom I brought you over that night at the Barings' in Stanhope Street? He died this day week, almost quite unexpectedly; a sore loss to all that knew him personally, and his gladdening sunny presence in many circles here; a sore loss to the political people too, for he was far the cleverest of all Whig men, and indeed the only genial soul one can remember in that department of things.* We buried him yesterday; and now see what new thing has come. Lord Ashburton, who had left his mother well in Hamps.h.i.+re ten hours before, is summoned from poor Buller's funeral by telegraph; hurries back, finds his mother, whom he loved much, already dead! She was a Miss Bingham, I think, from Pennsylvania, perhaps from Philadelphia itself. You saw her; but the first sight by no means told one all or the best worth that was in that good Lady. We are quite bewildered by our own regrets, and by the far painfuler sorrow of those closely related to these sudden sorrows. Of which let me be silent for the present;--and indeed of all things else, for _speech,_ inadequate mockery of one's poor meaning, is quite a burden to me just now!

--------- * The reader of Carlyle's _Reminiscences,_ and of Froude's volumes of his biography, is familiar with the close relations that had existed between Buller and Carlyle.

Neuberg* comes. .h.i.ther sometimes; a welcome, wise kind of man.

Poor little Espina.s.se still toils cheerily at the oar, and various friends of yours are about us. Brother John did send through Chapman all the _Dante,_ which we calculate you have received long ago: he is now come to Town; doing a Preface, &c., which also will be sent to you, and just about publis.h.i.+ng.-- Helps, who has been alarmingly ill, and touring on the Rhine since we were his guests, writes to me yesterday from Hamps.h.i.+re about sending you a new Book of his. I instructed him How.

Adieu, dear Emerson; do not forget us, or forget to think as kindly as you can of us, while we continue in this world together.

Yours ever affectionately, T. Carlyle

--------- * Mr. Ireland, in his _Recollections,_ p. 62, gives an interesting account of Mr. Neuberg,--a highly cultivated German, who a.s.sisted Carlyle in some of the later literary labors of his life. Neuberg died in 1867, and in a letter to his sister of that year Carlyle says: "No kinder friend had I in this world; no man of my day, I believe, had so faithful, loyal, and willing a helper as he generously was to me for the last twenty or more years."

Cx.x.xIX. Emerson to Carlyle

Boston, 28 January, 1849

My Dear Carlyle,--Here in Boston for the day, though in no fit place for writing, you shall have, since the steamer goes tomorrow, a hasty answer to at least one of your questions....

You tell me heavy news of your friends, and of those who were friendly to me for your sake. And I have found farther particulars concerning them in the newspapers. Buller I have known by name ever since he was in America with Lord Durham, and I well remember his face and figure at Mr. Baring's. Even England cannot spare an accomplished man.

Since I had your letter, and, I believe, by the same steamer, your brother's _Dante,_* complete within and without, has come to me, most welcome. I heartily thank him. 'T is a most workmanlike book, bearing every mark of honest value. I thank him for myself, and I thank him, in advance, for our people, who are sure to learn their debt to him, in the coming months and years. I sent the book, after short examination, the same day, to New York, to the Harpers, lest their edition should come out without Prolegomena. But they answered, the next day, that they had already received directly the same matter;--yet have not up to this time returned my book. For the Indian corn,--I have been to see Dr. Charles T. Jackson (my wife's brother, and our best chemist, inventor of etherization), who tells me that the reason your meal is bitter is, that all the corn sent to you from us is kiln-dried here, usually at a heat of three hundred degrees, which effectually kills the starch or diastase (?) which would otherwise become sugar. This drying is thought necessary to prevent the corn from becoming musty in the contingency of a long voyage. He says, if it should go in the steamer, it would arrive sound without previous drying. I think I will try that experiment, shortly on a box or a barrel of our Concord maize, as Lidian Emerson confidently engages to send you accurate recipes for johnny-cake, mush, and hominy.

--------- * The _Inferno_ of Dante, a translation in prose by John Carlyle; an excellent piece of work, still in demand.

Why did you not send me word of Clough's hexameter poem, which I have now received and read with much joy.* But no, you will never forgive him his metres. He is a stout, solid, reliable man and friend,--I knew well; but this fine poem has taken me by surprise. I cannot find that your journals have yet discovered its existence. With kindest remembrances to Jane Carlyle, and new thanks to John Carlyle, your friend,

--R.W. Emerson

---------- * "The Bothie of Tober-na-Vuolich."

CXL. Carlyle to Emerson

Chelsea, 19 April, 1849

My Dear Emerson,--Today is American Postday; and by every rule and law,--even if all laws but those of c.o.c.ker were abolished from this universe,--a word from me is due to you! Twice I have heard since I spoke last: prompt response about the Philadelphia Bill; exact performance of your voluntary promise,--Indian Corn itself is now here for a week past....

Still more interesting is the barrel of genuine Corn ears,-- Indian Cobs of edible grain, from the Barn of Emerson himself!

It came all safe and right, according to your charitable program; without cost or trouble to us of any kind; not without curious interest and satisfaction! The recipes contained in the precedent letter, duly weighed by the competent jury of housewives (at least by my own Wife and Lady Ashburton), were judged to be of decided promise, reasonable-looking every one of them; and now that the stuff itself is come, I am happy to a.s.sure you that it forms a new epoch for us all in the Maize department: we find the grain _sweet,_ among the sweetest, with a touch even of the taste of _nuts_ in it, and profess with contrition that properly we have never tasted Indian Corn before.

Millers of due faculty (with millstones of _iron_) being scarce in the c.o.c.kney region, and even cooks liable to err, the Ashburtons have on their resources undertaken the brunt of the problem one of their own Surrey or Hamps.h.i.+re millers is to grind the stuff, and their own cook, a Frenchman commander of a whole squadron, is to undertake the dressing according to the rules.

Yesterday the Barrel went off to their country place in Surrey,-- a small Bag of select ears being retained here, for our own private experimenting;--and so by and by we shall see what comes of it.--I on my side have already drawn up a fit proclamation of the excellences of this invaluable corn, and admonitions as to the benighted state of English eaters in regard to it;--to appear in _Fraser's Magazine,_ or I know not where, very soon. It is really a small contribution towards World-History, this small act of yours and ours: there is no doubt to me, now that I taste the real grain, but all Europe will henceforth have to rely more and more upon your Western Valleys and this article. How beautiful to think of lean tough Yankee settlers, tough as gutta-percha, with most occult unsubduable fire in their belly, steering over the Western Mountains, to annihilate the jungle, and bring bacon and corn out of it for the Posterity of Adam! The Pigs in about a year eat up all the rattlesnakes for miles round: a most judicious function on the part of the Pigs. Behind the Pigs comes Jonathan with his all-conquering ploughshare,--glory to him too! Oh, if we were not a set of Cant-ridden blockheads, there is no _Myth_ of Athene or Herakles equal to this _fact;_--which I suppose _will_ find its real "Poets" some day or other; when once the Greek, Semitic, and multifarious other Cobwebs are swept away a little! Well, we must wait.--For the rest, if this skillful Naturalist and you will make any more experiments on Indian Corn for us, might I not ask that you would try for a method of preserving _the meal_ in a sound state for us?

Oatmeal, which would spoil directly too, is preserved all year by kiln-drying the grain before it is ground,--parching it till it is almost _brown,_ sometimes the Scotch Highlanders, by intense parching, can keep their oatmeal good for a series of years. No Miller here at present is likely to produce such beautiful meal as some of the American specimens I have seen:--if possible, we must learn to get the grain over in the shape of proper durable meal. At all events, let your Friend charitably make some inquiry into the process of millerage, the possibilities of it for meeting our case;--and send us the result some day, on a separate bit of paper. With which let us end, for the present.

Alas, I have yet written nothing; am yet a long way off writing, I fear! Not for want of matter, perhaps, but for redundance of it; I feel as if I had the whole world to write yet, with the day fast bending downwards on me, and did not know where to begin,--in what manner to address the deep-sunk populations of the Theban Land. Any way my Life is very _grim,_ on these terms, and is like to be; G.o.d only knows what farther quant.i.ty of braying in the mortar this foolish clay of mine may yet need!-- They are printing a third Edition of _Cromwell;_ that bothered me for some weeks, but now I am over with that, and the Printer wholly has it: a sorrowful, not now or ever a joyful thing to me, that. The _stupor_ of my fellow blockheads, for Centuries back, presses too heavy upon that,--as upon many things, O Heavens! People are about setting up some _Statue of Cromwell,_ at St. Ives, or elsewhere: the King-Hudson Statue is never yet set up; and the King himself (as you may have heard) has been _discovered_ swindling. I advise all men not to erect a statue for Cromwell just now. Macaulay's _History_ is also out, running through the fourth edition: did I tell you last time that I had read it,--with wonder and amazement? Finally, it seems likely Lord John Russell will shortly walk out (forever, it is hoped), and Sir R. Peel come in; to make what effort is in him towards delivering us from the _pedant_ method of treating Ireland. The _beginning,_ as I think, of salvation (if he can prosper a little) to England, and to all Europe as well. For they will all have to learn that man does need government, and that an able- bodied starving beggar is and remains (whatever Exeter Hall may say to it) a _Slave_ dest.i.tute of a _Master;_ of which facts England, and convulsed Europe, are fallen foundly ignorant in these bad ages, and will plunge ever deeper till they rediscover the same. Alas, alas, the Future for us is not to be made of _b.u.t.ter,_ as the Platforms prophesy; I think it will be harder than steel for some ages! No n.o.ble age was ever a soft one, nor ever will or can be.--Your beautiful curious little discourse (report of a discourse) about the English was sent me by Neuberg; I thought it, in my private heart, one of the best words (for _hidden_ genius lodged in it) I had ever heard; so sent it to the _Examiner,_ from which it went to the _Times_ and all the other Papers: an excellent sly little word.

Clough has gone to Italy; I have seen him twice,--could not manage his hexameters, though I like the man himself, and hope much of him. "Infidelity" has broken out in Oxford itself,--immense emotion in certain quarters in consequence, virulent outcries about a certain "Sterling Club," altogether a secular society!

Adieu, dear Emerson; I had much more to say, but there is no room. O, forgive me, forgive me all trespa.s.ses,--and love me what you can!

Yours ever, T. Carlyle

CXLI. Carlyle to Emerson

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 ma.s.ses 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 pa.s.s, 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 quant.i.ty 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! G.o.d 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 n.i.g.g.e.rs,--perhaps Parliament, on sweet constraint, will allow you to advance them to be n.i.g.g.e.rs!" In fact, the Emanc.i.p.ation Societies should send over a deputation or two to look at _these_ immortal Irish "Freemen," the _ne plus ultra_ of their cla.s.s it would perhaps moderate the windpipe of much eloquence one hears on that subject! Is not this the most ill.u.s.trious 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!