TC TO RALPH WALDO EMERSON ; 16 February 1845; DOI: 10.1215/lt-18450216-TC-RWE-01; CL 19: 31-34
TC TO RALPH WALDO EMERSON
Chelsea, 16 feby, 1845—
Dear Emerson,
By the last Packet which sailed on the 3d of the Month I forgot to write to you, tho' already in your debt one Letter; and here now has another Letter arrived, which on the footing of mere business demands to be answered.1 I write straightway; not knowing how the Post-Office people will contrive the conveyance, or whether it can be sooner than by the next Steamship, but willing to give them a chance.
You have made another brave bargain for me with the Philadelphia people; to all which I can say nothing but “Euge! Papae [Well done]!” It seems to me strange, in the present state of copyright, how my sanction or the contrary can be worth £50
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;2 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.3
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Frontispiece, CL Volume 10 Oil portrait of Thomas Carlyle by Samuel Laurence, 1838. The original is privately owned; reproduced by kind permission of the owner. |
I will endeavour 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,—tho' this new sacrifice of patience will not perhaps 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 colours. 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 Jötun, of a Scandinavian Demon, grim, sad as the Angel of Death;—and the colouring 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.4
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Frontispiece, CL Volume 8 Crayon portrait of Thomas Carlyle by Samuel Laurence, circa 1838. Bought from the painter by John Sterling and greatly admired by him The original is now at Carlyle's House, Chelsea. |
Lawrence himself I imagine would be the fittest man to employ;—or your Mr Ingram, 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;5 a Farrago unknown to me, but a Portrait known, for poor Lawrence brought it down with sorrow in his face: it professes to be from his Painting; is a “Lais without the beauty” (as Charles Lamb used to say);6 a flayed horse's-head without the spiritualism good or bad,—and simply figures in my mind as a detestability, which I had much rather never have seen. These poor Spirit-of-the-Age people7 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 [up]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;8 and forthwith engage again in correspondences, in speculations, negociations, and I know not what, on my behoof! For shame, for shame! Nay you have done one very ingenious thing; set Clark upon the Boston Bookseller's accounts: it is excellent;— Michael Scott setting the Devil to twist ropes of sand.9 “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 500 from his stereotypes. You are wrong as to your Public in this country:10 it is a very pretty Public, extends pretty much I believe thro' 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 Frosts in the end of March; a gâchis epouvantable [frightful mess]. 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’ &c? O coeca corda [O blindhearted one]!11 But I have no room for such a theme at present.
The reason why 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 any form never lay before on such a subject. No history of it can be written to this wretched fleering, sneering, canting, twaddling godforgetting generation: how can you explain Men to Apes by the Dead Sea?12 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 only some 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;13 ‘water on the chest,’ past hope of Doctors. Alas!—
