From James Craven¹

Dear Tyndall,

You would perceive on perusing my last letter² that it was written when I had been dissatisfied at something or other, and I must confess that circumstances had for some time been occurring which led one to look nearer than hitherto into the future which is opening before me. My brother’s passing with his entrance on the great world being a general topic naturally led your humble servant into prospective thoughts, likewise, and I then felt that a nice career was opening to him which I could not flatter myself would present itself to me, and being not exactly in a self-reliant or sanguine state of mind, with a slight touch of dissatisfaction and desire for change, I certainly did somewhat warmly give vent to what had been in my mind with a few editions to yourself and to your expressed astonishment. Your letter³ however came in proper time and on asking myself whether solicitorship would answer all the cravings I had, or was more likely to do so than surveyorship, I could not cordially or with certainty answer Yes, for I did not believe it to be a panacea to all my wishes, and since then I have settled into a species of torpor, having no ideas whatever on the subject further except that whatever may arise I must be governed solely and entirely by circumstances. The ideas however which do still float across me intimate that bread and water cannot be obtained unless some poor devils get out of it, and only they who are nicely ensconced in a cosy practice can make anything handsome from it. However, time works wonders they say, so let us see what she will do with me. I’m all ready for the rub and once let me have some settled place, I care not what, I will endeavour to do my duty with regularity and merit.

Here am I – great fool that I am - penetrating the misty future and wishful to know what I am destined for! Surely I think to myself what a strange mortal I am to do so, while all around heedless of it think only of time present – some in improvement, while others seek enjoyment and excitement. Yet I do not envy them in their nightly carousals, having but just returned from London and joined in their ‘merry stirs’, their sprees and pleasures which to me have become now insipid and more than ever disagreeable to my taste. I feel I could never, were I ever so wishful, make myself a ‘jolly fellow’ with them. Such is my decision after joining in what I have often wished to see. However, no more of it unless to please other parties. My dear fellow, you will by this think me a curious, strange, simple fellow; however we all have hobbies, but what mine is I don’t know, unless music – though the somewhat harsh and grating sound which occasionally saluted your ears at the Northgate office⁴ will lead you to suspect that I am wrong in my supposition. However you cannot think how much the sentence in your letter saying that at times you were dull and heavy, tired and almost inclined to give up the task on which you were engaged and then substitute another, which in time alike palled on you, gave me. It seems that some at all events have a common feeling along with myself in this particular, and you cannot think what pleasure it gave me to know that you, the great indomitable you sometimes experienced it.

To tell the truth, Tyndall, I never – let me take the easiest undertaking in hand with any responsibility connected with it – feel easy, and I can hardly express the astonishment I feel when one is surrounded by parties on whom devolves much and yet can lay aside so easily the remembrance of any particular responsibility attaching to them. This in particular is the greatest antagonist to me, and often (though you may laugh heartily) do I think myself a curious fellow who with application might, should some strange emergency require it, become tolerably clever and at least see through a millstone;⁵ which at the same time I feel myself now most certainly misunderstood. Of what though am I rambling about? I am trying to tell you what I think, or rather dream, for certainly for some time back I have been doing little else than dreaming – it seems as if I was still subject to these occasional humours at times, seemingly able to undertake any quantity of labour underhand while after a time a depression comes in the which all the faculties seem in the most negative state of electricity requiring a corresponding amount of interest to bring them round again. At present I must confess I do nothing but eat, drink and smoke, while music (either piano or flute) fills up the remaining leisure from the office hours. Even reading has gone to the devil just now, and especially that of a sober and instructive character. Yet with all this laying aside I feel most miserable, out of humour with myself, and when I come to ask myself the cause it is only to increase the dissatisfaction having arrived at the conclusion that I know not why I am placed here. I know not what to believe in – neither do I know anything. Surely this is miserable – at least I feel it so – to be surrounded as one is by shams and hypocrisy (which become the more apparent in everything the more they are examined) and yet to be unable to substitute something real and good seems to be more like the machinations of a devil rather than a God – and one seems almost inclined to follow the customs of the day, regardless of truth or untruth in religion and at the same time in other respects follow the dictates and act consistently with the dictates of my own conscience. This appears to be the way in which the affair is managed and with so many precedents I cannot surely mistake besides it being carried out by the world at large we shall only be either all admitted in heaven or hell, where certainly we shall not be [fast]⁶ for company.

You see I treat the affair jocularly, but how strange it is that such must be the case, at least on its first opening, when parties must think of what they are acknowledging and declaring when they have arrived at ‘years of discretion’.⁷ I do not think though that they are all hypocrites, but rather mad than otherwise! seeing that by the frequent and the eternal recital of the same doctrines they have gradually been led to make themselves believe that they must be true and that they believe in them. Ask them however on the subject and they stare at you aghast, and declare you an infidel or other contemptuous name for doubting it, and finally open their eyes showing much ‘the whites’ and turn their back on you! ‘Tis but too true, I believe there is more talk, more wrangling and discussion among the various sects than real pure Religion in the present day. Yet how much more beautiful and real was the religion of the Ancients⁸ – despised and discarded as it is at the present day – what a reverence, awe and respect do they pay the Divine Creator, and yet what care do they take to answer and feel in accordance with the first questions of its reasonableness. Surely the mysteries and the humbug which at present is called on persons to believe would appear in their eyes, could they but examine it, but a poor squalid system not worthy of succeeding theirs. Tom read me a portion of a work which Philips has been reviewing⁹ – it is one of the oldest books yet discovered and it is thought to have been written 4000 years before Christ, and consequently is older than the Bible! In it is nearly the same Philosophy and written in a most figurative and enigmatical style – shewing that the Bible must really have been only the record of the People a few centuries later whose opinions had not much changed. Here is a little more food for consideration as well as a new nut for our controversial and spiteful Christians (!) to crack.

I do not wish you to think from this that I want exactly as you have intimated in a previous letter,¹⁰ ‘A copper-headed Christ’– no, a little mystery, a little room for speculation is all very well, but too much of these and you reduce it to nothing but a vain shadowy speculation having neither length breadth nor thickness. Methinks however that though certain parties are very wishful that you should believe all this they themselves use it but as a means of gaining golden treasures by the way. And yet to give them credit for their sincerity in the cause of God and present them with memorials and the like in proof of the gullibility of John Bull,¹¹ especially in religious zeal!

Talking of zeal and fault-finding you will say I think that I can do a good deal under this head, so to change the subject. Carlyle has been writing some ‘Latter-Day Pamphlets’, which excite great attention coming from him. I have read all of them up to the present time, but his meaning generally is so choked up and so incumbered with towering gigantic and almost meaningless words that it requires an old head to understand him. In his last however, tho’ in a similar strain (yet it is not quite so bad) he fires away at ‘Downing Street’¹² and draws some laughable though pitiable descriptions. He is very sarcastic when I can understand him, which in the crowd of ‘Universal Shams’, flunkeys,¹³ with a variety of adjectives before and after of a very questionable nature, is not very easy. Tom however as usual lauds him and of course understands him. As for me I will say ‘It is high, I cannot attain unto it!’¹⁴

Parties are all busy here and preparations are being actively commenced relative to the Grand Exhibition about to take place in London in 1851,¹⁵ Prince Albert being the schemer and deviser of that undertaking.

Now my dear fellow when are you coming back? Don't be long – let that German fellow¹⁶ speculate alone; and now good-bye until I next hear from you, and

Believe me, | Yours very sincerely, | James Craven.

John Tyndall, | Marburg.

RI MS JT/1/TYP/11/3543–3546

LT Transcript Only