The gift of the birthday was truly a “surprise.” There lay a more
beautiful book than Aldus or Elzevir ever made, slipped into the house
as carelessly as a roseleaf or a dandelion-down blown in at the window.
Mr. Alcott’s note indicated a “friend,” without naming him or her. And
when I came to read the text, that, too, was such a Persian superlative
on the poor merits of the subject, that I had to shade my eyes as if to
accept only a part of the meaning. I may shake your belief in my good
sense, if I say I don’t know but I suffered more than I enjoyed; but I
soon came to admire the lyrical tone of all this remarkable writing,
inspired by the most generous sentiment, fortified, too, by the wish to
convey the good-will of other friends who made him their spokesman. So I
made a covenant with myself to join these friends in ignoring the infirm
actuality, stoutly holding up the ideal outline of the poor man we were
talking of. And now I have learned to look at the book with courage, and
at least to thank the friends who jointly completed it, very heartily,
for this rare and exquisite work of kindness. I have been twice tempted
to send you some verses on this occasion, as they would be really more
fit carriers of what I have to say; and perhaps I yet shall, though the
rhyming fit seldom comes to me.
Ever gratefully,
Your deeply obliged,
R. W. EMERSON.