Dear Emerson,--There should a Letter have come for you by that
Steamer; for I wrote one duly, and posted it in good time
myself: I will hope therefore it was but some delay of some
subaltern official, such as I am told occasionally chances, and
that you got the Letter after all in a day or two. It would give
you notice, more or less, up to its date, of all the points you
had inquired about there is now little to be added; except
concerning the main point, That the catastrophe has arrived there
as we foresaw, and all is ended.
John Sterling died at his house in Ventnor on the night of
Wednesday, 18th September, about eleven o'clock; unexpectedly at
last, and to appearance without pain. His Sister-in-law, Mrs.
Maurice; had gone down to him from this place about a week
before; other friends were waiting as it were in view of him;
but he wished generally to be alone, to continue to the last
setting his house and his heart more and more in order for the
Great Journey. For about a fortnight back he had ceased to have
himself formally dressed; had sat only in his dressing-gown, but
I believe was still daily wheeled into his Library, and sat very
calmly sorting and working there. He sent me two Notes, and
various messages, and gifts of little keepsakes to my Wife and
myself: the Notes were brief, stern and loving; altogether
noble; never to be forgotten in this world. His Brother
Anthony, who had been in the Isle of Wight within call for
several weeks, had now come up to Town again; but, after about a
week, decided that he would run down again, and look. He arrived
on the Wednesday night, about nine o'clock; found no visible
change; the brave Patient calm as ever, ready to speak as ever,
--to say, in direct words which he would often do, or indirectly
as his whole speech and conduct did, "God is Great." Anthony and
he talked for a while, then took leave for the night; in
few minutes more, Anthony was summoned to the bedside, and
at eleven o'clock, as I said, the curtain dropt, and it was
all ended.--_Euge!_
Whether the American _Manuscripts_ had arrived I do not yet know,
but probably shall before this Letter goes; for Anthony is to
return hither on Tuesday, and I will inquire. Our Friend is
buried in Ventnor Churchyard; four big Elms overshadow the
little spot; it is situated on the southeast side of that green
Island, on the slope of steep hills (as I understand it) that
look toward the Sun, and are close within sight and hearing of
the Sea. There shall he rest, and have fit lullaby, this brave
one. He has died as a man should; like an old Roman, yet with
the Christian Bibles and all newest revelations present to him.
He refused to see friends; men whom I think he loved as well as
any,--me for one when I obliquely proposed it, he refused. He
was even a little stern on his nearest relatives when they came
to him: Do I need your help to die? Phocion-like he seemed to
feel degraded by physical decay; to feel that he ought to wrap
his mantle round him, and say, "I come, Persephoneia; it is not
I that linger!"--His Sister-in-law, Anthony's Wife, probably
about a month ago, while they were still in Wight, had begged
that she might see him yet once; her husband would be there too,
she engaged not to speak. Anthony had not yet persuaded him,
when she, finding the door half open, went in: his pale changed
countenance almost made her shriek; she stept forward silently,
kissed his brow in silence; he burst into tears. Let us speak
no more of this.--A great quantity of papers, I understand, are
left for my determination; what is to be done with them I will
sacredly endeavor to do.
I have visited your Bookseller Chapman; seen the Proof-sheets
lying on his table; taken order that the reprint shall be well
corrected,--indeed, I am to read every sheet myself, and in that
way get acquainted with it, before it go into stereotype.
Chapman is a tall, lank youth of five-and-twenty; full of good
will, but of what other equipment time must yet try. By a little
Book of his, which I looked at some months ago, he seemed to me
sunk very deep in the dust-hole of extinct Socinianism; a
painful predicament for a man! He is not sure of saving much
copyright for you; but he will do honestly what in that respect
is doable; and he will print the Book correctly, and publish it
decently, I saying _imprimatur_ if occasion be,--and your ever-
increasing little congregation here will do with the new word
what they can. I add no more today; reserving a little nook for
the answer I hope to get two days hence. Adieu, my Friend: it
is silent Sunday; the populace not yet admitted to their beer-
shops, till the respectabilities conclude their rubric-
mummeries,--a much more audacious feat than beer! We have
wet wind at Northeast, and a sky somewhat of the dreariest:--
Courage! a _little_ way above it reigns mere blue, and
sunshine eternally!--T.C.
_Wednesday, October 2d._--The Letter had to wait till today, and
is still in time. Anthony Sterling, who is yet at Ventnor,
apprises me this morning that according to his and the Governess's
belief the Russell Manuscripts arrived duly, and were spoken
of more than once by our Friend.--On Monday I received from
this same Anthony a big packet by Post; it contains among
other things all your Letters to John, wrapt up carefully, and
addressed in his hand, "Emerson's Letters, to be returned through
the hands of Carlyle": they shall go towards you next week, by
Mr. James, who is about returning. Among the other Papers was
one containing seven stanzas of verse addressed to T. Carlyle,
14th September; full of love and enthusiasm;--the Friday before
his death: I was visiting the old City of Winchester that day,
among the tombs of Canutes and eldest noble ones: you may judge
how sacred the memory of those hours now is!
I have read your Slavery Address; this morning the first _half_-
sheet, in Proof, of the _Essays_ has come: perfectly correct,
and right good reading.
Yours ever,
T. Carlyle