My Dear Friend,--I had hardly sent away my letter by the last
steamer, when yours full of good news arrived. I greet you
heartily on the achievement of your task, and the new days of
freedom obtained and deserved. Happiest, first, that you can
work, which seems the privilege of the great, and then, also,
that thereby you can come at the sweetness of victory and rest.
Yes, flee to the country, ride, run, leap, sit, spread yourself
at large; and in all ways celebrate the immense benevolence of
the Universe towards you; and never complain again of dyspepsia,
crosses, or the folly of men; for in giving you this potent
concentration, what has been withholden? I am glad with all men
that a new book is made, that the gentle creation as well as the
grosser goes ever on. Another month will bring it to me, and I
shall know the secrets of these late silent years. Welcome the
child of my friend! Why should I regret that I see you not, when
you are forced thus intimately to discover yourself beyond the
intimacy of conversation?
But you should have sent me out the sheets by the last steamer,
or a manuscript copy of the book. I do not know but Munroe would
have printed it at once, and defied the penny press. And slow
Time might have brought in his hands a most modest reward.
I wrote you the other day the little I had to say on affairs.
Clark, the financial Conscience, has never yet made any report,
though often he promised. Half the year he lives out of Boston,
and unless I go to his Bank I never see his face. I think he
will not die till he have disburdened himself of this piece of
arithmetic. I pray you to send me my copy of this book at the
earliest hour, and to offer my glad congratulations to Jane
Carlyle, on an occasion, I am sure, of great peace and relief to
her spirit. And so farewell.
--R.W. Emerson