My Dear Carlyle,--Your kindest letter, whose date I dare not
count back to,--perhaps it was May,--I have just read again, to
be deeply touched by its noble tragic tone of goodness to me, not
without new wonder at my perversity, and terror at what both may
be a-forging to strike me. My slowness to write is a distemper
that reaches all my correspondence, and not that with you only,
though the circumstance is not worth stating, because, if I
ceased to write to all the rest, there would yet be good reason
for writing to you. I believe the reason of this recusancy is
the fear of disgusting my friends, as with a book open always at
the same page. For I have some experiences, that my interest in
thoughts--and to an end, perhaps, only of new thoughts and
thinking--outlasts that of all my reasonable neighbors, and
offends, no doubt, by unhealthy pertinacity. But though rebuked
by a daily reduction to an absurd solitude, and by a score of
disappointments with intellectual people, and in the face of a
special hell provided for me in the Swedenborg Universe, I am yet
confirmed in my madness by the scope and satisfaction I find in a
conversation once or twice in five years, if so often; and so we
find or pick what we call our proper path, though it be only from
stone to stone, or from island to island, in a very rude,
stilted, and violent fashion. With such solitariness and
frigidities, you may judge I was glad to see Clough here, with
whom I had established some kind of robust working-friendship,
and who had some great permanent values for me. Had he not taken
me by surprise and fled in a night, I should have done what I
could to block his way. I am too sure he will not return. The
first months comprise all the shocks of disappointment that are
likely to disgust a new-comer. The sphere of opportunity opens
slowly, but to a man of his abilities and culture--rare enough
here--with the sureness of chemistry. The Giraffe entering Paris
wore the label, "Eh bien, messieurs, il n'y a qu'une bete de
plus!" And Oxonians are cheap in London; but here, the eternal
economy of sending things where they are wanted makes a
commanding claim. Do not suffer him to relapse into London. He
had made himself already cordially welcome to many good people,
and would have soon made his own place. He had just established
his valise at my house, and was to come--the gay deceiver--once a
fortnight for his Sunday; and his individualities and his
nationalities are alike valuable to me. I beseech you not to
commend his unheroic retreat.
I have lately made, one or two drafts on your goodness,--which I
hate to do, both because you meet them so generously, and because
you never give me an opportunity of revenge,--and mainly in the
case of Miss Bacon, who has a private history that entitles her
to high respect, and who could be helped only by facilitating her
Shakespeare studies, in which she has the faith and ardor of a
discoverer. Bancroft was to have given her letters to Hallam,
but gave one to Sir H. Ellis. Everett, I believe, gave her one
to Mr. Grote; and when I told her what I remembered hearing of
Spedding, she was eager to see him; which access I knew not how
to secure, except through you. She wrote me that she prospers in
all things, and had just received at once a summons to meet
Spedding at your house. But do not fancy that I send any one to
you heedlessly; for I value your time at its rate to nations,
and refuse many more letters than I give. I shall not send you
any more people without good reason.
Your visit to Germany will stand you in stead, when the
annoyances of the journey are forgotten, and, in spite of your
disclaimers, I am preparing to read your history of Frederic.
You are an inveterate European, and rightfully stand for your
polity and antiquities and culture: and I have long since
forborne to importune you with America, as if it were a humorous
repetition of Johnson's visit to Scotland. And yet since
Thackeray's adventure, I have often thought how you would bear
the pains and penalties; and have painted out your march
triumphal. I was at New York, lately, for a few days, and fell
into some traces of Thackeray, who has made a good mark in this
country by a certain manly blurting out of his opinion in various
companies, where so much honesty was rare and useful. I am sorry
never once to have been in the same town with him whilst he was
here. I hope to see him, if he comes again. New York would
interest you, as I am told it did him; you both less and more.
The "society" there is at least self-pleased, and its own; it
has a contempt of Boston, and a very modest opinion of London.
There is already all the play and fury that belong to great
wealth. A new fortune drops into the city every day; no end is
to palaces, none to diamonds, none to dinners and suppers. All
Spanish America discovers that only in the U. States, of all the
continent, is safe investment; and money gravitates therefore to
New York. The Southern naphtha, too, comes in as an ingredient,
and lubricates manners and tastes to that degree, that Boston is
hated for stiffness, and excellence in luxury is rapidly
attained. Of course, dining, dancing, equipaging, etc. are the
exclusive beatitudes,--and Thackeray will not cure us of this
distemper. Have you a physician that can? Are you a physician,
and will you come? If you will come, cities will go out to
meet you.
And now I see I have so much to say to you that I ought to write
once a month, and I must begin at this point again incontinently.
Ever yours,
R.W. Emerson