My Dear Friend,--On this delicious spring day, I will obey the
beautiful voices of the winds, long disobeyed, and address you;
nor cloud the hour by looking at the letters in my drawer to know
if a twelvemonth has been allowed to elapse since this tardy
writing was due. Mr. Everett sent me one day a letter he had
received from you, containing a kind message to me, which gave me
pleasure and pain. I returned the letter with thanks, and with
promises I would sin no more. Instantly, I was whisked, by "the
stormy wing of Fate," out of my chain, and whirled, like a dry
leaf, through the State of New York.
Now at home again, I read English Newspapers, with all the world,
and claim an imaginary privilege over my compatriots, that I
revolve therein my friend's large part. Ward said to me
yesterday, that Carlyle's star was daily rising. For C. had said
years ago, when all men thought him mad, that which the rest of
mortals, including the Times Newspaper, have at last got near
enough to see with eyes, and therefore to believe. And one day,
in Philadelphia, you should have heard the wise young Philip
Randolph defend you against objections of mine. But when I have
such testimony, I say to myself, the high-seeing austerely
exigent friend whom I elected, and who elected me, twenty years
and more ago, finds me heavy and silent, when all the world
elects and loves him. Yet I have not changed. I have the same
pride in his genius, the same sympathy with the Genius that
governs his, the old love with the old limitations, though love
and limitation be all untold. And I see well what a piece of
Providence he is, how material he is to the times, which must
always have a solo Soprano to balance the roar of the Orchestra.
The solo sings the theme; the orchestra roars antagonistically
but follows.--And have I not put him into my Chapter of "English
Spiritual Tendencies," with all thankfulness to the Eternal
Creator,--though the chapter lie unborn in a trunk?
'T is fine for us to excuse ourselves, and patch with promises.
We shall do as before, and science is a fatalist. I follow, I
find, the fortunes of my Country, in my privatest ways. An
American is pioneer and man of all work, and reads up his
newspaper on Saturday night, as farmers and foresters do. We
admire the [Greek], and mean to give our boys the grand habit;
but we only sketch what they may do. No leisure except for the
strong, the nimble have none.--I ought to tell you what I do, or
I ought to have to tell you what I have done. But what can I?
the same concession to the levity of the times, the noise of
America comes again. I have even run on wrong topics for my
parsimonious Muse, and waste my time from my true studies.
England I see as a roaring volcano of Fate, which threatens to
roast or smother the poor literary Plinys that come too near for
mere purpose of reporting.
I have even fancied you did me a harm by the valued gift of
Antony Wood;--which, and the like of which, I take a lotophagous
pleasure in eating. Yet this is measuring after appearance,
measuring on hours and days; the true measure is quite other,
for life takes its color and quality not from the days, but the
dawns. The lucid intervals are like drowning men's moments,
equivalent to the foregoing years. Besides, Nature uses us. We
live but little for ourselves, a good deal for our children, and
strangers. Each man is one more lump of clay to hold the world
together. It is in the power of the Spirit meantime to make him
rich reprisals,--which he confides will somewhere be done.--Ah,
my friend, you have better things to send me word of, than
these musings of indolence. Is Frederic recreated? Is Frederic
the Great?
Forget my short-comings and write to me. Miss Bacon sends me
word, again and again, of your goodness. Against hope and sight
she must be making a remarkable book. I have a letter from her,
a few days ago, written in perfect assurance of success! Kindest
remembrances to your wife and to your brother.
Yours faithfully,
R.W. Emerson